Ethics In Journalism Miami University Department of English

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Media coverage of the Hip-Hop Culture
By Brendan Butler
 
Throughout the nearly three decades since its creation, America’s hip-hop culture has been misrepresented or virtually ignored by the mainstream media.  Due partly to vast differences in age, social class, and race between hip-hop and members of the media, hip-hop has struggled to win its proper recognition as an important part of the nation’s cultural fabric.
 
In the early 1960s, a neighborhood swimming pool in Baltimore was no different than countless other American social centers, restaurants, and other establishments: No Blacks Allowed.  Then, one summer morning, a group of young black people got together with an NAACP representative, determined to integrate that swimming pool. 
 
“On schedule, several carloads of black youngsters, with their adult leaders, drove up to the park,” said Jannette L. Dates, author of the book “Split Image”.  “They had to walk some distance to reach the pool, and on the way they were subjected to curses and jeers from a white mob held at bay by a phalanx of policemen – all white.”
 
The children made it into the pool and played for a little while, but the cops cut their visit short and suggested that they leave the pool for their own safety, as the white mob was growing increasingly angry at the invasion.  As the black kids were driven home, they were followed by the police, and by the furious white crowd.  Upon arrival at the black children’s neighborhood, when the hostile white mob had reached the boiling point, the police officers used their attack dogs – to force the black people into their homes.
 
“This strange, and basically racist, way of restoring order went totally unreported in the white press,” said Dates.  “It was as though it never happened.  The only newspaper to report the use of dogs in this incident was the black-owned Baltimore Afro-American.”
 
Less than 20 years after that incident, the Civil Rights movement had essentially ended, black journalists had broken the color barrier of the mainstream press, and a new phenomenon known as “hip-hop” had burst onto the scene.  However, black America’s long fight for an equal place in society was far from over. 
 
In “The Message,” one of the very first well-known rap songs, Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five made this perfectly clear with a description of life in the ghetto: “Broken glass everywhere, people pissin’ on the stairs, you know they just don’t care.”  The situation hardly seemed to have improved, as several young, black hip-hop musicians spoke out about their plight.  As Diane Penrod recalls in her essay, “Hip-Hop Music and the Media Portrayal of American Youth,” “LL Cool J’s rap about racial profiling on the New Jersey Turnpike, ‘Illegal Search,’ represents a voice of conscience that addresses how a simple act of driving a car on a well-traveled highway can violate one’s civil rights.”
 
But still, mainstream media weren’t listening.  Even two decades later, when ABC News “Nightline” did a three-night series during September 2000 on the so-called “Underground Culture,” Ted Koppel and his crew continued to marginalize the hip-hop movement.  Throughout the segments, reporter Robert Krulwich showed interviews with young people who focused on the music’s funky beat or rhythm instead of the lyrics.  “This shows, in Krulwich’s words, that ‘they don’t take all the lyrics that seriously.’  In ABC News’s world, hip-hop is all style and no substance,” said Penrod.
 
Far too often, media have characterized hip-hop simply as “black music,” something with which White America needn’t concern itself.  For instance, in Koppel’s introduction to the “Nightline” series, he implies an invasion of sorts when he says that hip-hop “has altered our language, changed our sense of fashion, infused the lives of White teenagers and young adults with Black sensibilities.”  As Penrod observes, “Koppel’s subtle use of ‘our’ reflects the concerns well-educated, middle-of-the road Americans have that hip-hop does not bring Whites and Blacks together in harmony, but rather corrupts all aspects of suburban White America, from its street corners to its corporate boardrooms.” 
 
In reality, this is a far cry from being an accurate portrayal of the genre.  Throughout hip-hop’s history, myriad artists have stressed the importance of cultural and racial unity.  This goal is shared quite literally in “Superrappin’,” an early hit that, according to William Eric Perkins’s essay, “Rap Attack,” “marked (Grandmaster) Flash’s transition from DJ to MC in an incredible brew with true old-school flavor.”  In it, Flash raps, “Italian, Caucasian, Japanese, Spanish, Indian, Negro, and Vietnamese / MC’s disc jockeys to all the fly kids and the young ladies / Introducin’ the crew ya got to see to believe.”  These are hardly lyrics that are meant only for black ears.
 
Kurtis Blow, another early star, achieved rap’s first commercial success on a White label (Mercury).  Incidentally, after performing on New York City playgrounds, he was also one of the first rappers to be recognized by mainstream media, when he was profiled by ABC’s “20/20” in 1980.  This marked the beginning of a long love-hate relationship between hip-hop and the media.  In his hit song, “The Breaks,” Blow rapped about hard luck: “If your woman steps out with another man / and she runs off with him to Japan / And the IRS says they want to chat / And you can’t explain why you claimed your cat / Well, these are the breaks . . .” 
 
