Hailed by fans and critics alike as the best show on television, HBO’s The Wire is approaching the end of its fifth and final season. Ostensibly a show about police and drug dealers, it goes beyond traditional notions of good versus evil by portraying The City of Baltimore in shades of gray. The police, not exactly good, nor evil, approach their job as a job, expressing human limitations as anyone else would in their own job. The drug dealers—fallen kingpins Stringer Bell and Avon Barksdale, the recently deceased stick-up king Omar, and the new blood making Baltimore his castle, Marlo Stanfield—also come across as human, with each trying to make a way in a world shrouded in deceit.
There are the youngsters caught in middle of these two worlds and there are politicians making their way on both sides of the fence. And in a fitting way, season five has approached the media, ostensibly the voice of the people, showing that it too is at best a gray-scale beacon of truth.
Yet for all its praise and complexity, The Wire suffers from poor ratings and has had only one Emmy nomination [It lost in 2005 for "Outstanding Writing in a Drama Series"]. For an HBO series acclaimed by some as the greatest drama in the history of television, these failures don’t make sense. Some would say the show’s ethnicity is to blame—viewers may want Tony Soprano more than Brother Mouzone. Others could argue it’s too Hip Hop; the characters played by Method Man, J.D. Williams, Julito McCullum and others are 2008 versions of Juice and New Jack City—and if you caught it, Tristan Wilds played a cameo role in Jay-Z’s “Roc Boys” video this winter. (Astute observers might already know Jay enlisted various Wire cast members in the "What We Do" video some five years ago). Maybe the blame falls on HBO’s marketing department. These are questions that ultimately will go unanswered as the series commences next month.
However, some questions did get answered, and they are worth a closer look to see if they got it right. As the show went beyond the scope of traditional crime dramas, The City of Baltimore--politically, musically and criminally came to the forefront. With Hip Hop culture playing a huge role throughout, we’ve decided to put The Wire in the crosshairs.
“I’m calling up some B-More killers to come and bleed you.”
--Nas (“Turn Up The Mics”)
Crime and Baltimore go together like Philly and cheesesteak. Whether or not it actually is the way it’s perceived can’t offput the mark of its reputation. Statistically speaking, the homicide rate in Baltimore is nearly seven times the national rate, six times the rate of New York City, and and three times the rate of Los Angeles. For a city with a population of less than 650,000, its unofficial nickname-- "Bodymore, Murderland"—is a reminder of what the show has placed in front of the camera. A memorable killing took place in season one when Brandon Wright was kidnapped, tortured and burned to send a message to Omar Little, his lover who robbed the aforementioned Barksdale Organization with impunity. One question the brutal act posed to viewers is—was it real? Put differently, is Baltimore as violent as it seems to be? Or is it like the South Bronx of the '80s—smoke and mirrors for people who’ve never been and wouldn’t know any better. “It’s definitely realistic, and it shows how cold people turn when money and drugs are involved,” says Statik Selektah, a fan and deejay best known for his work with Nas and Termanology. A look at census data shows a steady population decline over the past 60 years. While many factors are involved, the crime rate clearly does little to reverse the trend. Canarsie’s own Julito McCullum lived in Baltimore last season to film his role as Namond Brice. “You could go to a nice part in Brooklyn and it won’t even look like Brooklyn. But in Baltimore, you could go to one nice part, and right down the block is the hood.” Polarity exists in every major city, especially in Brooklyn—but it’s spread out; Brooklyn Heights isn’t next to Bedford-Stuyvesant. Is that destiny or just bad urban planning? On the other end of the spectrum is 15-year old Jermaine Crawford. Hailing from Mitchellville, Maryland —an affluent suburb of Washington, DC—the actor portraying Dukie Weems was far removed from the homelessness central to his character. “The role of who I play on The Wire is completely different from who I am as a person. At first I really scared, to be honest. But all the people of Baltimore came and showed us love; if anything, they were trying to get on the show.” Julito wasn’t sure of what to expect either. “I was just thinking there were going to be crackheads on every corner and that there was going to be shootings everyday. I thought it was a place where you couldn’t really live. But I never witnessed any of that,” he recalls. “I lived out there for a year, man. Baltimore is nothing like it’s perceived. I call it my second home.”
