Hip-Hop Dynasties: Why Docuseries are Critical Storytelling

by Sade Hawthorne

Imagine a world where you had the choice to watch a marathon of compelling historical narrations of what was once the biggest musical acts in the world. In the late 90’s/early 2000s, you could find entertaining yet critical shows that displayed extensive musical archives. Take, for instance, VH1's hit show, Behind the Music. Airing from 1997 to 2014, the TV series allowed fans to take a deep dive into the careers of our favorite artists, across all genres. Many of the stories featured on the show were spoken of for the first time. Case in point, the Mad Hatter of Rap, Busta Rhymes. During his episode he disclosed his personal truths, like battling his way to mainstream recognition while dealing with the tragic loss of his son, among other setbacks. How else would we find intimate details about the likes of Busta Rhymes and TLC from their own point of view back then? When we think about Hip-Hop’s golden era, we usually pinpoint the mid-1980s into the 1990s. Hip-Hop docuseries are critical storytelling not only for the continued progression of the genre, but also for the community, especially as we look to an unpredictable future. 

Looking into a well-known episode, VH1 aired a telling of the iconic trio from those that knew them best for the world to see. On April 18, 1998, insights shared from Lisa 'Left Eye' Lopes, Rozonda 'Chilli' Thomas and, Tionne 'T-Boz' Watkins allowed those to connect with the artists on a deeper level in just 60 minutes. Not to mention the unforgettable moment where Left Eye opens up about the group's financial woes, "how can a group sell 10 million records and be broke?"

Alongside Behind the Music came The Greatest, another juggernaut curated by VH1 where each episode featured a countdown of songs, albums, moments, or musicians. A mini-documentary in its own right, each countdown was coupled with commentary from entertainment industry figures telling a quick story or a fascinating fact. A prime example would be the 40 Greatest Hip-Hop Songs of the 90s episode, which premiered in December 2012. This episode introduced a fair amount of new music to their audience from the likes of Big Pun and Arrested Development, especially for those that did not have the privilege to enjoy the music at its peak. Personally hearing "Who you trying to get crazy with ése/Don't you know I'm loco?" for the first time on this program was the reason why I went online and downloaded dozens of songs (with potential viruses attached). Outside of familial influences, shows like these were the catalyst for further research in Hip-Hop going as far back as the 1970s.

Fast forward almost a decade, and these documentaries and television series have diminished. Thus, imagine my excitement when I saw BET's promotional ad for a new docuseries highlighting No Limit Records. As someone who grew up in the South and watched BET religiously, hearing "Make 'Em Say Ugh" and "Ruff Ryders' Anthem" brings back a sense of home. From the moment I heard the news, I was hooked. Listening to Percy Miller, aka Master P, talk about his journey during the 5-part docuseries was nothing short of inspirational. Being a fan of Hip-Hop is one thing, but being able to receive valuable life lessons from these impressive feats only makes the music sound that much better.

Talking to Billboard, Master P expressed that he "wants to continue to inspire and educate my fans and introduce my journey to a new generation," and he did exactly that. The opportunity to get a more in-depth look from artists such as Silkk The Shocker, Mia X, and Mystikal provided a holistic approach to the 90s dynasty that was No Limit. We always see the glitz and the glam that comes from hard work and dedication, but through these docuseries we’re reminded that artists are regular people like you and I. Whether young or old, there’s a message for anyone wanting to listen. 

Immediately after came the stirring Ruff Ryder chronicles. Unless you live under a rock, you know of DMX. Still, through the installment, we're able to view how the music empire and all of its encompassing artists came to be. With interviews featuring label founders Joaquin "Waah" Dean, Darin "Dee" Dean, and Chivon Dean, the series peeled back the layers back with each defining episode enabling viewers to glimpse what it truly looks like to deal with the ugly side of entertainment. The first lady of Ruff Ryders, Eve, spoke on how she had to grapple with dealing with fame and the burgeoning pressure that eventually led to her leaving the tour early to get her mind right. Then there was DMX, the one to never shy away from difficult conversations, disclosing his continuing fight with mental illness. Regardless of their struggles, Ruff Ryders went on to create unforgettable history.

The recurring theme of both of these docuseries was family, and when you really think about it, Hip-Hop at its nucleus is a community that has influenced the lives of many just as a family would. Hip-Hop has as many as six elements according to scholars, the fifth being “knowledge”. So eloquently put, the Kennedy Center elaborated on the fifth element further:

“Hip-Hop’s fifth element of “knowledge” teaches the Hip-Hop community about its identity and ways to express that identity. It places great importance on claiming a stake in one’s own education. “Knowing where YOU come from helps to show YOU where YOU are going,” writes legendary MC KRS-One. “Once you know where you come from you then know what to learn.”

To the artist breaking through the industry or the inquiring kid who wants to learn more about Hip-Hop, these docuseries are needed more than ever. A discussion can and have been made between the quantity and quality of Hip-Hop as of late. There’s a place for it all, but there seems to be a disconnect between what was and what is. To truly advance, how can we continue to break barriers without a sense of direction? If we allow the past to be forgotten, then we are in serious trouble. However, there seems to be brighter days on the horizon. Looking at recent events, we can still see the influence of Hip-Hop's Golden Era making a comeback in all facets in today's music (see 21 Savage's Savage Mode II album cover.) Here's to honoring Hip-Hop history and the progression of the genre one documentary at a time.

