The rap on gangsta rap

hip-hop: a form of popular music that originated among inner-city African-American youths in the 1980s, drawing from rap, funk, street sounds, and fragments of melody and rhythm borrowed from previously recorded sources; the culture or a fashion, dance, etc., associated with this music.

rap: a kind of popular music in which rhymed verses are chanted or declaimed to the accompaniment of forceful and repetitive rhythms, played usually on drums or synthesizers.

gangsta: a variety of rap music that is distinguished by an emphasis on themes of violence, explicit sex, and drug use.

All three of the above definitions are in the Fourth Edition of Webster’s New World College Dictionary. I printed them to help educate myself and you, the reader, because, as we soldier up in the culture war from time to time, it’s important to know what we’re up against and who’s on our side.

That’s not to say that hip-hoppers or rappers are our enemies; they are not.

Like it or not, the hip-hop industry is a formidable force on Wall Street. While it has no seat on the stock exchange, the hip-hop industry manifests itself at Old Navy and the Gap, Nordstrom and Lord & Taylor’s, Wal-Mart and K-Mart, General Motors and Mercedes-Benz, Nike and Reebok, FUBU and Phat Farm. The Grammy Awards, NAACP Image Awards, People’s Choice Awards, MTV Awards. And Hollywood? Suffice it to say, many of the gangsta rappers we railed against in the 1980s — including Ice T and Ice Cube — are as mainstream today as Marlo Thomas and Jennifer Lopez.

Indeed, many a wealthy American owes a debt to the hip-hop industry.

What we need to be up in arms against is not gangsta rappers, but their unrelenting stereotypical images of half-dressed truths and naked untruths that are burnished into the impressionable psyche of young Americans.

BET. VH1. The grandmother of them all, MTV. Madison Avenue perpetuates stereotypes. Recall the TV ads that used to have youngsters singing “I wanna be like Mike” (as in Michael Jordan). Today’s ad is of a pint-sized black boy, with the attitude of Ice Cube, who “thanks” His Airness by talking tough.

Revisit those three definitions. Does it seem that hip-hop was hijacked by gangsta rap, a hedonistic dominion of drugs, violence and misogyny — a place where only the contemptuous rock?

Gangsta rap would not be such a cultural pain were it not so prolific and encouraged. Can you think of any comparable musical defect?

To be sure, baby boomers’ parents found no way to reckon with Elvis’ twitches and the devilish allures of rock ’n’ roll and R&B. The parents of the boomers’ parents faced demons when Frankie Sinatra donned a Dobbs and swooned to the bobby soxers.

There’s no doubt that the musical mores of the last half of the 20th century — and the call and response insinuations — left Victoria turning over in her grave.

Atonn Muhammad, a thirty-something who grew up on hip-hop, hardly wants to recapture Victorianism or middle-class prudishness. But he does want to restore an air of respectability to the urban-bred and grown genre called hip-hop. In his eyes, original hip-hop once was a “beacon of consciousness” that pointed out “social ills” and shone a light toward “spiritual enlightenment.” Now the music, the messages and the TV, he says, have “gone awry” with profanity, debasing of women and bling, bling.

Mr. Muhammad, who also is the CEO and president of the upstart Real Hip-Hop Network, says it is those images that we owe it to ourselves to debunk and discuss. His mission means launching the network, which begins airing next month. The network, he says, will air hip-hop videos. But he stresses that he plans to counter the stereotypes of black men and women with programming. “Anylize This,” for example, will “hold artists accountable for what’s in [a] video.” The show calls for the artist to sit down with musicians, social commentarians and others to discuss certain aspects of a questionable video. “Souljah Factor” will feature news and commentary with musical artists and politicians.

The Real Hip-Hop Network apparently has the underpinnings to become a new weapon in the culture war, and I wish its soldiers every success.

Having said this before, I say it again: I am not naive enough to think that one TV show, one song or one anything — other than God himself — can change the many wrong turns American culture has taken. By holding constant vigil, however, we can make a difference.