"I hate it when somebody purposely tries to have the lyrics match the visual. It brutalizes the visual in a way to have the lyrics dead on point. ... Yet at the same time it can’t be totally off point. It has to glance at what you're trying to say."
--Series creator David Simon
An endearing aspect of The Wire is its ability to capture the soul of Baltimore through music. A memorable scene from season four involved Snoop and Chris—two enforcers who kill frequently—where they weeded out New Yorkers setting up shop in Baltimore for themselves. The dialogue went like this:
Chris: Shaking it, Jiggle it. Who made that track?
New Yorker: Yo, who you talking to dawg?
Chris: I’m asking who Young Leek be.
New Yorker: You mean Too Fat’s cousin?
Snoop: Who?
Chris: Nah.
New Yorker: Nigga, then how the fuck should I know?
Snoop: Yo who the fuck is you talking to?
[Snoop blasts his head off]
When it dropped in ’05, "Jiggle It" possesses an up-tempo groove was a hybrid between Hip Hop and Baltimore Club Music, which is upbeat and fast-paced. Underground rapper J the S, another fan of the show, draws the comparison. “At times it kinda reminds me of the fast tempo breaks DJs used to spin in the park. That shit got people moving, dancing. Same thing with Baltimore club music, it gets you moving, it has energy.” With staples like "Big Girls Anthem" and "You Can’t Wu Tang Better Than Me," the music may take some getting used to at first, but once it gets going it becomes harder to resist its appeal. “I’m not gonna lie, when I first got out there, I didn’t like it,” recalls Julito. “It was too fast. But just being out there, and seeing how they rock to it [made] me love it. I still bump it from time to time. I got some music in my iPod.” People mistakenly consider it identical to DC Go Go music. The sound is distinctly its own. “You get really hype off of Club music,” adds Jermaine. While stick up kids and corner boys wear typical Hip Hop fashion, the score of a given Wire episode is essentially true-to-life. A given scene with Marlo driving in his SUV is generally scripted with a T.I.-ish song fitting for a young drug supplier. But in season one, astute watchers may have heard a song by Talib Kweli playing in the background during the course of drug business. “I think in season one, as in any other show, album, or art form in general, it's the beginning stages. I'd chalk that Talib placement as a small beginner's mistake somewhat, but knowing The Wire, there had to have been a subliminal message or reason as to why they placed the song in there,” recounts Skyzoo, an independent rapper praising the show. Statik agrees. “I know plenty of dealers personally and they listen to everything from Kweli to Rock & Roll. Jeezy, T.I. and Clipse are the obvious choices but not everyone’s that shallow to be confined to music representing trapping.”
"...the life of kings."
- H.L. Mencken
A salient theme worth mentioning is The Wire’s depiction of Baltimore politics. Series creator Larry Simon has gone on record to say the characters reflected in the Baltimore city council are derived from a composite of known and obscure politicians central to the area. The goes especially for Mayor Tommy Carcetti and City Council President Neresse Campbell. A respective glance at either shows some real life counterparts in Baltimore politics. Tommy Carcetti’s aspirations to run for governor mimic the assent of Martin O’Malley, who at age 36 became the 47th Mayor of Baltimore. Running on a platform implementing statistics for all sectors concerning government services, Time Magazine named him on of America’s Top Big City Mayors in 2005. He is now the Governor of the state of Maryland.
The show’s intimation that Neresse Campbell will make a run for the mayor’s office if Carcetti becomes governor mimics Baltimore’s current mayor, Sheila Dixon. Ms. Dixon ran for the vacated seat left by Mayor O’Malley after a seven-year stint as city council president. Like Neresse, she too has been linked to political corruption, as part of an ongoing probe surrounding City Hall. Not surprisingly, The Wire hasn’t turned a blind eye, and has shown that the drug game is similar, and often linked, to the corruption of local government. But is this depiction fair? And if so, is it only unfairly targeting Baltimore? These are questions that used to be answered through Hip Hop. But the market changed and politically conscious rap has seemingly lost its appeal to a younger generation.
