Tammy, Keisha and Kendrick: Black Women’s Liberation and Section 80

Listening to Kendrick Lamar’s “To Pimp A Butterfly” I couldn’t help agreeing with this writer that the liberation that Kendrick both propels and embodies does not include black women. Nowhere on the record does Kendrick attempt to incorporate the oppression of women into his message or create an alliance between men and women of colour who may interact with societal structures in a similar way. Delving deeper into his catalogue I discovered Section.80, an ode to a generation of crack babies, bastards of the Ronald Reagan era and general fuckups, which confidently includes stories of women from this same milieu. On this album, he intentionally creates a tandem where the tracklist reflects Kendrick’s inclusion of both men and women in his reflection on today’s black millennials.

This enthusiasm to talk about issues that affect women, I met with mixed emotions. Keisha’s Song (Her Pain) was on my top played list, in isolation from the rest of this album, for months before I came across Tammy’s Song (Her Evils) which I listened to with narrowed eyes for a long time before sitting down to write this.

On first listen Tammy’s Song appeared to be a demonization of a woman for showing only a superficial loyalty to the man she claims she rides for whilst being ready to jump into bed with another man should her partner ever betray her (which he does). Worse she finally abandons men altogether instead opting for a same gender relationship. With this understanding, I foolishly almost dismissed the track as even worthy of analysis. However, Kendrick shows far too much empathy for “these vulnerable girls,” and the fact that Tammy and Keisha are such focal characters in the album makes the track as a demonization seem an incomplete analysis. On closer inspection I realised that Kendrick was not rejecting Tammy; he pitied her.

Tammy, a woman who takes knock after knock and finally finds a trouble free relationship, is not celebrated for the qualities she possessed that led her through a journey that seems to have a happy enough ending to me. Instead, her story is represented as an example of a broken society and those who endure it. Ab soul’s take on her story sums up the complete stripping of Tammy’s agency and power as he asks “what if Tammy came across a real man who didn’t play games like children?” My response to which would be, maybe she would’ve ended up in the same happy same-sex relationship that everyone seems to have confused with some kind of inferno on earth?

Kendrick’s apparent commitment to uniting the struggles gave me so much hope, but I couldn’t help but feel, the more I listened to the album, that he still wasn’t quite there. Of all the ‘evils’ that surround a woman’s existence the one you felt most strongly about was a ride or die chick who ends up dating a woman? Really? You think that’s our key, defining issue?

Kendrick’s empathy for the black woman who constantly falls victim to the whims of the men this society has created, forms an important part of his identity on an album that seeks to address the range of ills that the whole generation has experienced. Now, there may well be an element of tragedy in a woman whose life is dominated by failed relationships such that she gives up on finding a true love opting instead for a safe bet. But 1) I don’t think that’s how most women find themselves in relationships with other women, 2) how is this a useful starting point or contribution to understanding the issues that affect women or a black woman’s experience more generally? 3) How can we define these events as reflective of “her evils”, what exactly does Kendrick even mean by this term? Searching for the balance in that thin line between empathy and pity we have to simultaneously consider the structures that restrict Tammy whilst recognising her agency and ability to make independent decisions that best benefit her.

We have to find the balance between holding members of society, and society as a whole, accountable when needs be and stripping women of their agency and power. Women can do things for ourselves by ourselves and we urgently need to move away from the notion a woman who deems that her happiness will not be determined by men or male approval, is too angry/delusional/psychotic. Tammy, as Kendrick’s creation, gives us an insight on the perception of a woman who appears strong, confident with ownership of her own body and who is done with destructive relationships with men. This move is not perceived as empowering, intelligent nor self-loving, it is instead represented as an unfortunate choice made merely out of convenience. Why reject the idea that she is liberated or empowered and view her instead as the victim of whimsical men?

Conversely, I had no real issue with Keisha’s song until I held her story up to Tammy’s. Thinking about agency, power and responsibility, and especially considering Ab Soul’s commentary, the red flags begin to appear. Keisha is a young woman who was abused from the age of 10 before turning to prostitution which eventually seems to lead to her death as she is stabbed to death by her rapist. Ab Soul, reflecting on her fate, asks: what if Keisha was celibate? So whilst Tammy is stripped of her self-determination, Keisha is awarded hers? Perhaps I’m missing something, but the end of prostitution would in no way lead to the end of sexual violence towards women, as prostitutes are not the perpetrators of these crimes. Again, I felt like Kendrick had come so close, but so far to actually adding some positive fuel to the discussion.