How 90’s Black Teen Shows & Hip-Hop Ruled

by Crystal Bridges

Growing up as a young preacher’s kid in the late 90’s and early 2000’s, I had no idea that any music for Black people existed beyond the gospel and oldies R&B my parents raised me on. One of my earliest encounters with Hip-Hop culture came when I watched the Sister, Sister episode of Mya and Blackstreet performing “Take Me There.” While the song technically falls into the R&B category, it’s charged with the same uptempo, beat-knocking rhythm that captivated me and so many other Hip-Hop heads at the time. When Netflix became the streaming home of classic Black teen shows like Moesha and Sister, Sister this past September, it reminded me of a time when Black teen shows were deeply intertwined with Hip-Hop. Watching cool, stylish and relatable Black characters embrace a culture specifically for us provided some semblance of self love and pride in my Blackness as a kid. The Hip-Hop theme songs, show scores, musical guest stars and performances and often the storylines themselves set the stage for the consumption of Hip-Hop music with millennials and the world. It was these Black teen shows of the 90’s that celebrated and embraced the culture in a fresh way that has yet to be duplicated.

Many Black teen show theme songs of the 90’s followed the classic Hip-Hop song formula: rapping and drums, a sampled song or baseline, a synthesizer. etc. Kenan and Kel’s intro performed by Coolio is the first to come to mind, with the rapper spitting rhymes about the pair’s schemes while reminding kids to tell their “homeboys and homegirls” to watch the show over a synthesized beat. Although All That didn’t have an all Black cast, the show’s diverse cast and content made TLC’s theme song a perfect fit. The R&B/Hip-Hop group’s use of the catchy phrase “all of that” became an indispensable part of the show’s identity, and a quick shout “oh oh oh” in a room full of people will surely be followed by the harmonization of “this is all that.” And I would be remiss to not mention The Fresh Prince of Bel Air theme song, the timeless “story all about how” rapper Will Smith’s eponymous character of the same name’s life changed, just as it did off of the small screen by charting the course for rappers in television sitcoms.

The theme songs weren’t the only pillar of Hip-Hop celebration on television. Moesha and Sister, Sister were both vocal about their characters’ love for Hip-Hop culture, made evident by the guest appearances from musicians-either as themselves or written in as a part of the cast. Appearances by artists like Lil Kim, Master P, Kid of Kid N Play, Bow Wow, Mc Lyte, and more, affirmed Hip-Hop as both a cultural powerhouse and pop culture period. And while many musical acts did indeed perform, they were also often characters with plot points that added to the drama and hilarity that ensued during the show.

After the 90’s the 2000’s saw a decline in Black television shows, as a result of the 2007 writer’s strike, the WB and UPN merger that led to the cancellation of many of our Black primetime favorites, and a general deprioritization of Black-centric sitcom content overall. it seemed that networks looked at Black teen shows and the Hip-Hop culture pulsating through them as a passing fad instead of the rich, resilient and ever-evolving culture they represented. With the inception of the CW network, television programming on the CW and Fox leaned back into shows that catered to mainstream, white audiences. In 2018, Sesali Bowen interviewed Kenan & Kel and Sister, Sister producer and writer Kim Bass, who said:

“Black teens are just like all other teens except how and where they are not. And how and where they are not, oftentimes, has to do more with perception, pride, and placement than any particular penchant for any particular programming.”

According to Bowen, companies are less concerned with delivering Black shows because “they aren't revolutionary or progressive to a generation of young people who have grown up watching these programs in syndication.” She says that Black teen stories being everyone's stories is no longer a new concept, affirming the aforementioned statement that Hip-Hop culture and more broadly Black culture are popular culture. As a result, while more calls can and will be made for more diverse representation in television, “diversity” is no longer predicated on casting when every character, no matter who they are, is given the space to occupy and perform our culture.

One could describe the introduction of shows like Insecure and Atlanta to our screens as a renaissance for Black people on television, and the same could be said of shows aimed at younger audiences such as Grownish and All American, whose incorporation of artists directly from the Hip-Hop culture like Diggy Simmons and Coop’s character rapping alongside a Hip-Hop score, respectively, incorporate the culture into the shows in a way that is somewhat reminiscent of televisions shows of the past. However most examples are far and few between, and the cancellation of The Get Down represents yet. another loss of the representation of Hip-Hop culture through Black characters. Lauren Cramer notes in “A Hip-Hop Joint” that:

Blackness and Hip-Hop exist in a recursive loop: Blackness generates the spatial organization of Hip-Hop and Hip-Hop is so racially charged that it produces blackness. As a result, Hip-Hop images can serve as the site for unexpected encounters with Blackness—specifically, visualizing Blackness in spaces that are not occupied by actual Black bodies. 

Therefore, the same Hip-Hop theme songs, show scores, musical guest stars and performances and storylines that once seemed to belong exclusively to Black people can. now present across all races and ethnicities. A quick scroll through your favorite streaming services or television channels will show you non-Black characters rapping and performing parts of Hip-Hop culture. Thus, we might never get a time as golden as the 90’s again. Thankfully, streaming services and video archives allow us to look to those shows and reminisce. And I personally hope that a writer, directors and producer will be inspired to use those Black teen shows to tell more stories that show the evolution of Hip-Hop and its ever present role in Black teen life.

