https://soundcloud.com/jra360/ace-hood-i-know-how-it-feel-ft-ty-dolla-ign-new-song

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Its been a week since Kendrick Lamar debuted his new single,“i.” Presumably, the single is from his new album or just a set up of what the world can expect after good kid m.A.A.d city. Hitting the web at 4:50 a.m. on the first day of Fall, debates began and reviews poured out.Most of the discussion though, seemed to be more-so around the production rather than the actual message.The production was unexpected and quite different. It caught everyone off guard, leaving a round of mixed emotions. But isn’t it the goal of an artist to push boundaries, broaden their horizon and accept new challenges?

Kendrick Lamar explained in a recent interview with Power 106 that the message behind” i” was about self love. “i” stays on the course of a consistent theme of topics that he’s no stranger to:  love, hope and encouragement, all themes he explored in his past and that are woven throughout good kid m.A.A.d city. His singles “HiiiPower,” “The Heart Pt.1,” “The Heart Pt. 2” and “The Heart Pt. 3” serve as examples of his persistent spirit to spread his message of self expression and progression. 

But, is the world open to listening to the message? As an artist and teacher interested in progressing society and the culture, which he was called to do, Kendrick’s new song “i,” requires an open ear and an open mind.  The challenge is now on the listeners to be open to accepting to the message given and the instrumentation that accompanies it. Kendrick has accepted the challenge, but will you?

What are your thoughts? Share your comments with us below.

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2013 was a high for hip-hop. Almost every major artist released an album; the masters (Jay Z, Eminem, Kanye West, Lil Wayne), the leaders of the new school (Drake, J.Cole, Big Sean, Mac Miller, Wale, A$AP Rocky) and the rising stars (Action Bronson, Danny Brown, Chance The Rapper, A$AP Ferg, French Montana) all showed out, and many of them impressed.  With the abundance of music came the quick reviews that were short in content and vague in description, not to mention their questionable ratings. A frustrated J. Cole, who’d just released Born Sinner, notably tweeted, “Your 1 listen reviews are f*cking up hip hop.” Granted, there was a lot of material to sift through, and reactions naturally happen quickly, but Cole had a valid point. Even with core fans standing in long lines and waiting until midnight to purchase an album online, a quick review and a single tweet can change the opinions of thousands within minutes. Specifically speaking on Born Sinner, it was nearly impossible to absorb each layer of the album’s content in one listen. It would have taken multiple listens just to grasp the core of the project. Having been released a little over a year ago, we now have had the time to get a better sense of the album’s full scope, including taking more notice to tracks that were overlooked.

Born Sinner takes an invasive look at the unknown side of recognition and fame in the music industry, taking special note of Cole’s access to materialistic pleasures. The album is dark, but not overly depressing or exhausting. It’s relatable, yet complex–a direct reflection of Cole’s soul, which lends reality to the different perspectives on pressure. Cole often uses themes of duality, hence the halo and horns found in his logos and cover art of the album. Born Sinner features duality play on topics such as money, power, relationships and fame. Album-opening “Villuminati” sets the tone of the album, with Cole stating, “It’s way darker this time.” Metaphorically, he’s fighting his way through a new class of hell as he swears to never sell out to mainstream again with singles like “Work Out” (the song that “let down” Queens’ finest).

Please forgive him

According to the preacher man he needs Jesus in him
But the Devil run the T.V. so the demons in him
I’m in trouble
Did a deal with the Devil, now I’m pleading with him
Like give me my soul”

Re-adjustin’ my target audience
Cause it’s obvious
I’ve gone astray

Two of the album’s most overlooked cuts are the “Kerney Sermon” skit and “LAnd of The Snakes.” Both are strategically placed as they allude to the false words and images of the rap industry. “Kerney Sermon” places emphasis on a hustler’s mentality to defraud the masses, while “LAnd of The Snakes” finds Cole being warned of people with ill intentions, eventually reflecting on a time where he was in the role of the snake.

Of course “Power Trip,” featuring Miguel, was the album’s brightest star on the radio, but this is where Cole learns to play the game to win. The song’s double meaning of love for a girl and love hip-hop was sure to move swiftly over some heads, but its radio-friendly production and catchy chorus was a platinum win for Cole.