After listening to Section.80 so many times I’d lost count, I essentially found I’d come a full circle. Where To Pimp A Butterfly’s black liberation doesn’t mention black women, Section.80’s celebration of the dysfunctional does, but does that mean that it takes any significant steps forward in the representation of women in hip hop? Not really.

Although, Tammy is rebranded from being loud, tough and emotionless, she is still merely represented as collateral damage. Keisha, or Brenda, or Sasha along with the many nameless women who’ve featured in hip hop through the years as useless tragedies make for a decent track, but they are songs which lack in any kind of enlightenment. Honestly, I didn’t need to look as far as the female characters in his work to gauge where Kendrick positions himself in relation to women as tracks like “Hol’ up” say it all. But a song which fantasises about sex with an air hostess (not because he likes her, just because he wants to dominate her and claim ownership to the first class life she represents) and in which he claims “I call a bitch a bitch, a ho a ho, a woman a woman” apparently wasn’t enough for me.

Kendrick Lamar may well be hip hop’s saviour, and maybe even the saviour of a generation of lost black men, but unfortunately, he isn’t mine. Sexism in the music industry isn’t going anywhere and there are so many more subtle ways in which it is embedded in the business, a reflection of the credits alone reveals a glimpse of this. The reality is, I’m not going to stop listening to Section 80, just like I never stopped listening to To Pimp A Butterfly after reading For Harriet’s analysis. The only thing that keeps me sane is knowing that elsewhere on the planet, there are droves of other black women being semi-liberated by Kendrick Lamar with me.

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Culture for Profit and its Complications

To Pimp a Culture

A few years ago, in Trinidad, I was sitting with a man named Aldrick watching cars go by as the topic of oil came into conversation. Trinidadian oil must bring in a lot of money, I commented. He agreed the oil, the banks and the tourism, that was where the cash lay. “But the tourism I don’t like so much, you know, you start to feel when your country is spread out a certain way for tourists she becomes like a prostitute”. Between oil, banks and tourism I was surprised that what he had highlighted as most problematic for the country were its visitors, but the more I travel and see cultures being sold over and over again to those unfamiliar with it the more his words resonate with me wherever I go.
My family is native to an island not so far from Trinidad, a smaller perhaps even more paradisiacal place it is easily more touristic than T&T. I have been going back and forth to Barbados since I was a child, travelling with and to my family meant that it always felt warm and welcoming to me, home to my own mother, aunties, uncles, grandparents and so forth. Given my love for the place it never surprised me when friends or colleagues would praise it and tell me about the wonderful times they’d had there.

But it wasn’t until I travelled to Barbados without my family, just a few months before meeting Aldrick, and instead with a group of colleagues; two Americans, two Brits, a Rwandan and a Réunionese, that I discovered the welcoming sensation I felt was different from that described to me by tourists with no familial link to the island. Theirs was a well-trained smile that I recognised from years of working in the service industry, one that usually comes with the exchange of cash; a lasting handshake, heavy with the appreciation of custom and of course an island-wide willingness to go the extra mile.

Globally, one happy tourist means revenue and lots of it whilst one drop of tourist blood is expensive, especially in areas where tourism is the number one source of income. Hence travellers are treated with the utmost care, given everything they need and always reminded to come back.

This service industry smile is expected when you take a holiday, you pay for a service and you expect a smile. Most travellers however are also paying for a cultural experience and in a world where what the tourist says goes, that’s just part of the service. At this point things get awkward for me, when am I simply experiencing something new and when am I on the receiving end of a country pimping out its culture?

The examples of forced or insincere depictions of culture for profit are endless, wandering through Edinburgh I wondered if the men in kilts playing their bagpipes would bother if there was no one to take pictures. I was doubtful. In Salvador do Bahia where adult women dress up as the concept of ‘Mama Bahía’ the afrobrazilian woman who embodies the spirit of the Brazilian northeast. Similarly at Maasai Mara after a day of driving around taking pictures of lions and zebra tourists are offered a cultural experience of a traditional Maasai dance to complete ‘the African adventure’.

Often tourism is about giving people what they expect but unfortunately, so often our ideas about foreign countries are outdated, archaic or incredibly narrow. So as the economic need for tourism persists in order to entice tourists the image that is sold is one created by outsiders, for outsiders. Caribbean paradise means white sand and blue sea. In St. Lucia, a volcanic island where sand ranges from black as night to silvery yellow, white sand is imported from neighbouring islands. Here, this is not a cultural exploitation as much as a futile expenditure, white sand does not feel better under your feet, nor make the sea any more soothing. It just looks more like the postcard you are likely to send home.