“You already know there's similarities. Hip Hop, more so in the past than now, used to address a lotta the issues affecting the Hip-Hop community. There's mad corruption, mad homelessness, and kids are always slanging something. Even friends of mine trying to change things around are struggling getting jobs the economy is so weak, they still pumpin drugs. It’s obviously important because these issues are making living a lot harder for people, and pretending it ain’t there, or we should just forget about 'em and sing and dance, ain't gon’ fix a damn thing,” implores J the S, whose album drops March 9th and features Joell Ortiz and Ras Kass. Jermaine wasn’t even born in the past J the S refers to, but it seems The Wire may have filled in the void left behind by Hip-Hop as far as its power to serve as a cautionary device. “It’s very entertaining for TV purposes, but that’s what’s going on in our own backyards and a lot of people don’t even notice it,” he warns. Contrast this with the sentiment behind Ice-T’s "Cop Killer" with Body Count in the early '90s. His fictional account of a man fed up with police brutality, the embodiment of a flawed political system’s form of social control, was met with fierce political and corporate opposition. The elder President Bush publicly denounced any record label willing to distribute the song. Police in Greensboro, North Carolina pressured a retailer to pull it off their shelves by refusing to respond to any emergency calls. Because of this political pressure, the song was pulled off shelves; its original version was subsequently never made available. The "Cop Killer" controversy signaled the beginning of the end of Hip Hop’s willingness to expose uncomfortable truths, politically shutting itself down to usher in Spike Lee’s Bamboozled warned were stereotypically uncultured and ignorant black minstrel shows and blackface performances for the entertainment of white audiences. In other words, works that once embodied 1st Amendment dissent were shut down, and rappers willingly played Sambo to keep themselves safe. A sad irony of The Wire then, is that these issues Hip Hop once addressed never went away—they just stopped being reported. In the next section, we’ll attempt to discuss why.
“The bigger the lie, the more they believe”
--Detective Bunk Moreland
An engaging and lamentably, final aspect of The Wire has covered in Season Five is its coverage of the media. A question which it steadily attempts to answer is “What gets covered, and why?” The answer, not surprisingly, follows racial and class lines, symbolically lying above the fold if you’re the right color in the wrong neighborhood. This theme belies the subjects of their respective stories, extending into the newsroom itself. If you’re unfamiliar with the exploits of the show, consider the following hypothetical:
Writer A, who is black, works for The New Republican, whose editors are white and upper class. Writer B, fresh from Yale, signs on as a new hiree. His parents go to the same country club as management. He is also white.
Now take this one step further and imagine that Writer B—remember, he’s new—knows how to “speak” to his editors, giving them what they want, often, through deceit. Guess which writer’s more popular? In a nutshell, this is the story of Scott Templeton, the newest (and last) major character of the series.
Eager to get ahead, the 30-something writer who started his career at The Wichita Eagle and aspires to work for a major paper like The Times or The Washington Post. After getting rejected by the latter, he concedes working in Baltimore ain’t so bad after all—but he still wants to get ahead, often making up quotes to please his supervisors, who in looking for a Pulitzer, are willing to let some of the holes in his stories fall through the cracks. “It’s immoral journalism at its finest,” says local resident Nathan Levi Boston. “But I’d say [his character] is all there is keeping my family happy. I’ve fallen on hard times after losing my job at the docks and things are just rough for us,” opines the father of four.
Without spoiling the plot (too much) the events surrounding a serial killer—and Scott’s liberal reportage of him is a major point this season, ironically enough, dividing support for him across racial lines. Hester S., a black mother of three from Pimlico, suggests an entirely different story if Scott were different. “If he was black, they woulda fired his ass before the season began. You can’t make shit up and get away with it.” Lester Sydnor, Journalism major at Johns Hopkins, agrees. “It’s like Jason Blair, only this time he’s white and about to win a Pulitzer.” To the character’s credit, however, is his likability. Like many of the villains (if you can call them that), he’s grayscale. For want of a better term, he isn’t black or white. “He’s a likeable guy,” says Anthony Colicchio, 23. “He has his flaws, sure, but who doesn’t? He’s just doing his job, cutting corners like everyone else relating to the show.”