Social Change, as Told Through Mics and Presented on Television

by Elle McKenzie

Since the advent of television, the key issue associated with the medium has been representation. In a #RepresentationMatters study, as reported this past September by USA Today, 86% of Black Americans still yearn to see our culture told on both the silver and small screens. Let us rewind to the 1950s — the “Golden Age of Television” as they call it — when Black people were portrayed with large, red lips, wide noses, overly-exaggerated coarse hair, and more often than not, confined to subservient positions. This deliberate degradation at the hands of white folks forced our Black ancestors to struggle with telling our own stories, beliefs, opinions and identities. But make no mistake, though a ploy to cement the unwritten laws of the Jim Crow era, television also proved to be a strategic tactic for Black people to reclaim the power that we innately possess. The timely birth of Hip-Hop, conceived stylistically through the poetic-sultry sounds of bebop jazz and rhythm & blues, presented the visual awakening for artists to convey our stories in a positive (and televised) light.

The political radicals saw overwhelming whiteness in institutions of power and fought for multiculturalism and diversity. I mean, damn, the 2016-17 tv season was oversaturated with white showrunners — and a great majority of these gatekeepers were white, cis men. I think we can speculate what the percentage was at the onslaught televisions began to enter the American home. Similarly, the cultural radicals saw an ocean of negative images and tried to reverse the tide with their own visions. When Dr. Martin Luther King led thousands of protestors to the steps of the capitol in Montgomery, Alabama, they knew they would be met with force. And television would capture it all, instilling the notion of an antiquated, injustice time that can no longer be restrained. It’s not far off to imagine the generation of Chuck D and Public Enemy emphatically portraying their rightful, passed-down frustration in the visuals of “Fight The Power.” For the Hip-Hop generation, popular culture became the new frontline of our struggle.

In the 1970s, we began to see The Jeffersons, Good Times, and Soul Train grace Zenith’s televisions (imagine, first wireless remote controls!). Outside of “dy-no-mite” humor and Soul Train lines, we, as a Black culture, were also introduced to the essential, spiritually elevating teachings of Tony Brown’s Black Journal and Petey Greene’s trailblazing, ingenuity for the future of Hip-Hop in Petey’s Greene Washington. Positive illumination was jolting! And from these programs, each episode absorbed, ignited Black people’s will to shed the layers of false, oppressive  societal norms ingrained in our psyche. The Black experience was undergoing a new renaissance, and this time, was televised for the world to consume.

While the victories of the civil rights and Black Power movements had expanded the consciousness of Black people, we had not yet entered the proverbial promised land. Historical representations of Black people in the media, specifically in prime-time television, as poignantly expressed by author and social activist bell hooks, still imposed “stereotypical depictions that reinforce negative perceptions of Black men and women and too often serve as justification for racist behaviors, attitudes, and social practices.” It is important to gauge accurately the level and nature of prejudice and stereotyping of Black people in contemporary society if one is to intervene effectively in these areas. The overall objective, curated by Black artists, was to offer and influence actual self-perceptions among Black people. Black people for self-preservation, Black people for self-expression, Black people for self-affirmation are all, ultimately, the leading battle cries that hone the vanguard for the generating Hip-Hop movement we witness and indulge today.

During the Ronald Regan era, when crack cocaine was irreverently pushed into our communities, MTV burst onto the scene by championing rock and new wave — all by excluding Black artists. Only after Columbia Records reportedly threatened to boycott the young network, in 1983, did MTV begin airing Michael Jackson music videos. Winning and achieving the objective to influence our self-perceptions meant desegregating radio and television. The seismic 1986 arrival of Run DMC kicking down the industry’s doors in unlaced, low top Adidas and bucket hats to their own rendition of “Walk This Way” could not have been more metaphorical. A true cultural reset, to be honest.

While the new political radicals were out in the streets and on the campuses fighting apartheid and racism, Public Enemy and Boogie Down Productions (BDP) provided the soundtrack and repped the new cultural radical forefront. In preparation to emerge from the darkness, Hip-Hop pioneers alike demanded to be heard (and seen) as the expression of a new generation’s definition of Blackness. “Coming to you live!” was more than an introduction we regularly heard from Fab 5 Freddy on Yo! MTV Raps. Rather, transported through the air waves, the visuals of Hip-Hop — bleeding-edge music conceiving the discussion of social implication — offered a much more radical, much more successful voluntary desegregation plan to turn our culture into a weapon of resistance. Through the machines of television, Hip-Hop was our guerilla strike to not only take our message to the media, but also, take over the media with our message.

The rallying “FTP” chant of today’s protests, once eloquently spit through the words of five Niggaz Wit Attitude, resounds the fervor to publicize our political and social message to secure our civil rights and liberation embedded in the Constitution. It’d be wise for white folks to abandon their incessant need to appropriate our culture and revisit the socially-conscious report of Grandmaster Flash before we reach our brink and finally do go over the edge.