The black sand beaches of St Vincent.

The black sand beaches of St Vincent.

As I stepped out of an airplane in Nairobi, Kenya last month the wall that guided me to passport control was decorated with paintings of ‘the big five’ wild animals you can find on safari intertwined with silhouette images of opaque  women with a traditionally ‘African’ shape appearing to be dancing or carrying baskets on their heads. My eyes narrowed. Imagining that this was my first trip to Kenya, or even on the continent where it resides, I wondered what my impressions would be. It almost seemed to affirm the stereotypes and preconceived notions of the country before passengers had even legally made it in. Something about it irked me.
This vague sense of suspicion or discomfort I felt at the airport was set aside for the next few weeks as my mind became distracted by beaches and lakes from Mombasa to Zanzibar. However a trip to the National Museum of Tanzania brought it all flooding back as the disappointment I felt cruising through this representation of a nation was overwhelming. As you walk in the first exhibition has a photo of Nyerere, ‘baba wa taifa,’ the first president of Tanzania elected in 1964 and the ‘father of a nation’. Nyerere’s socialist leanings and “villagisation” policies are thought to have deeply shaped the politics of Tanzania that we know today, a largely peaceful and stable country.

As I walk further around the images cease to surprise me and seem only to teach and show me anything about Tanzania that I would have lazily assumed. Spears, beads, recipes from “witch doctors”, portraits of white men who died hundreds of years ago such as the late great explorer David Livingstone, a man who made Tanzania what it is. Then there was my favourite stand of all, the AIDS stall. Despite our image of AIDS-ridden Africa, in reality most travellers in Tanzania will barely come in contact with people living with AIDS, the popular island of Zanzibar has a prevalence of 0.6 % whilst Arusha the biggest town in the Kilimanjaro area has a prevalence of less than 2%. As I became more and more distressed at why a national museum had decided to erect a stand about a disease wondering if I had missed the cancer or cardiovascular section of Catalonia’s history museum, I wondered how long it would take before an Ebola stand was a permanent fixture?
The AIDS stall made me reconsider how I had seen the whole museum, celebrations of ‘baba wa taifa’ then became a reiteration of the old lie that Africa was born in the 1960s after independence, negating centuries of East African history, which at best are referred to in the context of the European invasion as “pre-colonial” if they are ever mentioned at all. Even the language seemed to be lying to me, words like “tribe” and “hunter-gatherer” which were not in any local language but in the language of the coloniser and seemed to serve only in the exoticising of the land’s own people.

Firstly, let me acknowledge that as a British passport holder I do recognise the hypocrisy of complaining about the national museum of a former British colony when more often than not the stolen artefacts of former colonies reside in the British Museum, rather than the areas from which they were looted. But what exhausted me so much about the Museum was that it reflected this tendency not specifically of Tanzania or Tanzanians but of so many cultures within the African diaspora to present ourselves as the other, as the exotic.

Thinking back to these mysterious, faceless black women on the walls of Jomo Kenyatta Airport, it became clearer what had irked me so much. A woman with a big bum and a basket on her head isn’t exotic in Kenya, she’s just a woman (definition of exotic: “foreign, not native, strikingly unusual, unique). Through depicting just a woman as this image which should strike awe and wonder in the viewer, you are not only exoticising the banal but you are also commodifying the black female form. From the opening of the Eiffel Tower in 1889 which saw black women from the colonies stand for days on display with ‘exotic’ fruits around them, to a Taylor Swift video in 2014, the fascination of the black female form has stood the test of time, and black women’s bodies will likely be a commodity for generations to come.

However, objectification of women is just one consequence of culture for profit and the ‘othering’ of oneself. The recent debate on cultural appropriation debate has tackled some of the difficulties in drawing the line between a simple cultural exchange and exploitation. Maybe the scot in his kilt is adamant that tourists will not leave without knowing of the bagpipes that are an essential element of Scottish culture. Perhaps ‘Mama Bahia’ is so proud of her ancestors she wants every passer-by to know her. A recent article on the gentrification of Harlem which tackled the awkwardness in profiting from culture without falling into stereotypes and crude generalisations, asked the question “how do you monetize the cultural experience in a way that remains genuine and authentic?”