These lyrics are humorous, relaxing, and fun, but they’re hardly threatening.
 
The energetic trio Run-D.M.C. would soon burst onto the scene, and by 1985, they were attracting cross-racial crowds at their sold-out shows.  “The rap industry now is a lot like black rhythm and blues just before it was discovered by the mass audience, in the ’50s,” said Run D.M.C.’s manager in a 1985 interview with the New York Times.  “The major radio programmers and record labels are trying to ignore that, but it’s building a strong cross-racial audience anyway.”
 
Indeed, media consistently minimizes the variety of talent in the hip-hop genre, choosing to focus only on the violence and scandal that accompany a relatively small portion of the music.
 
In a 2001 interview with Newsweek’s Jane Spencer, rap mogul Russell Simmons expressed his frustration:
 
“There's a lot of talk about rappers and their cars, rappers and their guns. There's no talk about rappers and their charities – and there are many. The rap community gives more back to their community than any music group that you can think of. [Queen] Latifah visits schools all the time. LL Cool J has Camp Cool J. Puff Daddy has Daddy's House. Y-Clef has the Clef Kids. Master P has a foundation. Some of the burden of the plight of their people falls on their shoulders, and they feel it more than other artists, but this stuff is not publicized. People leave that out.”
 
There are also plenty of hip-hop musicians who consistently stress positive messages of peace and social justice.  For example, Public Enemy’s 1988 debut album showed in no uncertain terms that they were extremely frustrated with life as black Americans; but frontman Chuck D directed his ire at unfair governmental practices, and not at other rappers.  In 2002, Chuck launched a group called “Hip-Hop 4 Peace,” with the goal of reducing violence in the industry.  Also, artists like Mos Def, Common, The Roots, and De La Soul ridicule the violent ways of gangsta rappers.  The most recent example is the Black Eyed Peas’ new song, “Where is the Love?”
 
And yet, who does the press constantly throw in their listeners’ and readers’ faces?  The most well-known hip-hop artists these days – Tupac, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, 50 Cent – are all gangsta rappers.  Meanwhile, socially conscious groups like Public Enemy and A Tribe Called Quest – who remind fans in at least one song that they’re “never ever ever smokin’ crack, cuz I’m never ever ever fuckin’ whack (stupid)” – have never once been on the cover of Rolling Stone.
 
Kevin Powell, who once covered hip-hop for Vibe magazine, told Boston Globe reporter Vanessa E. Jones that guns and bloodshed have been associated with rap and hip-hop music because the radio stations that play those genres tend to focus on the music that has violent lyrics.
 
"There was a time when you just had a diversity of voices. What's gone now are the options, so when you play up the violence, you know, people think that all hip-hop is violence and that's just absolutely not true," Powell told Jones in a 2003 story called “Debating the Bad Rap on Hip-Hop Violence.”
           
In 1997, following the murders of rap superstars Tupac and Nortorious B.I.G., the media was bombarding the public more than ever with talk of how rampant the rap violence had become.  Critics had warned against the intense rivalry between East Coast and West Coast rappers, and now L.A.-based Tupac and New York-based B.I.G. were both dead.   However, industry insiders say that much of the reputed ill will between the two groups had been blown out of proportion by the mainstream media.
 
"There's no East-West feud," said Chris Muhammad of Relativity Records. "That's a lie created by the press. All you had with Biggie and 'Pac was a beef
between two guys. It was nothing beyond that” . . . “But you get the press talking ‘East-West’ and ‘rap war,’ someone on the street believes it, and then you do have problems.  It could kill hip-hop.”
 
New York Daily News writer David Hinckley also defended the integrity of genre: “Hip-Hop songs come in lullabies and love ballads. Sometimes they strut, sometimes they slash. They comment on life. Sometimes they offend. Very often they’re funny. They’re used to teach the alphabet and to sell orange juice. Whatever killed Tupac and B.I.G., it wasn’t this music.”
 
No matter how many journalists agree that gangsta rap is dangerous and can be linked with killings, they still continue to publicize it.  Why?  Because, as Perkins says in “Rap Attack,” “the gangsta style nurtures hysteria.  The success of the gangsta-rap phenomenon can in part be attributed to the widespread press and television coverage the controversies about the genre command.”  Thus, it becomes a cyclical process.
 
