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An Uncivil War Will the mounting tensions between Northern and Southern rappers lead to great and terrible calamity? Gather your muskets, bake some hardtack and holler at Stonewall Jackson because beef between the Union and the Confederacy is once again turning brother against brother. The South, chaffing at being characterized as drawling doofuses whose lyrical dexterity lies solely in instructing the directional movement of asses (backed up, dropped as if hot), has found validation in their recent domination of album sales, radio rotation and video play. The North, as creators and gatekeepers of all that is “real” in the Hip-Hop universe, has bitterly accused the Dirty Southerners of perverting a sacred artform and reducing it to mindless chants and non-musical synth-mashing. Both sides stand uneasily on the precipice of the new Millenium’s First Battle of Manassas, a tension unfelt in Hip-Hop since Tim Dog fired volleys upon Compton’s curls and Raiders hats in the early 90’s. What evidence do we have that the War of Northern Aggression is upon us? For one, the incessant internet chatter. Message boards and chatrooms never lie. If some morbidly obese weirdo who sits on the shitter in his mother’s Westchester basement thumbing through gummy Diamond D liner notes declares “Fuck the South!” in an online rant, then by all means, the Tri-State is at war. Likewise, if some snaggle-toothed Kentucky yokel wants to play online A&R and mockingly announce “New York is done!”, it means the entire vicinity beneath the Mason-Dixon Line should commence to melting plowshares into bayonets. In terms of actual animosity exhibited by Hip-Hop artists towards the opposing region, the statements are considerably less inflammatory. Field Mob, a slept-on troupe best known for straddling pigs in a video, poked fun at New York slang in a short film clip. Said skewering of colloquialisms such as “at the end of the day, b” was, in fact, preceded by a few comments made by the ever-antagonistic 50 Cent about how Southern rappers have lowered the bar for wordplay. Neither set of barbs are too convincing as harbingers of an encroaching Antietam. Maybe Weezy F. Baby’s pellet-gun ping on “Shooter” could qualify, but that was more or less a defensive remark about critics who “don’t understand the basics”. And despite a flurry of New York “anthems” by the likes of Ja-Rule, Busta Rhymes and Tru Life, all have either been transparent celebratory or naval-gazing attempts to get the city on their narrow shoulders. When it boils down to it, the big dogs from both regions are probably too fiscally intertwined to risk any sort of sales backlash or beef (Jay commingles funds with Rick Ross and Jeezy, Dipset hobnobs with T.I. and Lil Wayne, Fat Joe decided he had a better chance being king of Miami and now wallows around SoBe with fellow snowbirds Scott Scotch and Timbaland), leaving possibilities for on-wax warfare resting in the palms of b-teamers like Saigon, Papoose, Field Mob, Youngbloodz and other ne’er-do-wells with significantly less to lose. And remember, label relationships were far less incestuous during the East-West rivalry, as Death Row and Bad Boy were perched on opposite coasts, not sharing office space in the Universal building. On the off chance that any substantive war of words develops (other than as a predicable part of the hype tied to Fitty’s forthcoming release), it will be because both sides share a shoddy memory and a flawed understanding of how the record industry operates. Hip-Hop has seen plenty of cities strip-mined for talent, plundered and left to the vultures. Los Angeles and Long Beach, St. Louis and Newark come readily to mind as razed ruins and salted fields, and places like Yonkers, Long Island and Chicago have seen the sun shine but briefly. Thus, those puffing their chests out about Memphis and Houston should likewise be watching their backsides: Baltimore, Oakland and London are scheming on the coveted position as a novelty second-tier Hip-Hop breeding ground. It’s simply a cyclic thing. Labels, cowardly and dimwitted all, line up whorishly to spread their trembling thighs for any artist from whatever city appears to be momentarily setting the trends. An example from the aforementioned list of contemporary ghost-towns: Nelly begat Chingy, Chingy begat J-Kwon, J-Kwon begat no one…and that’s a wrizzy for The Lou. Setting regionalism aside, the last decade has seen the ebb and flow of weed rap, white rap, grimy rap, horror rap, conscious rap, shiny-suit rap and a host of other three-eyed mutations from Dr. Yacub’s frightful laboratory. Assuming anything is permanent in entertainment – especially a genre as trend-driven as youth music – is some serious short-sighted jackassery. One final note, before I go back to listening to Young Dro’s “Gangsta” and Juelz’ “King of New York”: can we stop blaming entire areas for the wackness of a few individuals? If we’re going to blame everywhere south of Virginia for soporific retardation of the Franchize Boys, then all of NYC has to take responsibility for Tony Yayo saying “horny” in every verse. Is anyone really comfortable with that arrangement? |
What if Rupert's acquisition of the Wall Street Journal is just the beginning? Coming to grips with being famous on the world wide web. A reexamination of St. Patrick's worthiness as the don dada of Irish sainthood. The War Report: Storch versus Timbaland, Chimps versus Humans, Dick Cheney versus Iran. Compared to the thrill of going to war, getting out of one is a tiresome and humiliating business. The Game's new album is pretty good, Fabolous hires a private gumshoe and all Republicans are gay. |
