10/18/07: She was really the realest before she got into showbiz

PART II: The death of the original, untampered ..down sista…. I miss H.E.R.

I remember the first time I saw the Roots. My boy Darryn called me.

“Yo Haqq! YO!! You gotta get down here!” he yelled into the phone, trying to make sure I heard him over all the noise.

It must’ve been about 1130pm on a Monday night in San Jose, CA, not exactly the most happening spot on the planet, but alas, my humble hometown. He proceeded to tell me how this group called the Roots was rockin’ the spot at a place called the Ajax Lounge. Studious engineering student that I was, it would usually take an air-raid siren or fire alarm to get me out of the crib on a Monday night when I had class at 8am on Tuesday. Something in his voice made me get dressed in hurry down there though. It was as if he’d just witnessed little men emerging from a spaceship. It was like when your parents told you about the first time they heard Sam Cooke sing, or for others, the first time they heard the Beatles. You knew it was Earth shattering, and you had to be a part of it.

The Roots did not disappoint. They had everyone in this very small space dancing, yelling their approval, participating in the call and response nature of some of the songs. They put on a SHOW! No one was sitting down. Everyone was jumping up and down, and had that amazed look on their face, like they all knew that this was indeed something special. By this time, I had seen a few concerts, and quickly discovered that many of these performers were much more exciting on wax than on stage. Break dancing had kind of died off and it was no longer terribly exciting to watch a guy walk around the stage in a sweat suit and a lot of gold and rap over a track. These cats had us all involved though. They had TALENT!

Let’s rewind back to yesterday’s entry. Something happened. Talent ceased to be a requirement. You never find a group anymore that has anything other than some artificial bass on their tracks, and the rhythm is rarely anything too complex. Did they forget where they come from? Where we come from?! Back in the mother land, we often carried on many complex rhythms simultaneously. We used to talk about stuff; about social issues. I’m not saying that every song was some sort of sociology lecture over a phat beat, but they had a little more substance. It was still poetry. Some were a little edgier than others, but a legitimate case for poetry could be made. That’s what this art form is. It’s poetry. It’s people using their voice to say something. The Lost Poets called us out back in the day, saying we were scared of revolution. Now we’re called to come one and come all and get our grillz. Come one come all, and denigrate your sisters and mothers. Come one, come all and listen to the perpetual soundtrack for every strip club in America. Let’s all make it rain and pop bottles with models, because none of us have anywhere to be but “da Club” and we’re all “ballin outta control”, as we pull our leased Escalade up to our mama’s driveway.

Now all you gotta do is hang your pants off your behind, scowl, and borrow your little sisters book of nursery rhymes to make a hit record. You can’t carry a CD on your own, so you feature 23 other “artists” on your 18 tracks and 7 lewd and lascivious interludes, shoot your video at somebody’s big ol’ house or at the dolla-dolla spot (or both) and suddenly you’re large, still livin’ at your mama’s house. Some of it is really elementary.

Shoulders. Chest. Pants. Shoes.
Shoulders. Chest. Pants. Shoes.

Are you kidding me? My 2nd grader could’ve come up with that one. Let me not totally rain on the parade though. Playing devil’s advocate, perhaps it takes real genius to come up with something so, well…simple!

They love it in the suburbs, in the boardrooms, in the country club. We as a people are no longer a threat. Forget what you heard. Willy Lynch is a media executive. And we buy everything he’s selling. The Roots, the Talib Kweli’s…the cats that are still saying anything at all, they can’t get on the air. How did this happen? How could we let this happen? We play dominoes. We know that all money ain’t good money! It ain’t that comfortable up in the House, is it?

“That’s why we cain’t have nuthin’!”

We used to have black radio stations. We used to have places where we got the news about what was going on in our communities. We had songs that were by us, about us, and meant to uplift us. I can think of maybe one big-city station , KJLH in Los Angeles, that might still qualify, but I don’t live in L.A. anymore, and they were playing some suspect stuff in the afternoon the last time I was in the Southland, so I’m not sure. Hopefully, there are still some in the South, but the Evil Empire will probably soon squeeze them out too.

Remember black music? Real black music. SOUL music? You remember when a song came on and you marveled at the talent, and the voice, and the hair on the back of your neck stood up, and your feet started moving and you couldn’t help but start dancing? You might even catch your mama or grandmamma singing or dancing (or both) while doing chores around the house when something good came on the radio. And it was the same at everybody’s house. You knew that if your dad kept the Ohio Players album covers out of reach at your house, you could check them out at your partna’s house. They were playing Marvin Gaye at Johnny’s house, and cookin’ the same pot of collard greens, just like at your house, and it smelled like afro-sheen (or classy curl for some of you) and air freshener in their bathroom too. Deon’s daddy was turning the meat on the grill while Rose Royce belted out something from the Car Wash Soundtrack. Stan was fading everybody up at the barbershop as we listened to Franky Beverly or Johnny Taylor and read Jet Magazine. It was black music everywhere, all the time, and it was beautiful. It was our soundtrack. I hear old songs today and it reminds me of being a black kid in the ‘70s and ‘80s and I smile and it makes me feel good.

And then some woman’s posterior reminded R. Kelly of his Jeep, and told us there wasn’t nuthin’ wrong with a little bump and grind. Sure, old songs were suggestive in their own way, but they were subtle. You could listen with your kids. Then everybody had somebody rappin’ a verse on their R&B record to give it a little more edge. Then pretty soon the rap was a little longer, and had nothing whatsoever to do with the song. Then the whole song was a rap, and the only singing was the hook. The script was flipped. Then we ran out of original ideas. Sampling was cool when it paid homage to artists from the past that took the time and displayed their creativity in actual arranging and composing unique music. First it was used sparingly, now it’s used almost exclusively. It’s probably not a coincidence that this happened about the same time that music programs began to decline in our school systems.

But I’ma take her back hoping that this $*%# stops…cuz what I’m still talking bout y’all is hip hop.

In the words of Malcolm, its time to stop singin’ and start swingin’. Hit ‘em where it hurts. If we don’t buy it, they can’t sell it.