Representation in the media is a result of experiential contexts that help people to understand racial identity. These direct experiences, that we live through everyday, demonstrate that racial identity is (and always will) be influential to self. Black people, let us forever remind ourselves that racial socialization involves a transfer of messages about how to adapt to living in a racist society without internalizing how others perceive you. It lays the foundation for the development of identity frames. Personally, when I absorb the visuals of Queen Latifah injecting social change practices of unity or Kendrick Lamar calming my anxiety that we’re gonna be alright, I find myself in tune with the reciprocal deliverance of self- and communal love our political ancestors fought so hard to achieve. By suspending our disbelief and seeing our stories told through the artistry of Black individuals rather than through the lies of preconceived stereotypes, we can continue this change on an unapologetically Black, collective level.

Making "The Cut" On MTV's Hip-Hop Competition Show

by Charne Graham

The act of cozying up on the couch to watch aspiring superstars perform from the comfort of your home has persisted for nearly 72 years. The Original Amateur Hour, one of the first audition-based music competitions, aired on television in 1948. Hosted by Ted Mack, the televised version of what was originally a radio show featured legendary acts like Pat Boone and a young Gladys Knight, the only Black person on the show at the time. At just 7 years old she charted the course for Black women and Black people as a whole to participate in music competitions on television, a space that would showcase Black talent and shape music television for years to come.

Musical competition shows have dominated television for years. BET’s 106th and Park hosted a segment titled Freestyle Fridays that premiered in 2000, a segment that allowed aspiring, up and coming rappers to battle in front of the audience and three judges. Prior to the NY-based countdown show was another legendary program that happened further uptown, Showtime at the Apollo. Apollo, which aired late Saturday nights from 1987 to 2008, allowed artists to perform for the theater’s crowd, in the hopes that they would receive praise instead of “boos” and being dragged off of the stage by The Sandman.

The timeline of the emergence of Hip-Hop as popular culture and shows that placed the culture at the forefront coincided. But while CBS’s Star Search-the renowned program that featured contestants like Aaliyah and Destiny’s Child-existed as the premiere music competition show, there was not much of a focus on the genre emerging that was shaping the culture at  large. In fact, music competition television went years without a show dedicated to finding the next big superstar artist in Hip-Hop. So while the shows existed as a site for potential stardom, a space to build a relationship with viewers, and the opportunity to find professional guidance and feedback from industry professionals as judges, Hip-Hop was virtually missing from the music competition lineup during primetime.

On September 28th, 1998, the first episode of The Cut premiered on MTV. Airing right after the network’s illustrious music video show, Total Request Live, The Cut set a precedent for music competition shows to come. Hosted by the late rapper of the multi-platinum selling group TLC, Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes brought with her a charisma and quirky supernova style that gave The Cut a unique edge. Not only did she style herself in some of the most innovative fashion, makeup and hairstyles each episode, but she also brought with her a level of honestly and support that could only come from an artist themselves-and a Black woman more specifically. 

The 30-min show consisted of 4 musical acts, with more than half of the featured musicians coming from Hip-Hop or a sub-genre inspired by it. The performances varied from solo to group acts, after which a panel of 3 alternating judges record industry executive professionals and one entertainer-would give scores based on what they would. “hear and see.” The scores were given on a scale of 1-10 and would decide the winner. The person with the highest score at the end of each episode would also advance to the finals. The overall winner of The Cut would receive an undisclosed record deal along with a $5000 sponsored wardrobe and a music video funded by MTV that would be put into Heavy Rotation.

The Cut introduced the world to a few contestants who later continued to pursue a career in music. R&B singer and songwriter Ne-Yo who then went by his first name Shaff performed in a group called Envy. The third-place winner of The Cut finals singer and dancer Anastacia later got a record deal after the show aired. The grand prize winner of the show was a Bay area Black female rapper and singer by the name of Silk-E, who performed alongside her hype man G-Nut. She impressed the judges so much that the celebrity judge KRS-1 offered her a record deal on the show if she didn’t win. She released her debut album Urban Therapy in 1999.

The Cut made history with MTV being one of the first reality music competition shows airing primetime, with a Black woman host and Hip-Hop at the forefront. Audiences got to see another side of Left Eye outside of being an artist, music industry feedback and backstories. With Hip-Hop artists like KRS-1 as judges, audiences also got to see a Black woman rapper like Silk-E win the competition with a major artist co-sign. Moreover, the show was conceived by a Black woman, Edna Sims-Bruce, who knew that The Cut’s structure was unlike anything that had ever been seen on television: 

The backstories give you a sense of who you're seeing and what they're like outside of the music. Having the judges tell them why they scored something can give the kids and the audience tips on things that can really make a difference in advancing their career. Yes, judging is always about people's opinions, but all of the judges are music-industry professionals.

There was a special kind of care and attention paid to the artists, that one can argue dissipated as more and more shows hit our television screens. 