Perhaps the hardest cut and least talked about was “Mo Money.” Coming in at just over 1 minute, Cole spells out angles from which money is the “root of all evil,” illustrating the control it has on society. The greatest hidden gem, though, is “Runaway.” Cole finds himself asking reflective questions about being selfish or selfless in a long-term relationship while dealing with money and attention. The duality comes in with verse three, as he connects slavery in the past to everyone being enslaved in the current day.

Continuing that theme, Cole describes being enslaved by materialistic wealth, specifically a chain in “Chaining Day.” Borrowing from the Denzel Washington movie “Training Day,” he dives into the part of himself seeking constant approval and what’s unearthed is less than desirable: “This chain that I bought, you mix greed, pain and fame, this is heinous result.” While “Crooked Smile” featuring TLC took the album to a lighter and happier note, the disc finds its way back to a low point on the most talked about track, “Let Nas Down.” Here, Cole self-pityingly laments his aforementioned industry sin (“Work Out”).

The last and final track, (excluding the deluxe version,) is “Born Sinner”–in essence, it is the acknowledgment and acceptance of J. Cole as an artist. Born Sinner is an album for the day 1 fans, and for those willing to invest time and intellect into Cole. He held on to his artistic integrity and core beliefs while furthering his purpose for being in the rap game. Looking back, this album has settled fairly well. It displays his artistic growth on a lyrical and musical level. Some of the strongest songs might’ve been overlooked in reviews, but the fans always know. Just as he found the light of his own artistry amidst the industry’s dark, his project has found light from adoring and attentive fans in spite of the shadow cast by reactionary reviews. On Born Sinner, Cole found an opportunity to write his way out of tension and pressure in order to create a fantastic body of work.

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On his latest single, “Nobody’s Perfect,” J. Cole raps to an undergraduate biddie, “Take the weekend off and come home soon; I graduated way too long ago to be sneakin all in your dorm room…But baby where your roommates? Did you make sure the door’s locked?” Against the backdrop of abrasive dance beats and constant chatter surrounding hoes and money—or hoes looking like a bag of money—any Billboard Hot 100 single that offers something remotely different feels refreshing and worthy of some admiration. J. Cole’s ease spitting collegiate culture, writing on tropes that appeal to neither the rage of America’s most deprived nor the excesses of America’s most privileged, alludes to something American hip-hop music and its critics have often overlooked: the bourgeois rapper’s voice.

Attending college—the proverbial entrée into the middle-class—has never really been foreign to American hip-hop music. From Public Enemy’s Chuck D & Flavor Flav, who met while at Adelphi University, to Talib Kweli, who studied experimental theatre at New York University, to David Banner, who acted as the student government president at Southern University, countless rappers have sent Frisbees across the quad. But Public Enemy’s raps were more or less focused on mobilizing the downtrodden residents of America’s slums. Talib Kweli’s sorts of intellectual hip-hop certainly give a nod to the Black bourgie sensibility, but don’t really speak to the Black middle-class experience itself. As for David Banner, his half-naked, “work them hips” ladies can speak for themselves. The main point being that although rappers have come from that diploma-totting class, it wasn’t too audible in their raps.

Of course, Kanye West’s scholastic trilogy—College Dropout, Late Registration, Graduation—was probably the most obvious display of collegiate culture in the history of American hip-hop music. And it deserves recognition for boldly confronting the complex economic, social and cultural issues facing Black, university-aspiring youth, while warping the empty promises (read: employment) of a college education. But as much as the album titles may suggest a neat narrative, honestly the trilogy was only sprinkled with these moments, in songs here and there, mostly in skits. West largely mocked the University institution, as well as the Black adolescents who, as he seems to suggest, make a misguided choice to participate in it. College, for all intents and purposes, was the butt of West’s joke.