I do not believe this is impossible. Culture for profit often means that despite spending a substantial amount of time in a new place, you end up going home with the same stereotypes you came with. You go to morocco with flashbacks of Aladdin lingering in your mind, pay a snake charmer for a photo and leave with the same image that was buried in your brain somewhere before you arrived. This is both yours and the snake charmer’s fault. We as members of the African diaspora must be adamant in defining ourselves not in the context of the European colonisers or slave masters but as beings unto ourselves, and eventually develop a true independence beyond being nations of servers.

But tourism like any industry works on the basis of supply and demand, tourists demand the culture they saw in a film and local businesses supply it. So if we change the demands that we make as tourists we can become better-informed, more open consumers of culture. Don’t go looking for a dark continent full of magic and mysteries as described by Joseph Conrad. Read Chinua Achebe and Chimamanda Adichie and expect to find other human beings who like you have a culture that dictates to a large extent their behaviour on a day to day basis. Stop looking for the other and instead look to see yourself reflected in the people you meet, and once you have established those similarities the differences become evident and from there too you can begin to learn of a culture.

NB The National Museum of Tanzania is not 100% bad, I did enjoy the rock art exhibition and the photography of the old East African coast.

On Gentrification

I won’t lie. The first time I had to queue to get into a bar in Peckham, I was outraged. Despite being from Lewisham and having only discovered the wonders of Peckham in my late teens, as a South London native I felt I deserved an automatic queue jump. When it became evident that I was fuming in vain, I jumped on my high horse (the 436) and rode off to a pub somewhere in Camberwell.

Peckham used to be a typical South London area with a high street that consisted of a Macdonalds, a Primark, a handful of black hair shops and a budget cinema. Over the past five or ten years that very high street has seen huge changes with many locals complaining of influxes of Shoreditch rejects congregating to sample the latest vegan* brunches and vintage fashion. As more and more shops catering to the hipsters and hipsters-in-denial have popped up and rents then have continued to increase Peckham has become the poster child for the gentrification of South London.

While I appreciate the availability of prosecco and proscuitto at a 15 minute walk from my house  my issues with the gentrification of South London run far deeper than frustration at excessive waiting time at a local bar. Growing up in a ‘deprived’ area of the UK, proprietor of the formidable Great British Pound, has always made me hugely sceptical of trickle-down economics. The idea that money that flows into the top will eventually find its way down to those who need it at the bottom is difficult to swallow when your borough has one of the highest rates of child poverty in the capital. Inequality in London is nothing new. Every year millions of tourists descend on the city to wonder at historic architecture, royal palaces and stolen artefacts pouring incomputable amounts into this wonderful city’s economy. Meanwhile, not too far South, overworked GPs and locals must campaign relentlessly to keep our hospitals open, because if not where else will the local stab victims, substance abusers and the mentally unwell be treated?

The deep set resentment that many feel towards the proprietors and customers of these new businesses and inevitably their new neighbours may seem difficult to grasp at first. Some newer residents may feel that if anything they are contributing by paying substantial prices for rent, food and nights out in the area, some who are more in tune may simply feel that they too are humans who need a place to live and have an appreciation of the neighbourhood. Fair enough. But it is worth acknowledging that the failure of trickle-down economics is more difficult to swallow when all you’re asking for is the money to trickle not from the top, but  across from those living on your doorstep. So as money flows into the hands of big landlords and savvy businesspeople who swooped in at just the right time, those outside of this network remain ignored.

Neglected areas are exactly that, they are areas where poorly paid social workers play mother and father to every abandoned or mistreated child (of whom there are plenty) and those with a community spirit spend their lives fighting tooth and nail to keep the community afloat, together. Their lives are made only harder as more money gets thrown forcing them to pay more for everything from rent to coffee.

Of course not every South Londoner is a hero, there are many happy-go-lucky “it’s shit but we love it” types and just as many “we might not have much but we’re a family” locals or even some “it’s not great but it’s all I know” ones. But there’s also an angrier, more bitter kind whose hardships were perhaps not so easy to overcome. Let’s call them the “I hate this place and everything it represents” South Londoner.

Growing up in an area like mine there are a million experiences available to the average teenager that shouldn’t be, from drugs and sex (and hence teen pregnancy) to the emasculating routine of stop and search and equally shameful procedure of getting mugged every other week. Many of those hit the hardest by the real issues of the borough, do not want to be there. Success would be to escape but they are trapped in a cycle of poverty that limits their options and confines them to that oh-so-trendy place. As superficial change  grows exponentially accompanied by that fearless freedom that comes with middle-class options, free to saunter down the street you scurried through as a scared teenager, reminding you once again of everything you never had, so then grows your resentment at still being stuck there.