After the first season of The Cut wrapped, Adam Tyler wanted Left Eye to return as the host. She declined as she was in the midst of working on TLC’s Fanmail album in addition to her solo debut album Supernova, and as a result, the show never returned for a second season. In the new millennium, we were introduced to music competition shows like American Idol, Making the Band, P. Diddy’s Starmaker, The Road to Stardom with Missy Elliott, The Voice and America’s Got Talent. Although it had only one season, The Cut became the very first of many shows that gave us an origin story of the contestants with Hip-Hop and R&B/soul backgrounds along with celebrity judges and hosts. The Black woman-created show opened the doors for Hip-Hop and many other different styles and genres to be featured in primetime television talent competitions, and put one of our most beloved Black women rappers at the helm. On the show, Sims-Bruce told the Star-Bulletin:

I want to teach the kids that the music industry doesn't just consist of a record company and the artist. The artists who judge have been where the contestants are, and a lot of times they're harder judges than the industry representatives because they know what it takes to make it in the music industry.

It's Time To Discuss The Impact of UPN's 'Eve'

By Njera Perkins

Eve, the Grammy-winning, Philly-bred rapper deemed Ruff Ryders’ First Lady, had already secured her place in Hip-Hop by the early 2000’s as a standout talent. Her skills as an emcee were undisputed – she could outrap many of her male counterparts – and her success manifested in chart-topping singles and platinum albums. A year after her breakout performance in Barbershop, a television opportunity came along that added another layer to her “eve-olution.” Every Monday night on UPN she tapped into another lane on the path of Hollywood success at the height of her music career, bringing her Hip-Hop starpower to the small screen. Her show further cemented what most should have already known: that women in rap didn’t have to compromise themselves, and could exist across professions triumphantly.

On September 15, 2003, the avowed pitbull in a skirt stepped into the world of television and debuted her self-titled sitcom Eve. Originally pitched under the working title The Opposite Sex, the show – which followed the lives of a bubbly Miami fashion designer named Shelly Williams and her group of friends – was the successor to hit series Moesha, with the network looking to capitalize on the starpower of another successful Black woman in music. Shelly – fashion-obsessed and girlier than most – may have appeared to be the complete opposite of the Eve we knew, but the rapper and her character shared a lot of similarities. Both had a true passion for their crafts, fashion design and music, and represented women who rejected the expectations society set up for them. The theme song, performed by Missy Elliott, encapsulates this entirely:

She's the kind of chick who likes to look fly
Can pick up any guy with a slick rap line
Give him the eye, get the keys to the ride
And live the single life, a little teasing on the side
She's the type of chick who likes to wear fly clothes
Who rocks stilettos, but will be ghetto
If anybody knows, let me tell you who knows
Who would spin the cash flow, let the story be told
E-V-E, how you do that?
E-V-E, how you do that?
E-V-E, how you do that?
E-V-E, how you do that?

In spite of the obstacles they each encountered in their careers and personal lives, they were determined to thrive through it all. And thrive they did.

On her debut album, ‘Let There Be Eve...Ruff Ryders' First Lady,’ Eve revealed a vulnerable side of herself rapping about heavy subjects like domestic violence, rape, revenge, love and heartbreak. The same topics manifested in the Eve scripts, with episodes of her show exploring the depths of friendship, gender roles, and the hectic relationships in her character’s love-life that took center stage. It should come as no surprise that the show had incredibly high ratings amongst young Black women, as the sitcom tackled the same issues that existed off-screen.

Outside of Queen Latifah’s role on Living Single - which ended five years prior to the start of Eve - there have been little to no Black women rapper led sitcoms, with the few Black women rappers we would see on tv appearing as cameos or guest performances. Eve’s sitcom carried the torch that declared women in Hip-Hop as multidimensional and capable of obtaining multiple bags, with Brian Josephs of Spin declaring Monday nights on UPN as the place "where Eve transformed from Ruff Ryder to sitcom actress." And transform she did, but she never strayed from the tough, honest, Black woman that was so authentically Philly. This was important, because Black Women in Television: A Short History asserts that creative control over the images of Black women in mass media remained, for decades, in the hands of white men who perpetuated stereotypical representations of Black women as mammies or sapphires. Actresses like Diahann Carroll and Phylicia Rashad came along and helped reshape our narrative on the tv screen, and much like the actresses before her, Eve used her show to combat the the anti-feminist rhetoric that trapped women in Hip-Hop and television since their inception. 

The show was cancelled after three seasons, in a move that Fern Gillespie of The Crisis described as detrimental to the future of Black sitcoms. "Without that opportunity for some of the younger artists to hone and develop their skills, it will potentially have a generational impact,” he wrote. A quick look at the Black actors in network television lineups in the years thereafter - or lack thereof - will confirm this as true. The cancellation was widely accepted as a result of low overall ratings, but a few weeks ago Eve offered up another potential reason for its cancellation to TV One’s Uncensored:

Having my own sitcom was everything. It was pressure, it was fun, it was stressful. It was amazing. I was the youngest at the time, of the cast. And a lot of them were just getting married, just having babies or just buying their first house. I was still going to the club trying to get to set at 9 a.m. Trying to get to a table read, which was—don’t do that, ever.

It took me a minute to figure out that rhythm because I had always been on tour, all my life, pretty much, up until that point. I think for me to offset some of that, I was still trying to hang out at night. Which was not good.

When the show ended, it was definitely heartbreaking because at that time, we had done three seasons and we were family at this point. I do believe a lot of it had to do with the fact that I was trying to straddle both sides of my life, still trying to hold on to kind of hanging out. And I was late a lot. That’s not cool. I do think a lot of it had to do with my actions at that time.

