What Does the Success or Failure of This Film Really Mean? 3:00PM ET January 21st, 2011 Contributor: Todd Williams A Rocky Williform Company
Todd Williams is Senior Editor for HipHopBlog.com and A Pop Culture Commentator, Music Critic, Hip Hop Historian and Screenwriter. This Op-Ed Piece Does Not Necessarily Reflect the Views of HipHopBlog.com
Another Black film release, another opportunity to examine the state of Black Hollywood and what impact said film will have on Black Hollywood.
There's been much discourse surrounding the film Red Tails over the last several weeks. Much of it rooted in equal parts hyperbole and cynicism, much of it about Hollywood racism, Black apathy and the dubious motivations of a long-time Hollywood heavyweight who suddenly has been decreed a de facto spokesperson for the Black struggle in Tinseltown; early criticisms of the film have been peppered with references to producer George Lucas' efforts to 'guilt' audiences into seeing his film. Lucas made headlines by appearing on "The Daily Show" and discussing the resistance he encountered from Hollywood executives uninterested in helping to produce a film with a large budget and a majority Black cast. Some that have seen the film and were unimpressed were especially vicious in their attacks on Lucas for what they felt was a mediocre 'bone' thrown to Black film audiences, tossed with snide condescension from the quasi-benevolent benefactor of Star Wars fame.
But Lucas' complaints have been volleyed about by several Black filmmakers for decades, as many of his detractors point out. But what's not usually acknowledged, however, is the rather obvious fact that what Lucas says it's true--even if we're less-than-comfortable with him being the one who says it. So if this is indeed a problem that we can all agree on, why can't we agree on how to address it? Or who is best suited to address it?
Why did a White man telling the truth about race, Hollywood and the struggle to see our stories anywhere other than on premium cable or independent film circuits turn everyone into cynical naysayers? And, in the case of this particular battle, is it more important for a big-budget Black film to be successful or good?
Filmmakers like Michael Bay and Brett Ratner will never be mistaken for Martin Scorsese or Stanley Kubrick, but their films have made money. Having a big Black film open well could send a powerful message--moreso, even, than if the film is a cinematic masterpiece.
Let's understand something; Black audiences have proven that they will support Black films. Black romantic comedies, melodramas, indie films that get strong word-of-mouth buzz, and 'hood' comedies have gotten support from audiences for years. The problem, fundamentally, is that studios have not produced enough all-Black action films, period pieces and epics for there to be a fair gauge of Black audience support for such films. But the few times one manages to get greenlit, produced and released, it does matter whether or not audiences care enough to spend money to see it.
And, yes, this dilemma is rooted in Hollywood's inability (or unwillingness) to market predominantly African American films to non-Black audiences--particularly in the overseas market--but that doesn't mean that Black audiences are always turning out in droves for these films, either. Especially in the case of bigger budget films that require a higher box office to be considered successful than a movie that cost less to produce.
Obviously, the ideal end is for Blacks to finance their own studios to tell their own stories. But, we can't be naive enough to think that, even in that ideal scenario, there won't be films that are less-than-stellar. But, realistically, the ultimate goal is not to create a mystical film universe where every Black release is Citizen Kane. The objective is to have so many voices telling so many stories, that no one project would be definitive or viewed as some make-or-break torchbearer for all of Black moviedom.
But it takes a lot longer to get there when films like Miracle At St. Anna and Red Tails bomb at the box office. What possible reason would any film studio--Black, White, Hollywood major or arthouse indie--take the chance of funding an expensive film that audiences have proven time and again that they don't want to see?
How can we blame studios for casting the Lone Black Superstar in blockbusters alongside 'safe' White castmates, as was the case with Eddie Murphy for much of the 1980s and Will Smith for the majority of his career? How can we criticize the lack of an advertising push for challenging, multi-layered films like the captivating Pariah when even accessible popcorn flicks can't put butts in seats?
Blacks can win Oscars till we're blue in the face. It won't mean a thing when it comes to box office.
For all of the cinematic shortcomings of Tyler Perry's filmography, (and there are many), his audience supports his work. Part of the reason is his effective branding, but also its because he gives them the films they have proven (with their wallets) that they want to see. As a result, not only has Tyler Perry Studios been able to churn out a seemingly infinite amount of buppie rom-coms, but similar-themed films like Woman, Thou Art Loosed, Jumping the Broom and more have been released by various other studios in recent years.
The movie Red Tails will not be the end all-be all of African American cinema. What the possible success of this film represents, more than anything, is an opportunity for audiences to let the filmmaking community know that they can support a film that has a significant budget, a wide release, and a cast full of Black people. There have been, and will always be, brilliant black indie and art house films. There will be riveting made-for-television movies with stellar writing and remarkable casts. We've seen those before. But what we see far less of are period pieces and action films with majority Black casts, big budgets and, most importantly, a significant advertising push.