Indeed. Show creator David Simon asserts the devaluing of the reporter, often expected by management to do "more with less" amidst budget cutbacks is, in reality, proof that you can only do "less with less." So what happens when shit hits the fan? Let’s say the journalist fabricating quotes to meet a deadline is no different from the rapper claiming to be Tony Montana. Can we blame him for doing the best with whatever he was given? Time will tell what Scott’s fate will be, but the question remains: If it’s entertaining, does it have to be real?
There are the youngsters caught in middle of these two worlds and there are politicians making their way on both sides of the fence. And in a fitting way, season five has approached the media, ostensibly the voice of the people, showing that it too is at best a gray-scale beacon of truth.
Yet for all its praise and complexity, The Wire suffers from poor ratings and has had only one Emmy nomination [It lost in 2005 for "Outstanding Writing in a Drama Series"]. For an HBO series acclaimed by some as the greatest drama in the history of television, these failures don’t make sense. Some would say the show’s ethnicity is to blame—viewers may want Tony Soprano more than Brother Mouzone. Others could argue it’s too Hip Hop; the characters played by Method Man, J.D. Williams, Julito McCullum and others are 2008 versions of Juice and New Jack City—and if you caught it, Tristan Wilds played a cameo role in Jay-Z’s “Roc Boys” video this winter. (Astute observers might already know Jay enlisted various Wire cast members in the "What We Do" video some five years ago). Maybe the blame falls on HBO’s marketing department. These are questions that ultimately will go unanswered as the series commences next month.
However, some questions did get answered, and they are worth a closer look to see if they got it right. As the show went beyond the scope of traditional crime dramas, The City of Baltimore--politically, musically and criminally came to the forefront. With Hip Hop culture playing a huge role throughout, we’ve decided to put The Wire in the crosshairs.
“I’m calling up some B-More killers to come and bleed you.”
--Nas (“Turn Up The Mics”)
Crime and Baltimore go together like Philly and cheesesteak. Whether or not it actually is the way it’s perceived can’t offput the mark of its reputation. Statistically speaking, the homicide rate in Baltimore is nearly seven times the national rate, six times the rate of New York City, and and three times the rate of Los Angeles. For a city with a population of less than 650,000, its unofficial nickname-- "Bodymore, Murderland"—is a reminder of what the show has placed in front of the camera. A memorable killing took place in season one when Brandon Wright was kidnapped, tortured and burned to send a message to Omar Little, his lover who robbed the aforementioned Barksdale Organization with impunity. One question the brutal act posed to viewers is—was it real? Put differently, is Baltimore as violent as it seems to be? Or is it like the South Bronx of the '80s—smoke and mirrors for people who’ve never been and wouldn’t know any better. “It’s definitely realistic, and it shows how cold people turn when money and drugs are involved,” says Statik Selektah, a fan and deejay best known for his work with Nas and Termanology. A look at census data shows a steady population decline over the past 60 years. While many factors are involved, the crime rate clearly does little to reverse the trend. Canarsie’s own Julito McCullum lived in Baltimore last season to film his role as Namond Brice. “You could go to a nice part in Brooklyn and it won’t even look like Brooklyn. But in Baltimore, you could go to one nice part, and right down the block is the hood.” Polarity exists in every major city, especially in Brooklyn—but it’s spread out; Brooklyn Heights isn’t next to Bedford-Stuyvesant. Is that destiny or just bad urban planning? On the other end of the spectrum is 15-year old Jermaine Crawford. Hailing from Mitchellville, Maryland —an affluent suburb of Washington, DC—the actor portraying Dukie Weems was far removed from the homelessness central to his character. “The role of who I play on The Wire is completely different from who I am as a person. At first I really scared, to be honest. But all the people of Baltimore came and showed us love; if anything, they were trying to get on the show.” Julito wasn’t sure of what to expect either. “I was just thinking there were going to be crackheads on every corner and that there was going to be shootings everyday. I thought it was a place where you couldn’t really live. But I never witnessed any of that,” he recalls. “I lived out there for a year, man. Baltimore is nothing like it’s perceived. I call it my second home.”
"I hate it when somebody purposely tries to have the lyrics match the visual. It brutalizes the visual in a way to have the lyrics dead on point. ... Yet at the same time it can’t be totally off point. It has to glance at what you're trying to say."