And I do think about it sometimes. When I look back on it, I’m like, wow. I don’t believe in regrets but that is one time in my life where I wish I would have taken it a little more seriously than I did.

Nonetheless, Eve and the actress-rapper were able to rack up several award nominations. Eve was nominated at the 2004 Teen Choice Awards for Choice TV Actress: Comedy while the show earned a nomination for Choice Breakout TV Show that same year. She was nominated for the same award the following year along with two nominations for the Blimp Award for Favorite Television Actress at the 2005 and 2006 Kid's Choice Awards. Moreover, the show earned Eve a 2005 Image Award nomination for Outstanding Actress in a Comedy Series and Outstanding Lead Actress in a Comedy Series at the 2005 BET Awards. Moreover, Eve would go on to land other acting roles, including The Cookout, Barbershop 2, Single Ladies, and most recently becoming a daily fixture on The Talk alongside co-hosts Sheryl Underwood, Sharon Osbourne, former news anchor Julie Chen, and actress Sara Gilbert. 

To this day, Eve is considered a signature sitcom that arrived at a time where Black talent were given the space to exist and more importantly explore television. Eve, becoming a trailblazer in her field, doubled-down on representation as a Black woman in Hip-Hop who broke gender norms inside and outside of the genre. By exploring uncharted territory on behalf of Hip-Hop, Eve was one of many who affirmed Black women in Hip-Hop could exist in and explore all of their interests wholeheartedly. 

Santigold’s Liminal Space within Hip-Hop

by Beza Fekade

Hip-Hop can be fundamentally understood as a resistive cultural production fusing new and old, past and future; merging artforms widely known as sealed off from one another. It foregrounds the necessity for retrieval and repurposing in order to sustain itself. And through Hip-Hop’s constant alterations yields emergent challenges to its style. Santigold, born Santi White, journeys a defiant road that cements her as an initiate of fusion and originality. Without the familiarity of lyricism and word play, she evades Hip-Hop’s customary structure of rhyme, dispositioning her from the women who we deem instrumental in the artform’s expansion. However, with a closer listen and a stretch of time spanning twelve years, we can hear her more clearly in the sounds that have surfaced, post her exalting debut album. On the surface, we find her at the margins of our understanding of Hip-Hop, however as we begin to dig deeper, she seamlessly melds into the very fabric of its innovation. 

In the 2003 text Theorizing Diaspora, Stuart Hall states that cultural identity is a matter of becoming and being, and is not intrinsically defined nor something that already exists; it adheres to critical points of deep and significant difference in order to map the “unstable points of identification, or suture.” For decades, Hip-Hop music has been a global site of cultural formation amongst African-descendant communities to engage in the state of “becoming” and “being.” Santi White is a testament to this cultural ecosystem, molded within Hip-Hop’s reach, and at large the African diaspora. What ensues is an intimate process of cultural identity that equips her to tap into new and unpredictable points of becoming.

 Born in Philadelphia, White grew privy to a variety of genres as a child, such as reggae, jazz, the legendary Fela Kuti, the great soul singers Aretha Franklin and James Brown, and punk artists such as Devo and Siouxsie and the Banshees. In a 2012 interview with Spin Magazine, writer Caryn Ganz shared that White had a dream of becoming a professional musician at the age of 15, but it wasn’t realized until a decade later. Throughout her adolescence she roamed between an all-black school to an all-white girls school, and later, public school to prep academy. Parsing through her early life, she realized the ease of her mobility; she understood that she remained as a constant, the bridge to multiple localities. “I was a connector, because all these different people would never hang out together, but they’d be together with me…That’s what my music does. And that’s what I realized" (Spin Magazine, 2012). Just as Hip-Hop engages in the process of joining two or more things to form a single entity, so did White’s construction of her artistic performance. 

White spent most of her summers working at her father’s law office in downtown Philadelphia where she discovered “fly girls,” the dance troupe on the sketch comedy In Living Color. The ladies would perform hard-hitting choreography to notable hip-hop and R&B records during intermissions and before commercial breaks. White immediately found herself emulating their wardrobe and demeanor.  Here, she engages in Hip-Hop’s production of cultural and aesthetic performance by re-inscribing the appeal of “fly girls.” Although small, it points to a series of sutures in her ever-evolving artistic form.  

After the completion of high school, White attended Wesleyan University and double majored in music and African American studies. She eventually began her musical career as an A&R representative for Epic Records. In 1999, White collaborated with GZA of the Wu-Tang Clan on the titled track of his album Beneath the Surface. The following year she made another collaboration with GZA with “Stay in Line,” featured on the album Legend of the Liquid Sword. Her musical influence began to find footing with Philly rock-soul singer Res, as she co-wrote and produced her debut studio album How I Do. Res’ debut album stands as an early indication of White’s refusal to be categorized, with the project merging pop, Hip-Hop, Rock, and R&B. 

As lead singer of the Philadelphia-based punk rock band Stiffed, White and her bandmembers released the ep Sex Sells (2003) and album Burned Again (2005), incorporating new wave and no wave musical elements. The group soon disbanded leading to White and former bandmate, John Hill, joining forces to begin working on her solo self-titled debut, Santogold (later changed to Santigold due to a lawsuit dispute). Like her work with Stiffed, the album blends sounds of new wave, as well as reggae, dub, punk, electro, Hip-Hop, grime, indie, and more. White’s aim was to create a genre-defying album that blurred sounds and artforms deemed frictional in relation to one another. What culminated was a gaudy no-skip assemblage that positioned her as a spearhead toward dismantling rigid musical genres. 