In the late ’80s, gangsta rap was first epitomized by a volatile group called “Niggas With Attitudes” – made up of Dr. Dre, Ezy-E, Ice Cube, and MC Ren, particularly with their 1988 hit, “Fuck tha Police.”  Perkins says of gangsta rap, “This genre in rap music has given rap its criminal image and raises the whole question of authenticity.”
 
In that same vein, those within the rap industry may actually have themselves to blame for this cyclical violence and greed.  According to Jones’ article, critics say the violence in the music is an element that the (rap) community heartily embraces.  Bakari Kitwana, author of last year's "The Hip-Hop Generation: Young Blacks and the Crisis in African-American Culture,” says that some rappers have decided to live the thug lifestyle that they rap about, in order to remain credible to their fans – even though fame and fortune offer a way out.  “I don’t think the industry has attempted to control it, because it pushes sales,” he says.  “The more ‘ghetto,’ the better.”
 
It must be said that some rappers truly deserve any criticism that they receive, after they cross that line between character and reality.  For instance, Slick Rick is legitimately a mysoginyst and a sex freak, convicted of attempted murder.  His hit song, “Treat her like a prostitute,” speaks for itself: “Don’t treat no girlie well until you’re sure of the scoop / ‘Cause all they do is hurt and trample you.”
 
Unfortunately, as the ex-Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy frontman, Michael Franti, could attest, politically and socially conscious hip hop has long been disregarded by Americans in favor of its media-baiting sibling, gangsta rap.
 
"I guess what happens in hip hop is that the people who have the biggest personalities are, for whatever reason, the most successful," he explains. "But that don't mean there ain't a whole lot of good stuff going on."  
 
Some of the most talented hip-hop artists seem to represent both personalities at various times and in various songs: the caring social crusader, and the hardcore motherfucker.  For example, Tupac often gives inspiration to his people, such as “I know you’re fed up, ladies. . . But ya got to keep your head up.”  And then on the next track, he’ll unleash a violent tirade against his enemies: “We don’t sing, we just bring the drama / Fuck you and your motherfuckin’ momma!”  It doesn’t get much more ruthless or gangsta than that.  However, according to Todd Boyd’s book, “Am I Black Enough For You?” Tupac was never really the badass that he so often made himself out to be.  “A former roadie for the group Digital Underground, Tupac was always trying to represent himself as something he was not: hard.  But sometimes those can be the worst ones.  A cat with something to prove is a dangerous thing,” says Boyd.
 
Tupac was always an activist for social change, and for that he is rightfully commended.  But one can’t help but wonder: Did he feel he had to push that ‘hard’ image in order to get the respect he deserved?  If so, how much of a role did the controversy-chasing media have in creating that atmosphere?
 
Another media phenomenon has been the success and failure of the various white rappers through the years.  According to Perkins and other hip-hop scholars, it is widely held that the Beastie Boys made a mockery of the black youth culture they were imitating, as did Vanilla Ice.  Yet, both acts received ample media attention, and have since enjoyed considerable popularity and success.  Meanwhile, a White rap group called 3^rd Bass also emerged in the early ’80s, and they “kept it real” with their black peers, and earned lots of “street credit.”  However, 3^rd Bass is now long since defunct, because the mainstream media never got behind them; no Rolling Stone covers for them. 
 
In “Would the Real Eminem Please Stand Up?” Frank Rich wrote, “If there's a particular template for Eminem's career at this early point, it's that of the young Elvis (a comparison that Eminem hates). Both men took a musical form invented by African-Americans and gave it a popular white face. But Eminem has advantages Elvis did not. He writes his own idiosyncratic material. His mentor isn't a white Machiavelli like Colonel Tom Parker, but the legendary hip-hop producer Dr Dre, whose endorsement gave him instant credibility with black and white audiences alike and shields him from accusations of cultural theft.” ("I’m not the first king of controversy; I am the worst thing since Elvis Presley, to do black music so selfishly and use it to get myself wealthy" goes one of the many Eminem lyrics in which he pre-empts any such criticism.)
 
The controversial (and white) Eminem has earned both street credit and mainstream success, which seems to be a positive sign that hip-hop has staying power.  The media have certainly made progress in their understanding of hip-hop since the days of LL Cool J’s “Illegal Search,” but they still have a long way to go.  Perhaps the first step should be assigning someone a little younger and less elitist and hopelessly out of touch than Ted Koppel to cover this ever-changing cultural phenomenon, which continues to play a more important role in our society than the press seems to realize.