By Elizabeth Newby, Columnist
I love rap music more than anything.
When I was 16, I used to fall asleep at night listening to Jay-Z’s “Unreasonable Doubt.” There’s something so soothing about a powerful, unruly narrative about banging hoes.
People probably just think I’m some white girl rebelling against her suburban upbringing, and although there’s definitely a lot of truth to that (I have these terribly conflicting urges to be a vegetarian and wear head-to-toe studded leather), I think many are quick to dismiss rap as a genre of music without merit.
I really hope this has nothing to do with race and socioeconomic background and everything to do with the “Illuminati.”
Recently the indie duo Tegan and Sara attacked the rap collective Odd Future, dismissing their lyrics as misogynistic and homophobic.
Although a member of the collective, Tyler, The Creator, has repeatedly said in interviews that he raps from a perspective that is not his own, that he says what others are too afraid to say, his artistic view was overlooked by the two and his lyrics were taken literally.
Okay, let’s be honest. Their lyrics are about locking up Taylor Swift in their basement. But they say it with such shocking fluidity and natural word manipulation.
The mysterious 18-year-old rapper from the collective Earl Sweatshirt is probably the best rapper I have ever heard. Like better than Biggie Smalls good.
And I’m totally aware that that’s complete blasphemy.
Unfortunately, a lot of rap music is not that self aware or extreme. But as a genre in itself, it’s extremely honest. Like scary, uncomfortable honest. It’s a genre that often speaks to the most banal of our existence, unapologetically.
As a feminist, I can’t reconcile all lyrics’ objectivity, but I can loftily think about it and analyze the literary significance or something, right?
In his song “Stapleton,” Earl Sweatshirt raps, “Product of popped rubbers and pops that did not love us/ So when I leave home keep my heart on the top cupboard.”
Shortly after this song was self-produced by the group and released for free on the Internet, the then-16-year-old questionably goes missing. It’s rumored his parents sent him to a school for troubled boys in Samoa, but the verdict still is out.
Although he has left home, the “product” that he has discussed in “Stapleton” is immortalized online, furthering the mystery and intrigue of rap culture itself and rooting those uncomfortable gray areas even deeper.
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