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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Why Rap Needs The Diplomats

Let’s be real: rap needs another beef like the Internets need another nude online “model.” I mean sure, it’s nice to see someone degrade themselves in the hopes of attaining the almighty dollar, but after a while the shit gets boring to the average person. Whatever happened to keeping it covered anyways? Part of the reason I dig women so much is because of how tantalizing their curves are when wrapped in the finest of garbs. When a chick is just butt-ass naked for the sake of being naked, the element of surprise is taken out.

I could go on about why women should stay clothed more often than not, but that wouldn’t be the point of this post.

One thing rap does need, however, are the antics of Harlem’s Dip Set crew. A few weeks ago I had the task of interviewing Hell Rell, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was one of the more enjoyable conversations I’d had with a rapper in a cool minute. Rather than wax poetics about the quintessential jibba jabba like his album and where the fluck Cam’Ron is (my cousin suggests he’s jumped into the real estate game with Harold Miner and the O’Bannon brothers), the gabfest turned into one of the most random-ass Q&A’s ever as duke answered every question I proposed, no matter how zany.

And that was the thing with the Dips: that whole not-give-a-fuck attitude that was refreshing before the shit became trendy like skinny jeans. Everything from their fashion sensibilities to their lexicon has been adapted, altered and molded into the hip-hop consciousness. Rock star chains? Check. The invention and subsequent frequent use of the term “no homo?” Check. The worst ad-libbing this side of Greg Nice? Check. Nevermind the Roc; the Dips were a dynasty unto themselves. And let’s not discuss the times Cam decided to pop up in televised interviews.

But like all good things, shit came to an end quickfast. Tru-Life made a habit of punching out Cam and sticking Jim Jones up, Juelz damn near fell off the face of the planet and today’s incarnation of the Diplomats resemble the Bad News Bears moreso than an actual rap group. Whatever happened to that Sizzurp (no Robitussin) drink anyways?

Like the tales of all short-lived rap dynasties, the story of the Dips ended the same way: a bunch of obscure rappers still trying to maintain a sense of relevance in the game. I will give credit for one thing: at least they’re not running around doing Garnier commercials like Bleek is. That shit was just an epic fail unto itself. I’m pretty sure Big L would be rolling around in his grave if his former protégés started turning tricks for L’Oreal to keep their lights on.

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