Trouble rap

The Guardian’s Weekend magazine recently featured Jay-Z as its cover star and interviewee. In the piece, Jay-Z explains the lyric to the song ’99 Problems (But A Bitch Aint One)’ is actually a decoy. Apparently it has been crafted to cause alarm in the narrow minded, prejudiced critic who may well be enraged by the use of the word ‘bitch’ to describe women, when the bitch in the recording is actually a police dog.

Yes well, all very clever, but there are two fundamental problems with this. For starters, the song wasn’t written by Jay-Z (a fact he either didn’t reveal, wasn’t known or was excluded from the article), so the supposed ironic trick actually belongs to fellow rap stars Ice T and Bun B.

The second – and far more relevant issue is this: Jay Z’s material is frequently derogatory to women and often accuses them of attempting to seduce him in order to steal his wealth. Beyonce excluded, presumably.

"Many chicks wanna put Jigga fist in cuffs 
Divorce him and split his bucks 
Just because you got good head, I'm a break bread 
So you can be livin' it up?"

Jay Z, Big Pimpin’

The interview was conducted by Simon Hattenstone and it wouldn’t have taken a few minutes of his journalistic time to expose the hypocrisy in Jay-Z’s argument, but this wasn’t his tack. As is so frequently the case when white middle class media types rub up against rappers, he was busting a gut to show how Hip-Hop is largely misrepresented and its content misunderstood.

Sometimes, of course, this is true. KRS1 is a rapper who has spent most of his career producing intelligent songs which challenge the excesses of his contemporaries. Miss Dynamite also used a lyric to question rap’s love of diamonds, when so many of these gems are produced by impoverished and imperilled Africans. But these instances are very much the exception.

Many rap recordings are riddled with aggressive misogyny, an unhealthy glamorisation of firearms and a depressing tendency to equate money with achievement. Unfortunately, this is an inconvenient truth for the broadsheet hack attempting to acquire street credibility by praising a particular Hip-Hop artist and who, by overlooking it, betrays an inverted snobbery.

If another musical genre (let’s say a strand of Heavy Metal) leant so heavily on such reactionary philosophy, it would surely be roundly and rightly condemned by the liberal media. When it is released by a former gang member from the Bronx or South Central LA, it is somehow transformed into street poetry and induces much head nodding and chin stroking. Indeed, a great many Hip-Hop artists have latched onto this notion, attempting to explain away the promotion of physical and sexual violence as social commentary. Sorry, but I simply don’t buy this.

"Fatal attractions is mad real 
Last bitch I deaded got mad and swallowed 50 Advil's 
They say money make the world go round 
Material things make a hoe go down"

50 Cent, After Me Chedda

This lyric is not a commentary of any sort. It is the juvenile spewing of an emotionally backward idiot, but it is so rarely described as such, its passage into the cultural mainstream is almost entirely unhindered.  This fawning and forgiving by the commentators of the left leaning media is similar to the slack jawed sycophancy one sometimes sees in those enchanted by highly attractive but reprehensible members of the opposite sex. And it’s just as pathetic.

None of this would really matter if Hip-Hop had no traction, no profile, no influence. Somewhere in this sorry world lurks a band called Skrewdriver who are really no more than racist skinheads. They’d like to think otherwise, but they are no threat to anybody, as they are almost universally ignored. Hip-Hop is very, very different. Rap acts account for an enormous proportion of the music industry’s income and most of that revenue comes from young men. While I am sorely tempted to resist the connection between any music form and bad behaviour (I had to undergo all that with punk), I see evidence of Hip-Hop’s (or at least some of its purveyor’s) negative influence in many places. The prevalence of guns in some urban estates, the rise of gang related assaults, the attitude of some young men to crimes like rape – all have echoes in the songs of enormously rich and spectacularly popular Hip-Hop stars.

Now, it would be a fool who claimed any youth movement accounted for all society’s failings, but if a disenfranchised young man admires artists claiming their aggressive criminality and shoddy treatment of women have led to success; and that success is illustrated by their gaudy displays of monetary wealth, what conclusion is the kid supposed to draw?

I must emphasise, I am not in any way flirting with the notion that black men are corrupting white children. That would be vile and completely untrue. This is absolutely not about race: Eminem’s raps frequently feature him fantasising at length about murdering his ex-wife, after all. Neither am I siding with the right leaning press who would seek to ban something as innocuous as a micro-scooter as well as most rap recordings. Censorship is the last resort of the coward and is as dangerous as a style of music advocating the ownership of automatic weapons.

However, I would be very keen to see journalists with access to high-selling music stars have the cojones to criticize and challenge infantile, dangerous bile wherever they find it. Rather than getting all dizzy and excited by the presence and heady edginess of deeply credible (but terminally unpleasant) recording artists like the currently incarcerated Lil Wayne. For everyone's sake.

"And the E is for ever elegant Erica 
a sweet red bitch we used to call her Miss America 
I aint gon lie now 
Erika is a dog" 

Lil Wayne, Alphabet Bitches


Magnus Shaw, December 2010

Flip side

The first stage would be hearing the single on the radio. Something unidentifiable would hit your ears and force you to take notice; Dionne Warwick’s voice, Phil Spector’s kitchen sink production, George Martin’s strings, a Tony Hatch chorus.
In England you would hear these songs on the radio, by and large, via only two routes. The pirate radio ships rolling about on the North Sea, or in the evenings, the drifting, ‘say hello and wave goodbye’ signal from Radio Luxembourg. There was an added shiver of expectation, a frisson of additional excitement, in hearing this new music through such unreliable sources.

Nostalgia is a curious friend. We recall summer days and warm cosy relationships and seem to have a common filter system that removes the memory of the dark clouds, the frustrations and the sadness of break-ups.