This is no one’s fault and we are none of us perfect. I myself write this article from a fabulous three bedroom flat in Barcelona were vegan* brunches are advertised in the window of the café a few doors down from me, in an area, I am told, taxi drivers refused to go through prior to the 1992 Olympics, when it was populated predominantly by working class Catalans and immigrants from Pakistan, North Africa and the Middle East. It’s not obvious at first, the art galleries and bike shops that look like art galleries may distract you, but the ghosts of ghettos past are certainly there. Nonetheless, I take comfort in the fact that my awareness of this familiar situation encourages me to engage with the situation by educating myself in order to understand the local socioeconomic situation and contribute to long-standing local businesses that need the support, rather than just creaming off the cool of the area whilst showing no respect to those who must tolerate the high turnover of international hipsters with no interest in learning their language nor exploring their culture.

Gentrification is a reflection of the inequality and injustice that continually festers in our society. In the UK as inequality increases and the homeless are no longer ignored, but instead greeted by spikes at night as a reminder of their problematic existence, hikes in South London rents mean that those who have spent a lifetime in these previously neglected areas are simply being out-priced out of the area and the city alike.

The current issue is not that Peckham has changed. The issue is that Peckham hasn’t changed at all. A boy growing up in Peckham suffers the same hiked probability that he will become somehow become embroiled in violent crime as his counterpart did ten years ago. Despite huge efforts from local councils which have seen tremendous slashes in teen pregnancy statistics, a girl growing up in Peckham is still more likely to fall pregnant before her 20th birthday than a girl based in any other London borough, except neighbouring Lambeth.

I’m sure I was not the only child growing up in a neglected area who at some point experienced a profound epiphany which led to the understanding that actually I was not part of a national community in the way others were. The institutions and structures that govern us do not expect a 100% success rate which for me meant that many of my friends and neighbours would be unfortunately and inevitably among those who fell outside of those structures and would simply be forgotten, whether dead or in jail or just piss poor and angry their whole lives. It’s the realisation that actually not all that many people care about you and you can watch the children of Sweets Way N20 experience it here.

Pushing poverty from post code to post code seems to be a process that continually reproduces itself in society but the ignorance that often accompanies it is an individual choice. Today you can take a pleasant stroll through SE-anywhere, stop for a lovely coffee or maybe some delicious Jamaican food on the way and remain blissfully unaware of the ongoing local issues, from parents battling addiction and their children turning to crime to failing schools and crumbling hospitals.

Although no amount of cocktails and coffee can save our schools or hospitals, nor make the area any safer to grow up in, we can make the most of this transitional phase to learn about the issues faced by our neighbours that the media has consistently failed to communicate. It is easy to bury your head in your smartphone or cross the road at any sign of perceived danger but there is much to be gained by simply doing some research and befriending your neighbour. An area with such different worlds colliding is the perfect opportunity for us to discover the experiences of others and truly understand the fabric of our society, and perhaps then more young people growing up in the area might have the sentiment that someone somewhere noticed their existence.

*It’s actually a real shame that veganism is even associated with irritating hipsters, it’s supposed to be excellent for the environment.

If You Love Hip Hop, Buy Some

These past months have seen some classic controversy in hip hop. Azealia Banks, famous for her 2011 hit ‘212’, made headlines once again for attacking superstar Iggy Azalea, adding to a long and drawn out feud the origins of which have never been clear, and in reality aren’t even relevant at this point. The difference was that rather than Iggy coming off as the successful, demure hip hop royalty and Banks as a racist, bitter lunatic, as had previously been the dynamic, some interesting questions were raised this time, largely due to Q-Tip’s 40 tweet long sermon to Iggy about the origins of hip hop as a socially and politically conscious movement born from black oppression.

Let’s be clear, I like that ‘Fancy’ track as well as ‘Work’ and I thank Iggy for good nights out with good friends. But, I can see where Banks is coming from. There are injustices in the world and that’s life, but when you are on the receiving end of these injustices, a shrug just isn’t as cathartic as ripping into an artist who represents the injustices that are holding you back.

It is normal for the public to be more impressed by something that surprises them than something that’s been done before, like for example an angry, black woman ranting about racism versus a skinny white Australian chick who has a decent flow and a bubble butt she knows what to do with. It has a lot to do with marketability and selling an image. We always want something different, something new or fresh, because music moves at the pace of light and audiences get bored quickly. The angry black chick routine has been done, white girls who twerk are the new talk.

