The New Milennium Mantras
Who's The Black Sheep?
YOU CAN GET WITH THAT:
If I have a mantra it is the golden rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Communicated less from scripture than from my mama, less from the prospect of judgement than a sense of what's just, what's fair and what's right. As for many of my peers, little sisters, distant cousins, young actin' uncles, "Fuck you! Pay me!" is the phrase that pays: the new millennium mantra for hip hop's current generation.
It's refereshingly irreverent unabashedly individualistic, embarassingly funny but particularly irksome not to mention insidious. This theme permeates the loose walk and slick talk of the self-described awake emcee mos def the syruppy sleepy Lil' Flip and countless average jill and joes.
Tastemakers flaunt expensive accoutrements purchased from 16 platinum plaque securing bars of fuck you's and the occasional pimp branded malt liquor. They make a kiling. they profit in death or at least the implied devastation their profane mantra champions.
Chuck D. reminded me and an eager assemblage at NYU last weekend that humanity's purpose is to make a living: realizing possibility and all that jazz or reggae or punk rock. But hip hop is frighteningly stuck on/in death.
Well-paid fuckers remind me of Dick Cheney who is for all intent purposes George Bush in that he is that actor of evil's shameless puppetmaster. All this "fuck you, pay me" shit: this "make a killing" talk and action is our latest crack epidemic. Tearing ravished communities further apart, pulling a troubled nation further asunder. Yeah, these fools: play cousins, big brothers, sister friends (who I'll admit it may sometimes on the lower frequencies speak for me) remind me a whole lot of ole' crusty ass Dick.
...BUT I'LL GET WITH THIS:
I had the privilege of spending some much needed quality time with Jilly from Philly and Chi's own Common last night along with throngs of uptight New York concert goers at Radio City Music Hall (I swear I will cut* the next numbskull concertgoer who hounds me to stop dancing amd sit down: It's a concert you stuffy stiffs.) Damn near every other word that came out of Jill's mouth, and even Com's in his short set, was "love." Jill's infectious smile and happy-hearted beauty belied her always nuanced and yes sometimes painful testimony. She's a glass-half-full-chick and has made it her mission to infuse that type of optimism in this new milennium generation of hustlers. To paraphrase fellow illadelphan Ursula, Jill is the anti-fuckkillprosperer. Yeah, that's it. And it's amazing how good it felt to be in her presence in contrast to jazz juners...die sooners who lurk on every turned corner.
Yeah Jilly from Philly reminds me of 'sef: that part of my 'sef that is my mama, Auntie Julie to some, Ms. Julie to others, good woman to everyone else. I'm gonna hold tight to my mama and her lessons. I'm gonna hold tight to Jill and her kindred both famous and obscure. I'm gonna avert my eyes from the looming snake charmers and I know I said it before but I gotta say it again: "live my life like its golden." Can we make that the new millenium negro national anthem? I mean "Lift Every Voice" is a classic (and should be committed to memory by every self-respecting African American) but changing times call for changing methods and changing theme songs. So call your local NAACP, build with your local 5 percenters, and lets make this happen.
*...my eyes. (I'm a lover not a fighter)
YOU CAN GET WITH THAT:
"That's the way it is with a wiseguy partner. He gets his money no matter what. You got no business? Fuck you, pay me. You had a fire? Fuck you, pay me. The place got hit by lightning and World War Three started in the lounge? Fuck you, pay me."
~Henry Hill, Goodfellas
Fuck you, pay me
Fuck you, pay me
Fuck you, pay me
Fuck you, pay me
Fuck you, pay me
Fuck you, pay me
Fuck you, pay me
Fuck you, pay me
Gimme the loot, Gimme the loot, Gimme the loot
~Mos Def, "War", The New Danger
If I have a mantra it is the golden rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Communicated less from scripture than from my mama, less from the prospect of judgement than a sense of what's just, what's fair and what's right. As for many of my peers, little sisters, distant cousins, young actin' uncles, "Fuck you! Pay me!" is the phrase that pays: the new millennium mantra for hip hop's current generation.
It's refereshingly irreverent unabashedly individualistic, embarassingly funny but particularly irksome not to mention insidious. This theme permeates the loose walk and slick talk of the self-described awake emcee mos def the syruppy sleepy Lil' Flip and countless average jill and joes.
Tastemakers flaunt expensive accoutrements purchased from 16 platinum plaque securing bars of fuck you's and the occasional pimp branded malt liquor. They make a kiling. they profit in death or at least the implied devastation their profane mantra champions.
Chuck D. reminded me and an eager assemblage at NYU last weekend that humanity's purpose is to make a living: realizing possibility and all that jazz or reggae or punk rock. But hip hop is frighteningly stuck on/in death.
Well-paid fuckers remind me of Dick Cheney who is for all intent purposes George Bush in that he is that actor of evil's shameless puppetmaster. All this "fuck you, pay me" shit: this "make a killing" talk and action is our latest crack epidemic. Tearing ravished communities further apart, pulling a troubled nation further asunder. Yeah, these fools: play cousins, big brothers, sister friends (who I'll admit it may sometimes on the lower frequencies speak for me) remind me a whole lot of ole' crusty ass Dick.
...BUT I'LL GET WITH THIS:
I had the privilege of spending some much needed quality time with Jilly from Philly and Chi's own Common last night along with throngs of uptight New York concert goers at Radio City Music Hall (I swear I will cut* the next numbskull concertgoer who hounds me to stop dancing amd sit down: It's a concert you stuffy stiffs.) Damn near every other word that came out of Jill's mouth, and even Com's in his short set, was "love." Jill's infectious smile and happy-hearted beauty belied her always nuanced and yes sometimes painful testimony. She's a glass-half-full-chick and has made it her mission to infuse that type of optimism in this new milennium generation of hustlers. To paraphrase fellow illadelphan Ursula, Jill is the anti-fuckkillprosperer. Yeah, that's it. And it's amazing how good it felt to be in her presence in contrast to jazz juners...die sooners who lurk on every turned corner.
Yeah Jilly from Philly reminds me of 'sef: that part of my 'sef that is my mama, Auntie Julie to some, Ms. Julie to others, good woman to everyone else. I'm gonna hold tight to my mama and her lessons. I'm gonna hold tight to Jill and her kindred both famous and obscure. I'm gonna avert my eyes from the looming snake charmers and I know I said it before but I gotta say it again: "live my life like its golden." Can we make that the new millenium negro national anthem? I mean "Lift Every Voice" is a classic (and should be committed to memory by every self-respecting African American) but changing times call for changing methods and changing theme songs. So call your local NAACP, build with your local 5 percenters, and lets make this happen.
*...my eyes. (I'm a lover not a fighter)
saith جليلة on 5.3.05
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