Ironically, her music became easy pickings for commercialization and pop culture. Santigold’s songs could be heard in Bud Light ads and television shows like Grey’s Anatomy. Conversely, White collaborated with Jay-Z and Kanye West for the record “Brooklyn Go Hard,” which sampled “Shove It” from her album and included an additional verse from the artist. Although White denounced, in 2008, that her music is solely Hip-Hop, the collaboration reinstates the essence of Hip-Hop’s re-mixing while highlighting the dexterity of White’s sound and rebellion

 Dating back twelve years to its release, Santigold still proves as a pivotal shift in Black women’s contributions to performance and music. Subsequent to White’s 2008 release, the ensuing decade brimmed with new, adventurous talent. The likes of Tierra Whack, Rico Nasty, Kari Faux, Leikeli47, and others, altered standards of sound and rhyme. Although listeners may not label her within Hip-Hop’s pantheon, her proclamation of connector reigns true, as evident by the ladies she precedes and comes after. Without realizing, White’s emergence as a rioter of category and sound, cloaks her with intersecting musical styles that inform the interrogation of Hip-Hop music. Her subversion unsettles normative identifiers of genre and challenges the idealistic players that occupy its arena. Like her predecessors, White challenges the implications that race, sexuality, and gender often present in the realm of Hip-Hop and its misogynoiristic habits. She runs from definitive labels and shares in a tradition of deviation; she is as just a part of the past as she is bound to its future. Santi White’s musical entrance created and continues to create a breeding ground for hybridity, rupture, and infinite becoming.

Sources:

Ganz, C. (2012, May 17). Santigold's Killah Instinct. Retrieved August 02, 2020, from https://www.spin.com/2012/05/santigolds-killah-instinct/

Hall, S. (2003) Cultural Identity and Diaspora.  Theorizing Diaspora, Blackwell Publishing.

MC Lyte Made Hip-Hop Take Notice

by Sibylla Nash

Before there was Megan, Nicki, or Lil' Kim, there was MC Lyte. 

It was 1988 when Lyte, born Lana Moorer, made Hip-Hop take notice with her debut album Lyte as a Rock. At the time you could count the number of solo women emcees on one hand, and when she came on the scene, she kicked down doors and paved the way as the first woman rapper to drop a solo album. Lyte accomplished a lot of firsts. She was the first Hip-Hop artist to perform at Carnegie Hall, first woman Hip-Hop artist to have a gold single and solo Grammy nomination for her 1993 track “Ruffneck,” and first solo woman rapper to be honored/inducted on VH1’s Hip Hop Honors.

I don’t remember when I first heard her, but I remember how I felt. Emboldened. Empowered.  Ready to kick some…booty or get some. I dare you to listen to “Ruffneck” and not want to bust a move. After being inundated with male rappers' bravado, it was liberating to hear a woman emcee flip the script with her lyrics. She eviscerated the fragile male ego in “Paper Thin.”  Her 1989 single, “Shut the Eff Up (Hoe),” another diss track for her rival Antoinette (in case “10% Dis” didn’t get the point across) let you know she was battle rap-ready. Her distinctive voice, smooth with a punch of bass, head-nodding beats, and lyrical wordplay were hypnotic.  

She was hard, yet owned her femininity, and was unapologetically talented. She was the Mike Tyson of rap; she didn't come to play. Stripped of embellishments with her t-shirts, sweatsuits, and sneakers, she’d knock you out with a lyrical one-two punch. She set the bar for all rappers, with her complex storytelling and lyrics that sometimes straddled political subject matter yet still got the crowd hyped. 

She achieved platinum sales, both domestic and international, with the 1996 singles “Keep On Keeping On” featuring Xscape and “Cold Rock A Party” with Missy Elliott. She has collaborated with ground-breaking artists including Beyonce, Sinead O’Connor, New Kids on the Block, Janet Jackson, Sinbad, Brandy, Missy Elliott, Gerald Levert, Keith Sweat, Johnny Gill, Xscape and Jamie Foxx to name a few.

You get the picture; she's dope.

But before she was MC Lyte she was just a girl with a notebook who loved dancing, acting, theater and chronicling life in Brooklyn as she saw it. She and her mother went to museums and found all sorts of free things to do in the city. Her mother had a friend that worked at one of the theaters.

“I went to a lot of plays. Heard a lot of music. Through a bunch of different relatives, I was introduced to hip hop in Harlem in the late 70s,” remembers Lyte. 

“I Cram to Understand U (Sam),” her first single, was the first song in her rhyme book and put her on the map. It detailed the effects of crack cocaine and how it destroyed a burgeoning relationship.

Her origin story, as told, was one of destiny. Her brothers Giz and Milk Dee of Audio Two had found success with their 1987 hit, “Top Billin’” (still sampled today) on their father’s label, First Priority. They turned to little sis when the time came to release another album.  In reality, DJ Clark Kent (before he was DJ Clark Kent and was just Tony) helped her with a demo of “I Cram to Understand U."