Or we can just sit back, give Tyler Perry 8 or 9 days to write, shoot, edit and release Madea Saves Easter and applaud in unison when it crushes the competition on its opening weekend.
Because that's a victory for Black cinema, too. Right?
The Dreamer/The Believer
3:00PM ET December 20th, 2011
Contributor: Todd Williams
A Rocky Williform Company
Rating:
Common's two most poorly-received albums, 2003's Electric Circus and 2009's Universal Mind Control both represented unexpected stylistic detours that stand out as the musical exceptions in the ponderous Chicago MC's catalog more so than the rule. And just as the rapper followed Electric Circus' neo-soul and rock experimentations with Be--a return to the introspective and earthy hip hop for which he's best-known, so to does Common's ninth album, The Dreamer/The Believer, reflect a return to his recognized sound after the Pharrell-produced insincere party rap of Universal Mind Control.
The Dreamer/The Believer shares other similarities with Be; namely, Common's choice to work primarily with one producer and a fellow Chicagoan. On Be, Common enlisted Kanye West; but here, he taps his former collaborator No I.D., the man who crafted Common's 90s and early 2000s sound. The two Chi-town legends and brothers-in-arms have retained their powerful chemistry, Common sounds at home on much of the album, and No I.D. gives the rapper numerous soul-sampling backdrops to paint his pensive portraits over.
But that doesn't necessarily mean The Dreamer/The Believer reaches the heights of the duo's best work together; 2000s stellar Like Water For Chocolate.
The album opener, "The Dreamer," features a respectable-but-underwhelming appearance from legendary poet Maya Angelou and is the kind of introspective track Common seems to toss off without much effort--which would be remarkable if this time around it didn't actually sound tossed-off. But the following track, the fiery "Ghetto Dreams" benefits from a guest spot from legendary Queensbridge rhymer Nas. The former Nasty immediately shakes the album out of its early slumber, and Common sounds energized for the first time in years--even if Nas does steal the show.
The inspirational "Blue Sky" flips an odd sample of Electric Light Orchestra's 1973 hit "Mr. Blue Sky," and adds some inspired vocalizations from Makeba Riddick. The combative "Sweet" finds Common trying to channel his former "The B*tch In Yoo" self, the brash rhymer of the mid-90s who wasn't afraid to take on gangsta rap legend Ice Cube. Unfortunately, Common's put-downs and Southside boasts don't mesh well with his 2011 persona as rap nice-guy and thoughtful emcee. With chants of "Hip hop, that's what I do" and rhymes like "Yall forgot who I am/The 87 n***a that used to rah-rah in the jam," he tries hard to make you believe he's still as angry and aggressive as he ever was--but doesn't quite pull it off.
Relationships also feature prominently into many of the tracks, with "Lovin' I Lost" standing out--particularly for references to a relationship-gone-bad that will have many listeners thinking of the rapper's high-profile romance with tennis star Serena Williams. "Cloth" is a breezy, nostalgic track examining the ups-and-downs of love with a "La-la-la" chorus that seems to recall Kanye's "Hey Mama." The uplifting "Celebrate" also recalls Late Registration-era West, which only further emphasizes how influential No I.D. has been on Kanye's sound.
The Dreamer/The Believer is a solid album that won't do much to tarnish Common's reputation and will help fan's forget the misstep that was Universal Mind Control, but its a set that's much easier to respect than it is to love. Its best moments are among some of Common's most personal and powerful musical moments to date, but too often, the rap veteran--who's nearing 20 years in the game--sounds stuck on auto-pilot. And when he does shake things up a bit, he still seems uncertain and unconvincing--like a guy desperately trying to prove a point.
And at this point in his career, Common should be done having to prove anything.
undun
3:00PM ET December 8th, 2011
Contributor: Todd Williams
A Rocky Williform Company
Rating:
Hip hop's history with concept albums is pretty spotty. The genre has its fair-share of classics within the genre, though the format isn't as embraced as it was in its classic rock heyday. There are some obvious reasons for that fact; hip hop has existed in the CD and mp3 eras; when music fans shuffle and program their own music choices and are less likely to sit and listen to an entire album from start to finish than their LP-raised parents were. But that doesn't mean there are no great hip hop concept albums; quite the contrary--from De La Soul Is Dead to Jay-Z's somewhat-underrated American Gangster, rappers have shown that they can wring as much narrative and contextual meaning out of a concept record as Pete Townshend or Ray Davies in their respective primes.
The Roots take a stab at the concept album format with their latest album undun. Named after a song by classic rockers the Guess Who, the album tells the story of Redford Stephens in reverse. The album begins with Stephens flatlining in a hospital before taking the listener on a journey of pathos, struggle and heartache as lived through the corner hustler's experiences.