But in “Nobody’s Perfect,” J. Cole, who graduated magna cum laude from St. John’s University, willfully demonstrates his easy navigation of the coed life—the playful avoidance of dorm security, the open-door policy of on-campus undergrads—without any further comment. Nurtured by the college experience, J. Cole’s verse articulates it in earnest. Drake less directly displays his exceedingly middle-class upbringing on “Crew Love.” Rejecting the college route, he blithely raps, “I guess we’ll never know what Harvard gets us. But seeing my family have it all took the place of that desire for diplomas on the wall.” Drake basically trades his middle-class upbringing for the rises-from-the-ashes-of-the-ghetto story all too familiar to American hip-hop music, ironically putting a spotlight on his supremely bourgeois experience.

It is enticing to conclude that we are witnessing a more honest hip-hop milieu, one in which rappers need not bottle up their identities in order to fit the industry’s mold. But such censure would not be so fair to those who, like Chuck D, may not have bottled up anything at all, artists who chose simply to rap from more of a soapbox than a diary. Instead, the quad’s renewed presence in hip-hop verse may indicate a shift towards a more confessional hip-hop, one in which the artist him or herself becomes more visible. As dorms across the country are once-again trampled by hoards of the young, the horny, and the cerebral—all hopeful contenders for that coveted membership in the bourgeoisie—the day-to-day realities of American college life, and middle-class life at large, are finding a somewhat unexpected home in the rhymes of American hip-hop music. Who knows, we may even soon hear the woes of the young, the graduated, and the debt-ridden unemployed.

Benjamin Ratskoff is a contributing writer for respect-mag.com

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Where are we in hip-hop? Hip-hop fanatics who seek “depth” in rap music obsess over this tired ole question. Take Santigold and Lupe Fiasco, for instance. They not only create music to make listeners move, but also to move listeners. In other words, they mean to rouse both your root and crown chakras. When it comes to à la mode Lex Luger trap-rap, there are only a few artists who decide to tackle the beast from within. Lupe Fiasco’s newest video stresses that we should stop making excuses for and start making adjustments to pop rap’s gangsta mentality.

Lupe’s music has always been critical of the genre in which it lives. His calling card is self-reflective meta-rap; after all, “Conflict Diamonds,” his sociopolitical response to Kanye’s “Diamonds from Sierra Leone,” paved the way for his entry onto mainstream radio. Despite fans who claim that post-Lasers Lupe is crying for lost credibility, his “conscious” breed of hip-hop is what keeps them coming back. Regardless, he means to make a point.

In the clip for “Around My Way,” the hip-hop industry (as seen through Lupe’s eyes) is filled with cartoon caricatures, rented wealth, and a missing soul that sunglasses can only temporarily shield. Hip-hop is a self-regulating mechanism that is still forced to bat away outdated stigmas and qualms, and Lupe is ever eager to take on the responsibility. His message is blunt, frank, and obvious – but then again, it’s up against equally overt counterparts (see Big Sean’s “A$$,” 50 Cent’s “I Ain’t Gonna Lie”). This straightforward approach is Lupe’s version of going H.A.M., avoiding ambiguity in favor of crystal clarity.

Santigold aims at a larger target than hip-hop, offering a subtler take on race and class in America. The video for “The Keepers” is an eerie watch. It calls for a vigilant eye to catch all the symbolism — perhaps even a class in semiotics — to fully understand its point. In it, a perfect white blonde family recuperates too quickly from a drive-by shooting that had just interrupted their meal. Wu-Tang’s GZA plays an accomplice to the crime which injures no one but the milkman, and even then, a child is quick to whip out his cell phone and document his agony.

The family’s matriarch is proud of her body, which sports the full lips and robust backside of a stereotypical black woman. On the other hand, Santigold, who is black, rocks a blonde wig in hopes of being part of the “standard” American family. The mother is keen to check her bust after the drive-by occurs; clearly, her looks are her highest priority. Santigold depicts America as a mismatched, race-confused country whose problems are masked by petty but powerful perceptions of American beauty.

Grandma is glued to the television, pilled out and sedated, while the family dances around as if nothing is happening. Perhaps that’s the point: when it comes to pop culture, we can’t allow ourselves to turn the other cheek. “Around My Way” and “The Keepers” both call attention to the issue at hand under the guise of entertainment, so that our subsequent discussions might lead to action. And that is commendable. Lupe provides criticism from within the hip-hop sphere, while Santigold brings to life the theory that America couldn’t see the problem if it was under its nose. Our house is burning down. Now let’s act like it.

