Growing up in the Bronx, the Black and Afro-Latino environment inspired the musical interests of my two older brothers. Surrounded by poverty, crime, and drug use, the music they listened to reflected our environment. Why listen to Radiohead, which had no idea what it was like living in New York City, when Nas was producing mixtapes that actually spoke to their experience? When I finally entered the picture, a decade of exploring and perfecting their music taste was passed down to me.
Nowadays, however, it is clear we live in a very different age of rap. When going through any rap playlist, it is difficult to differentiate the sound of each artist—a certain few 808 drums, adlibs, and producer tags seem inescapable. Rap’s actual content has also become predictable. It seems as though our generation focuses on simplistic themes of fancy cars, designer clothes, and sexual experiences—this hyper-fixation on the party lifestyle is something that is clearly appealing to contemporary listeners.
This music may be relatable to some, but it’s based in material goods and is therefore inherently opposed to the authentic, gritty essence of rap’s roots.
The hip-hop genre, from which rap was born, experienced greater influence during the Civil Rights Movement, an extremely tumultuous time for African Americans across the country. Rap was always intended to be ostensibly affronting and genuinely thought-provoking.
At the turn of the 21st century, a new wave of more underground rappers emerged, spitting substance and returning rap to its roots. These rappers talked heavily about drugs, and a new subgenre was quickly created to classify them: “coke rap.”
Driven by an introspectiveness regarding the hustle culture, the only mentions of flashy lifestyles are juxtaposed with the harsh means by which they were acquired. On Freddie Gibbs’ song “Skinny Suge” on the album Alfredo, he explains his struggle to pay for music venues to perform at, as he starts to sell cocaine just to make it into the music industry:
“Had powder on my table, the label called for they offer back / Harry on my line, I ain’t got his bread, I can’t call him back / Plus I got a show, the promoters ain’t got the dough for that / These losses set me back, man, I’m literally sellin’ dope to rap.”
Gibbs isn’t the only one. Artists like Conway the Machine, Pusha T, Westside Gunn, and Boldy James all bring similar themes to the limelight.
The lyrics are honest and leave no room for misinterpretation, just like boom bap, the music my brothers adored and I subsequently grew to love. Inspired by the accepted sound of East Coast hip-hop, boom-bap artists like Nas, Mobb Deep, and A Tribe Called Quest made their music with storytelling and lyricism in mind.
Coke rapper Pusha T spent his youth selling drugs to get by, something highlighted in many of his songs. This is paralleled to Kendrick Lamar’s experience growing up with a father, who was addicted to drugs, during the crack cocaine epidemic in their collaboration song “Nosetalgia.”
Pusha T opens by saying, “20-plus years of selling Johnson & Johnson,” an obvious allusion to the similarities in appearance of baby powder and cocaine.
This is followed by, “I started out as a baby-faced monster. No wonder there’s diaper rash on my conscience.” The guilt of putting drugs into his community is mirrored when Lamar begins rapping about his childhood struggles.
“My daddy dumped a quarter piece to a four and a half / Took a L, started selling soap fiends bubble bath / Broke his nail misusing his pinky to treat his nose,” Lamar raps.
The dynamic between the artists shows multiple perspectives of a drug-infiltrated lifestyle, devastating on all sides.
Whilst many coke rappers emphasize that there has been no change to the lives of many Black and POC communities, some artists also explain the reason for the continuous disparities.
In Gibbs’ song ‘Broken’, he says, “Fingers numb from coka selling, no vote, but out for presidents.” In many states, felonies result in loss of voting privileges—a version of contemporary voting discrimination as 38.9% of federal inmates are Black, not including those who have been released but still live with the charges.
Music seems to have developed counterintuitively—mainstream labels only promote artists who fit into a mold or are principally palatable for the public. Grammy Award–winning albums like Astroworld, Take Care, and Invasion of Privacy generally avoid the heavy-hitting topics akin to the content of coke rap.
Record labels like Sony Music Entertainment and Universal Music Group are less incentivized to push musical variation as it comes with a risk attached. Lamar is a unique case, but in general, the music industry has been an economic market and historically shown resistance to turning away whatever the ‘status quo’ of rap is at the time.
This is not to say new rap is bad. There is a reason why record labels strategically uplift and promote music the majority of consumers find agreeable—even I can be found listening to industry staples like Drake or Travis Scott at any given time. Taking a risk on artists who confront systematic issues head-on is a gamble at the end of the day, and unfortunately, one that many aren’t willing to take.
Regardless, artists are constantly finding ways to make their stories heard. Whether it be the raw ingenuity shared on SoundCloud by smaller rappers, or the harsh presentation of violence found in the drill scene which has seen mainstream popularity in recent years, authenticity continues to prevail, even though the industry can’t seem to realize it.
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