No group wears stronger rose-tinted spectacles than those perched on the nose of the obsessive lover of pop music; in particular those of us who retain enough brain cells to remember the 1960s, and the unique pleasure in returning home having bought a 7” vinyl single.

The riffling through the cardboard dividers on the shelf in the record store; sharing, briefly, time spent in the company of the mini-skirted, unattainable shop assistant as she re-touched her lipstick for the tenth time that morning (yes, it probably was, in reality, a grumpy bearded bloke but remember we have the magical spectacles in place).
The transaction: exchanging 7s/6d for the untouched copy of the single from the shelves behind the counter, and the singular pleasure of walking home with the purchase safely held in the paper bag; proudly on display if the single was bought from “Staines Records & Tapes”, but less so if the bag carried the logo of “Rediffusion” or “WH Smith and Son.”

There are several chapters to be written about the wonderful designs and artwork of the seven inch single in the 1960s; the tactile joy of removing the record from the sleeve, handling it carefully, with the tips of the fingers gracefully caressing the edge. As we’re wearing the magical spectacles of history, we’ll leave for another day, the frisson of disappointment if, at this stage, the buyer noticed that the little hole in the middle of the record appeared to be off centre, for experience had taught us that this was an inevitable precursor to the sound of Diana Ross or John or Paul appearing to sing whilst undertaking a particularly gruelling ride on a rollercoaster. Other hurdles to overcome were warping (singer sounded as if about to vomit), a faulty pressing of the vinyl (singer would leap, mid verse, to the final chorus), or a scratch (singer would be accompanied by an unwanted click track).

Assuming the piece of vinyl was in reasonably good shape, there was a moment, a brief snapshot of time, as the single was placed on the player and the needle clattered on to the lead-in, where a tangible rush of endorphins would be felt that could never be bettered by any artificial chemical. Whether listening through the plastic tinniness of a portable record player, or the grandness of the family stereogram, you owned the Beach Boys, or The Ronettes, or The Searchers. For two minutes and fifty eight seconds.
Then you’d play it again; then again; then again.

After this would come the journey of discovery, a small adventure that had the potential to double the pleasure; an excursion that is denied to the twenty-first century downloader.

The ‘B side’ has no place in 2010. The hungry click culture of i-Tunes means you find what you want, and consume it without any physical contact with the product. In the most unlikely event that you come across an unheard tune from your favourite artist, you can preview it from a hundred, maybe a thousand, different sources. The unknown is all too readily known in seconds.

There was a time, a different world, where that single, after its tenth play, would be flipped over. On the other side, the ‘B side’, would be an unknown song. Often artists regarded this as a chore and simply threw on a tune that was rejected as a ‘proper song’ on the basis that no-one would bother too much. It was, after all, a ‘B side’ with its inferred secondary status.

The smarter artist, or perhaps more likely their manager, discovered that despite the lower rank of the ‘B side’, royalties from the song writing and thus publishing were shared equally with those of the ‘A side’, and so it became far more attractive to have your song placed on the flip. All too often this led to a further dip in standards because the quality of the song had no bearing on the size of the royalty cheque.
Juggling the record and feeling their first steps into this adventure, the single flipper could be dipping into a tombola of horror, or entering a pop Narnia.

It’s ever harder to imagine in today’s culture of instantaneity, but consider the whoosh of revelation when, after playing “I Get Around” ten times, turning it over and finding the masterpiece “Don’t Worry Baby” waiting for you. Two minutes and forty two seconds of genius tucked away, sitting patiently and not expecting an audience.
“Be Bop A Lula” was the first song that Paul heard John Lennon sing. That would never have happened if John hadn’t turned over from the ‘A Side’, “Woman Love”.

... and that leads us neatly to the greatest ‘B side’ ever. Tucked away on ‘the other side’ of Paperback Writer, and recorded during the Revolver sessions, ‘Rain’ really does hit you with a sonic blast, because it was one of the first tracks recorded at Abbey Road using a new balancing system that allowed music to recorded and reproduced louder than ever before.
Featuring an early example of psychedelic-styled phasing and a touch of backward vocals, Rain was written by John Lennon after he experienced a monsoon-like downpour in Melbourne, and is an antidote to the traditional British moans about wet weather.

As a bonus, the film made to accompany the song was shot at Chiswick House (where you can still walk in the footsteps of The Beatles) in West London. Highlights include John squinting short-sightedly at the camera, and Paul looking a bit self-conscious about his broken front tooth.


This week I have:


Been snowbound in Berkshire for three days. I’m enjoying it but then I haven’t run out of coffee yet.


Listened to a lot of ‘B Sides’. The Beatles are the most consistent flip-siders by a huge margin.


Watched our World Cup bid presentation – it made me a bit tearful. It seemed to have the opposite effect on the FIFA delegates.


Pre-snow, had lunch in central London, where, at the next table, two Guardian journalists spoke rather loudly and candidly about that morning’s editorial meeting.

Terence Dackombe, December 2010 

15 signs your band is breaking up

1. The singer's girlfriend is sitting in on rehearsals and giving notes.

2. The bass player is having a birthday party. Rest of band not invited.

3. Guitarist has written a new song called 'For God's Sake What's The Point?'.

4. The road crew have their own band. They're getting more gigs.

5. Everyone takes their gear home after band practice.

6. The drummer's van is full of painting and decorating kit.

7. You all live in different towns.

8. Band logo on bass drum has been painted over.

9. Bassist is taking calls on iPhone between songs at gigs.

10. Singer spots band's PA system in window of Cash Converters.

11. Two band members sign up for vocational college courses.

12. Physical violence a common feature of band meetings.

13. Manager opens kebab shop.

14. Keyboard player blocks drummer on Twitter.

15. Singer in prison.