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Sitting in the conference room on the 24th floor of the Time & Life Building, Kool Herc thinks back to the start of rap with a mixture of fondness and sadness. He'd like to see rappers "recognize their power, in terms of politics and economics." Hip-hop has not made him powerful or rich. "I never looked at it like that," he says. "I was just having fun. It was like a hobby to me." But he would appreciate more recognition. When he calls local radio stations, looking for an extra ticket or two for a hip-hop show, he's often told there are none available--even for the father of the form. Still, he's planning a comeback. He's holding a talent contest later this year, and also hopes to record his first full album. Says Herc: "Respect is due."
Friday night at Life, a dance club in lower Manhattan. Grandmaster Flash pulls the 11-p.m.-to-2-a.m. shift, and he's doing his thing. The Furious Five have long since broken up. Flash had drug problems, money problems and a court battle with his old record company, Sugar Hill, but he says today he has no ill will. He's the musical director on HBO's popular Chris Rock Show. And he's helping to develop a movie script about his life. "I was bitter a while back because I got into this for the love," says Flash. "I gave these people the biggest rap group of all time. But as long as there's a God, as long as I am physically able to do what I do--what I did--I can do it again."
The dance floor is getting crowded. Flash puts on a record. Does a little scratching. He plays the instrumental intro again and again and then lets it play through. "Ain't no stopping us now..."
At first I did not know what I wanted. But in the end I understood the language. I understood it, I understood it, I understood it all wrong perhaps. That is not what matters ... Does this mean that I am freer than I was?" --Samuel Beckett, Malloy
In Mill Valley, Calif., in a one-bedroom apartment above a coin-operated laundry, Andre Mehr, a white 17-year-old with a crew cut, and Emiliano Obiedo, a ponytailed 16-year-old who is half white and half Hispanic, are huddled over a PC. A beat spirals up. Obiedo offers some advice, and Mehr clatters away at the keyboard. They are making music. Once they settle on a beat, Obiedo will take a diskette bearing a rhythm track home and lay down some rhymes. Soon they hope to have enough for a CD. Boasts Obiedo: "I'm going to change rap."
Across the country, similar scenes are playing out as kids outside the black community make their own hip-hop or just listen in. Some say they don't pay much attention to the lyrics, they just like the beat. "I can't relate to the guns and killings," says Mehr. Others are touched more deeply. Says 15-year-old Sean Fleming: "I can relate more and get a better understanding of what urban blacks have to go through."
Todd Boyd, a professor of critical studies at the University of Southern California, says rap can bring races together: "It's a little more difficult to go out and talk about hate when your music collection is full of black artists. That is not to say that buying an OutKast record is the same as dealing with real people, but it is reason to hope." Ice Cube is a bit more cynical: "It's kinda like being at the zoo. You can look into that world, but you don't have to touch it. It's safe."