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South by Southwest came and went. There was music, technology, fashion and enough press to cover ten presidential elections with ten candidates each. In the midst of all the action, one man stood out. One strikingly white man with hair a little too long, dressed in a patterned shirt just a little too bright, speaking a bit too loud for comfort and, of course, wearing his signature tartan pom-pom hat. The interviews trickled out following the festival and we just couldn’t get enough.

Nardwuar is upon us.

If you don’t know his shtick yet (and you really should at this point) Nardwuar, born John Ruskin, comes to his interviews bearing gifts. He digs deep into the unexamined trenches of hip-hop knowledge and learns every possible fact about his interviewee, from early influences to favorite foods. He then, it seems, magically finds the relevant items, whether it be rare vinyl albums or bacon soap, and presents them to his interviewee.

There’s no doubt we all appreciate a happy Santa figure only trying to spread the love by bearing gifts, but there is more to Nardwuar than his gift-giving and incredible research ability that makes him so interesting. More than his pleasant awkwardness that makes us obsessively watch his interviews: He’s open, friendly and interested. Nardwuar is who he is and unabashedly so. Most importantly, Nardwuar knows how to make connections. An interview with Nardwuar is intensely personal and incredibly endearing.

It’s important to note that Nardwuar became YouTube famous (and essentially “blew up”) when he started talking to rappers. The stark contrasts between interviewer and interviewee could not stand out more, and we just can’t look away. This dichotomy pushed Nardwuar above other interviewers. He doesn’t look like he should fit in, but he does and to great success. You see the shock on intimidating rappers faces as Nardwuar begins talking. He not only knows unbelievable details, but he has gifts to prove it. He appears to be a complete stranger to American hip-hop culture, but after watching interview after interview it almost seems that no one fits in more. He removes, or really ignores, the scary from “scary black rappers” and shows how we can all connect on a personal level.

His clear love of getting to know the artists he speaks with allows us to relate (we wish we could chat with those guys too) and look past their visual and aural differences. It’s not about what others see, it’s about what you yourself do and say. If this incredibly awkward Vancouver native can get a long with Tyler the Creator, Ghostface Killah and Danny Brown, can’t we all?

With the craziness surrounding Trayvon Martin and his now infamous hoodie, let’s stop the contagious hate-think for a moment and acknowledge that arguably the nerdiest of all nerds seems incredibly comfortable with hip-hops elite and they love him back. Just look at is barrage of interviews post-SXSW and the comfort between interviewer and interviewee. A guy who is unabashedly honest and himself is steadily becoming the most relevant, or at least interesting, hip-hop journalist personality of our time.

His interviews may annoy you or leave you hysterically laughing. Some artists hate it, some people are extremely impressed; Just look at Jay-Z, puffing on his cigar as he and Nardwuar talk about significant influences and Nardwuar hands off relics of the past. It’s an image that sticks in your mind— so unusual, but the two men get along surprisingly well.

His gimmicks are what polarize the viewers. Some love every minute of the gift giving (Pharrell is literally in awe), aching with anticipation every time he reaches out his hand to grab something new and other just don’t see the point. Take Nas, for example, who interrupted Nardwuar to say, “you are a fuckin’ weirdo.” Yes he’s a weirdo, but a weirdo with unmatched journalism skills and a unique personality to truly attract viewers. Forget pundits like Rush Limbaugh and the like whose gimmick is to scream and act angry. Nardwuar’s nerdy self, signature song and incredible journalism go hand-in-hand making him stand out in a world that needs more friendly faces.

Journalism isn’t stable, Iggy Azaelia is a reputable rapper and hip-hop artists dripping with gold are open and happy to receive gifts and an interview from a man who calls himself a human napkin (in off-putting Canadian lingo nonetheless). Think pom-pom hat instead of hoodie. Remember the positive things that bring us together, not the unimportant thoughts that push people apart.

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