--Series creator David Simon
An endearing aspect of The Wire is its ability to capture the soul of Baltimore through music. A memorable scene from season four involved Snoop and Chris—two enforcers who kill frequently—where they weeded out New Yorkers setting up shop in Baltimore for themselves. The dialogue went like this:
Chris: Shaking it, Jiggle it. Who made that track?
New Yorker: Yo, who you talking to dawg?
Chris: I’m asking who Young Leek be.
New Yorker: You mean Too Fat’s cousin?
Snoop: Who?
Chris: Nah.
New Yorker: Nigga, then how the fuck should I know?
Snoop: Yo who the fuck is you talking to?
[Snoop blasts his head off]
When it dropped in ’05, "Jiggle It" possesses an up-tempo groove was a hybrid between Hip Hop and Baltimore Club Music, which is upbeat and fast-paced. Underground rapper J the S, another fan of the show, draws the comparison. “At times it kinda reminds me of the fast tempo breaks DJs used to spin in the park. That shit got people moving, dancing. Same thing with Baltimore club music, it gets you moving, it has energy.” With staples like "Big Girls Anthem" and "You Can’t Wu Tang Better Than Me," the music may take some getting used to at first, but once it gets going it becomes harder to resist its appeal. “I’m not gonna lie, when I first got out there, I didn’t like it,” recalls Julito. “It was too fast. But just being out there, and seeing how they rock to it [made] me love it. I still bump it from time to time. I got some music in my iPod.” People mistakenly consider it identical to DC Go Go music. The sound is distinctly its own. “You get really hype off of Club music,” adds Jermaine. While stick up kids and corner boys wear typical Hip Hop fashion, the score of a given Wire episode is essentially true-to-life. A given scene with Marlo driving in his SUV is generally scripted with a T.I.-ish song fitting for a young drug supplier. But in season one, astute watchers may have heard a song by Talib Kweli playing in the background during the course of drug business. “I think in season one, as in any other show, album, or art form in general, it's the beginning stages. I'd chalk that Talib placement as a small beginner's mistake somewhat, but knowing The Wire, there had to have been a subliminal message or reason as to why they placed the song in there,” recounts Skyzoo, an independent rapper praising the show. Statik agrees. “I know plenty of dealers personally and they listen to everything from Kweli to Rock & Roll. Jeezy, T.I. and Clipse are the obvious choices but not everyone’s that shallow to be confined to music representing trapping.”
"...the life of kings."
- H.L. Mencken
A salient theme worth mentioning is The Wire’s depiction of Baltimore politics. Series creator Larry Simon has gone on record to say the characters reflected in the Baltimore city council are derived from a composite of known and obscure politicians central to the area. The goes especially for Mayor Tommy Carcetti and City Council President Neresse Campbell. A respective glance at either shows some real life counterparts in Baltimore politics. Tommy Carcetti’s aspirations to run for governor mimic the assent of Martin O’Malley, who at age 36 became the 47th Mayor of Baltimore. Running on a platform implementing statistics for all sectors concerning government services, Time Magazine named him on of America’s Top Big City Mayors in 2005. He is now the Governor of the state of Maryland.
The show’s intimation that Neresse Campbell will make a run for the mayor’s office if Carcetti becomes governor mimics Baltimore’s current mayor, Sheila Dixon. Ms. Dixon ran for the vacated seat left by Mayor O’Malley after a seven-year stint as city council president. Like Neresse, she too has been linked to political corruption, as part of an ongoing probe surrounding City Hall. Not surprisingly, The Wire hasn’t turned a blind eye, and has shown that the drug game is similar, and often linked, to the corruption of local government. But is this depiction fair? And if so, is it only unfairly targeting Baltimore? These are questions that used to be answered through Hip Hop. But the market changed and politically conscious rap has seemingly lost its appeal to a younger generation.