“He was friends with a co-worker of mine who took me to Latin Quarter, [a club in New York City]” says Lyte. “We met there and talked about music and recording. I told him I had a rhyme written, and he had a studio at his house. We recorded ‘I Cram 2 Understand U’ there first. He was extremely supportive through my journey.”

When she was a junior in high school, Eric Cole, who had been a classmate in junior high and was a member of the rap group, The Alliance, took her to audition for First Priority Music because they were looking for a female emcee.

“I can’t remember what time of year it was, but it was cold because it was in Staten Island. I remember the frost over the water taking the ferry over... I auditioned,” she chuckles, “and it worked out.”

After he heard her demo, Nat Robinson, founder of First Priority, remembers thinking, “This girl is a hit, she’s going to blow up. I told Milk, ‘she’s going to take over the female part of the game.’ She was unique, had a raw, powerful voice that just dominated.”

Robinson put her in the studio, and she re-recorded the track with Milk Dee as a producer. 

A former corporate executive and club promoter, Robinson worked his magic pushing the single from his storefront on St. John's in Brooklyn. He plastered the city with stickers on subway cars and phone booths, and stood in front of clubs to give away records. It paid off. 

Lyte stayed true to her Brooklyn roots and included the track, “Kickin’ 4 Brooklyn,” on her debut album: “That's the thing about Brooklyn, they never get enough, Of the rap and the music and all the good stuff.”

Her lyrics were prescient as Brooklyn has consistently gifted us with Hip-Hop legends like Notorious B.I.G., Lil Kim, JAY-Z and so many others. Since Lyte’s debut over 30 years ago, she’s added actress, entrepreneur, and philanthropist to her resume. And she’s never compromised as an artist and keeps her Brooklyn roots close. 

Her firm, Sunni Gyrl, handles production and development of television and film projects. She also manages several artists, performs voice over, and acts.  

“I’m grateful to do what I love,” says Lyte.

Her non-profit, Hip Hop Sisters Foundation, has given away over a million dollars in scholarship funds to young women and men attending college. 

“It’s a beautiful gift from God to be in a position to give!”

Gangsta Boo, The Southern Rap Pioneer

by Precious Fondren

A few weeks ago, following the release of Flo Milli’s Ho, why is you here?, I tweeted, “Women rappers are carrying the year of music on their backs AGAIN.”  The Alabama bred-rapper’s release comes a little over a month after the City Girls’ second album City on Lock.  And as women like Megan Thee Stallion, Cardi B, Mulatto, Flo Milli and so many more continue to use their music  to advocate for sex that centers their pleasures and equity amongst the genders, most of the conversations about the women who influenced them often only center Lil’ Kim, Trina, and Nicki Minaj. 

While the impacts of these women along with Queen Latifah, Foxy Brown, and Mia X are evident, one vital woman from the South played her part in influencing the new rappers with little to no credit: Gangsta Boo.

Born in Memphis, Tennessee, Gangsta Boo-real name Lola Mitchell-was the only woman part of legendary rap group Three 6 Mafia. She made herself known with her hit single “Where Dem Dollas At?” from her debut album Enquiring Minds, and left the group after her second album Both Worlds *69.

So how does her impact manifest in the women of rap today? With her debut album Enquiring Minds, there’s a gloomy trap sound, lyrical content that centers money, sex, and work ethic, and overall braggadocious nature that is seen in many of today’s women rappers, whether consciously or unconsciously. 

Released in 1998, Minds was the soundtrack for many southern Black women looking to find their voice in a rap community that was hell bent on using them as just props in music videos. Although Minds is clustered with plenty of features from her male counterparts, it still manages to pull off the task of sounding uniquely feminine. 

Boo repped for the girls that did everything the boys did. That headstrong ability to be the only woman in rap crews or on songs has endured since Boo’s time with Three 6 Mafia, and there’s no doubt many looked to her for inspiration. 

Before “W.A.P” got politicians’ and men’s panties in a bunch, Gangsta Boo did her part in advocating for pleasurable sex.  On “Suck a little D*ck” featuring Dj Paul and Juicy J, Boo proudly proclaims “Eat a little cat or something” before launching into a lyrical breakdown of her sexual desires.

And as Three 6 Mafia were pioneers in perfecting the trap rhythms and beats that we hear today, it’s important to mention that Boo’s early sound is also prevalent. 

It’s evident that Megan Thee Stallion’s Fever was influenced by the sound of Three 6 Mafia, with Megan even nabbing a couple Juicy J produced songs on the project, but a closer listen to the project nods to Boo's content and sound. 

On “Where Dem Dollas At” Boo asserts her position on money and romance as one that can’t be achieved without the other. Don’t look her way if you don’t have the pockets to match as she is not the type to “to be looking sad and broke.” 

Enquiring Minds isn’t a rap album hell bent on preaching women to respect hypermasculinity, the fragile male ego or respectability politics as a whole. Through song and lyric, Boo was on a mission to insert herself in the bigger conversation of best women rappers.

Gangsta Boo is a pioneer whether given her flowers or not. Her style, cadence, and lyricism have left an enduring and familiar mark on much of today’s women in rap. With Enquiring Minds, the Queen of Memphis challenged all of us to never lose sight of the hustle in our everyday lives.