In an interview with US radio station Hot 97, where the current battle began, Banks points out that “Iggy Azalea isn’t excellent”. From the few tracks I’ve heard, Iggy’s flow is okay albeit unoriginal, lyrically she is average and her content is pretty reminiscent of every other mainstream artist: sex, money and swag. To me she is a good pop act who raps, she isn’t an excellent hip hop artist. Banks also pointed out that Macklemore’s Grammy award winning album wasn’t better than Drake’s and Macklemore himself believes that Kendrick’s album was better than his. Her point is that quality black artists are routinely overlooked because their white counterparts are easier to sell. Referring to Iggy’s Grammy nomination she says “all that says to white kids is you’re great, you can do whatever you put your mind to” whilst reminding black kids “you don’t have sh*t, you don’t own sh*t, not even the sh*t you created for yourselves.” She has a point.

In hip hop terms the race line ends more or less there, I feel exactly the same way about Iggy Azalea’s ‘Fancy’ as I did about ASAP Rocky’s ‘F***in Problem’ and Wiz Khalifa’s ‘Black and Yellow’. Those songs represent for me the loss of the era during which I fell in love with hip hop, and the numb acceptance that I had to get over it if I were to enjoy a good night out. Being that I was only 16 when Nas’ ‘Hip Hop Is Dead’ album came out, I was too young to believe the best of it was over but too old to pretend the previous five or so years hadn’t already formed my relationship with and my expectations of hip hop. So I quietly retreated into my classics and watched lyricism and quality of content slip down the list of ‘important qualities successful rappers should possess’.

Since this recent drama was unleashed there seems to be a tirade of Iggy haters jumping on the bandwagon desperate to get a cheap shot in. Now Iggy knows better than anyone that haters are gonna hate and being a female in the rap game she also knows sexism better than most. This may explain why she feels her having a vagina is responsible for the negativity because as she points out, Macklemore doesn’t get treated like this. But neither does Macklemore avoid the issue of how his skin colour affects his success and how white privilege affects his country, and besides, Macklemore has definitely received a decent amount of criticism. Is it possible that Iggy, being a female in a male-dominated environment and constantly a victim of sexism because of it, much like a black person in a white dominated environment often held back by the colour of their skin, could be being a little over sensitive on the gender front? Maybe her and Banks have more in common than just a name after all.

The fact is Iggy’s continued refusal to talk about why Banks was really crying on the radio that day (because of the ongoing injustices faced by black people in the US, not because Iggy got to be a pop star and she didn’t) makes her look either ignorant, in denial or just racist. But I’m starting to wonder whether it even matters anymore. Where was all this vehement passion and outrage when Tyga redefined repetition with a track that used the word “rack” in it 30 times? Or when YG repeated “my nigga” so many times that white kids had to start singing along because you can’t just bounce to a track in a club silently for 3 straight minutes. Or when Bow Wow and Soulja Boy had a beef through the mediums of youtube and twitter not once attempting to put pen to paper and lyrically attack their opponents as you would expect two so-called rappers to do. Why are we so determined to keep hip hop in the hands of black people if this is all we intend to do with it?

Iggy Azalea is not the problem. The problem is that hip hop is a commodity and it was sold to the highest bidder somewhere between P Diddy deciding that he could be a rapper and selling millions of records to prove it and 50 cent giving up on making good music after his first album, because flavoured water made him a multi-millionaire. Anything that sells gets made and gets distributed, heavily, from white Australian females with a southern drawl to ignorant black men with no talent or story to tell but a willingness to be any and every stereotype a white audience will pay him to be.

The good news is: it is possible for us to take hip hop back. And by us I don’t mean black people, I mean anyone who really cares about the art and feels more than the vibrations of the beat when they listen to hip hop that relates to their truth. J Cole broke records last year in the first week of his album release because people love him for his lyrical content and dedicated fans actually pay for music sometimes. If J Cole fans were given more Kendricks and more Nas’ we would buy that too! This is the message that we need to be sending to the next generation of artists who are now choosing their styles, deciding what their content is going to focus on and figuring out how they can make a career out of their passion, not if you’re a female stay running between the gym and the surgeon’s office and if you’re a man make sure you have someone around who can verify your gangsta. There is so much innovation and diversity within hip hop, Azealia Banks is just one example of that, and if that’s not your flavour buy Dave East’s ‘Black Rose’, go and see Chance the Rapper live, support the artists you want to see succeed. If you can’t do that for hip hop, do me a favour and sit down and applaud when Iggy wins that Grammy.