“You already know there's similarities. Hip Hop, more so in the past than now, used to address a lotta the issues affecting the Hip-Hop community. There's mad corruption, mad homelessness, and kids are always slanging something. Even friends of mine trying to change things around are struggling getting jobs the economy is so weak, they still pumpin drugs. It’s obviously important because these issues are making living a lot harder for people, and pretending it ain’t there, or we should just forget about 'em and sing and dance, ain't gon’ fix a damn thing,” implores J the S, whose album drops March 9th and features Joell Ortiz and Ras Kass. Jermaine wasn’t even born in the past J the S refers to, but it seems The Wire may have filled in the void left behind by Hip-Hop as far as its power to serve as a cautionary device. “It’s very entertaining for TV purposes, but that’s what’s going on in our own backyards and a lot of people don’t even notice it,” he warns. Contrast this with the sentiment behind Ice-T’s "Cop Killer" with Body Count in the early '90s. His fictional account of a man fed up with police brutality, the embodiment of a flawed political system’s form of social control, was met with fierce political and corporate opposition. The elder President Bush publicly denounced any record label willing to distribute the song. Police in Greensboro, North Carolina pressured a retailer to pull it off their shelves by refusing to respond to any emergency calls. Because of this political pressure, the song was pulled off shelves; its original version was subsequently never made available. The "Cop Killer" controversy signaled the beginning of the end of Hip Hop’s willingness to expose uncomfortable truths, politically shutting itself down to usher in Spike Lee’s Bamboozled warned were stereotypically uncultured and ignorant black minstrel shows and blackface performances for the entertainment of white audiences. In other words, works that once embodied 1st Amendment dissent were shut down, and rappers willingly played Sambo to keep themselves safe. A sad irony of The Wire then, is that these issues Hip Hop once addressed never went away—they just stopped being reported. In the next section, we’ll attempt to discuss why.
“The bigger the lie, the more they believe”
--Detective Bunk Moreland
An engaging and lamentably, final aspect of The Wire has covered in Season Five is its coverage of the media. A question which it steadily attempts to answer is “What gets covered, and why?” The answer, not surprisingly, follows racial and class lines, symbolically lying above the fold if you’re the right color in the wrong neighborhood. This theme belies the subjects of their respective stories, extending into the newsroom itself. If you’re unfamiliar with the exploits of the show, consider the following hypothetical:
Writer A, who is black, works for The New Republican, whose editors are white and upper class. Writer B, fresh from Yale, signs on as a new hiree. His parents go to the same country club as management. He is also white.
Now take this one step further and imagine that Writer B—remember, he’s new—knows how to “speak” to his editors, giving them what they want, often, through deceit. Guess which writer’s more popular? In a nutshell, this is the story of Scott Templeton, the newest (and last) major character of the series.
Eager to get ahead, the 30-something writer who started his career at The Wichita Eagle and aspires to work for a major paper like The Times or The Washington Post. After getting rejected by the latter, he concedes working in Baltimore ain’t so bad after all—but he still wants to get ahead, often making up quotes to please his supervisors, who in looking for a Pulitzer, are willing to let some of the holes in his stories fall through the cracks. “It’s immoral journalism at its finest,” says local resident Nathan Levi Boston. “But I’d say [his character] is all there is keeping my family happy. I’ve fallen on hard times after losing my job at the docks and things are just rough for us,” opines the father of four.
Without spoiling the plot (too much) the events surrounding a serial killer—and Scott’s liberal reportage of him is a major point this season, ironically enough, dividing support for him across racial lines. Hester S., a black mother of three from Pimlico, suggests an entirely different story if Scott were different. “If he was black, they woulda fired his ass before the season began. You can’t make shit up and get away with it.” Lester Sydnor, Journalism major at Johns Hopkins, agrees. “It’s like Jason Blair, only this time he’s white and about to win a Pulitzer.” To the character’s credit, however, is his likability. Like many of the villains (if you can call them that), he’s grayscale. For want of a better term, he isn’t black or white. “He’s a likeable guy,” says Anthony Colicchio, 23. “He has his flaws, sure, but who doesn’t? He’s just doing his job, cutting corners like everyone else relating to the show.”
Indeed. Show creator David Simon asserts the devaluing of the reporter, often expected by management to do "more with less" amidst budget cutbacks is, in reality, proof that you can only do "less with less." So what happens when shit hits the fan? Let’s say the journalist fabricating quotes to meet a deadline is no different from the rapper claiming to be Tony Montana. Can we blame him for doing the best with whatever he was given? Time will tell what Scott’s fate will be, but the question remains: If it’s entertaining, does it have to be real?
