• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Asians Are The New Black People

I’ve just had an epiphany: hip-hop is only dead to its Black contingent. And writing that sentence just hurt my heart a little.

Need more proof that Blacks could give less than a shit about rap? Ask anyone who believes that ringtones are the new platinum. If that doesn’t suffice, ask the ones who slob on the knob of some shitty rapper who will insult the same rapper he draws inspiration form.

Last Friday I attended Sneaker Pimps, a traveling art exhibition and concert, where I perhaps saw the saddest thing in my few years on this planet, aside from the over-abundance of meatwatcher jean-rocking battyboys and fake-ass posers. As the DJ threw on tracks such as “Verbal Intercourse,” “So Ghetto,” “The Show” and “Mad Izm” among other such instant vintage, the crowd moved with the pace of a deer caught in headlights. However, when “Fireman,” “Lean Like A Cholo” and “Big Shit Poppin’” were spun, the same crowd went apeshit. I never really thought too much of this amusing scenario, until Redman performed. I couldn’t help but shake my head as the sheeple shuffled their feet as he performed “Tonite’s Da Nite,” when thirty minutes prior the song was spun to no response.

What’s more amazing, however, were the Asian delegates whom I was able to chop it up with and build about hip-hop culture, the majority of which also happened to be the vendors, painters and a DJ to boot. In case you don’t know, Japan is experiencing a hip-hop renaissance similar to the Rotten Apple’s golden eras. At the same time, they hold the same appreciation for the Juice Crew and the Wu-Tang Clan as they do for Lil Wayne and Young Jeezy. Don’t believe me? Ask the slant-eyed record spinner who was spinning that shit concurrently Friday night.

A lot of humps jump on me since I talk about the vile nature of this hip-hop shit more than the “good” parts of it. The reality is that I love this hip-hop shit, and to see it in its current state sometimes frustrates me. This culture is supposed to be the voice of the oppressed, repressed and suppressed, as well as for the happy-go-lucky, carefree individuals. But instead it comes off as a drug-addled party machine with no respect for its elders. The tried-and-played-out tale of rappers having remorse because they sold poison to their community in order to get out of said community and afford some gaudy chain adorned in the ligaments and tendons of children in South Africa makes me quit this shit sometimes, and find solace in the arms of soul and jazz music. But like always, I return to the abusive hands of hip-hop, not unlike the woman who returns to her wife-beating husband, due to my unwavering dedication to this thing. And while the e-hobos like to shrug my jewels off as “tell me something I don’t know” banter, it’s that same lackadaisical attitude that allows the real purveyors to weed out the real from the original fakes who’ll eventually be serving my coma-inducing fast food while I’m on my deathbed.

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