With uber-rhymer Black Thought serving as primary protagonist and narrator of Stephens' story, you get some of the frontman's deftest raps to date and he effectively paints the portrait of Stephens' tragic life. The fact that the narrative never seems strained nor does it rob the listener of the chance to experience the music organically speaks volumes about Black Thought's abilities to tell a meaningful story. He doesn't bog the listener down with too many minute details in an effort to conventionally 'flesh-out' Stephens; instead, he drops mentions to the character's life and culture.
The Roots have recruited precious few guest stars, most of whom are regular collaborators like Dice Raw, Truck North and P.O.R.N. The Big K.R.I.T.-assisted "Make My" is a melancholy jewel of a song, with the Mississippi rapper blending seamlessly into the overall feel of album and adding to the concept instead of detracting from it, over a breezy groove that requires the sweetest of 60s soul.
As the albums moves from the gorgeous strings of "I Remember" to the darkly solemn "Tip the Scale" it builds towards a musical apex unlike anything heard on a hip hop album circa 2011: "The Redford Suite" a striking musical coda that closes the album in brilliant fashion, showcasing the band's musical gifts (particular ?uestlove's drumming abilities) and ending the album in a dramatic flurry of sound and emotion that only the Roots could pull off without seeming pretentious.
Musically channeling the warm, emotive funk and soul of classic Stevie Wonder and Sly Stone, undun also shares a kinship with classic rock staples like The Who's Quadrophenia and modern masterpieces like Green Day's American Idiot and the Flaming Lips' Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. There are few artists in hip hop that are still pushing themselves artistically after almost two decades, and even fewer succeed in producing a masterpiece as musically rich as The Roots undun.
Will Fans Ever Get To See Behind the Personas? 2:30PM ET December 7th, 2011 Contributor : Jecquea Howsie A Rocky Williform Company
Nicki Minaj crash landed onto the pop culture landscape a few years ago as a fresh-faced 24-year-old draped in jeans, a wife beater and Jordan’s, but just four short years later, the Barbie-clad emcee traded in her ‘around the way girl’ outfits for fried chicken necklaces, neon wigs and Strawberry Shortcake dresses.
Although her alter-egos initially had me laughing and guessing what she would come up with next; now I believe she’s nothing more than a gimmick.
Is it possible that Nicki and her Barbie mobile are nothing more than the remixed version of the ‘90s Queen Bee she desperately tries to distance herself from? Or is she the focus of a calculated marketing plan?
It’s fair to say that as artists progress musically, they also start expressing themselves the way they see fit. Lil Wayne went from Hot Boy to rap-rocker, Chris Brown went from teen pop star to pseudo-rapper/R&B tough guy. Whatever path an artists’ career takes, most still stay true to who they are at their core. Even during his early days with Cash Money Records, Wayne always displayed a willingness to experiment with different genres of music. And after the ‘Rihanna scandal’, Chris waved goodbye to the squeaky-clean image and embraced his anti-hero persona.
Questioning, or implying that Nicki is just as manufactured as her predecessor Lil’ Kim is an educated assumption, considering that Biggie practically modeled and shaped Kim into the artist she is today—even going as far as to write her rhymes early on in her career. However, one thing Kim has that Nicki lacks is relatability.
Usually there is a clear distinction between an artist’s on-stage persona and who they are in real life. So it’s no coincidence that Nicki Minaj is just one of the many characters Onika Maraj plans to unleash on the industry during the lifespan of her musical career.
The true answer probably lies in the fact that the world has yet to actually meet the real Nicki Minaj. Maybe the characters she portrays are a made up sum of who she thinks she is, or hopes to be.
Has Post-1996 Hip Hop Abandoned the Turntablist? 2:30PM ET December 1st, 2011 Contributor : Todd Williams A Rocky Williform Company
"Where's the DJ?"
The late, great Jam-Master Jay used to say that 'It ain't hip hop if there ain't no DJ," and while the rigidity of that statement may seem antiquated to a lot of contemporary rap fans, there was a time when it was entirely applicable. Hip hop has changed a lot since Run DMC were ruling the airwaves, but one under-discussed change in the culture is the demise of the DJ. Sure, the 'real hip hop' purists that dominate cyphers and showcases around the world still understand the importance of the man on the wheels, but for hip hop's mainstream, the DJ--and other aspects of 'classic hip hop'--have slowly been all but erased.
The Great Hip Hop Divide, generationally-speaking at least, seems to be 1996. That was the year the Death Row/Bad Boy feud escalated to ridiculous proportions, garnering numerous national headlines and dividing fan opinions from Brooklyn to Watts and all points in-between. The tragic killing of Tupac Shakur that September was one of the most talked-about stories of the year, and when Biggie died in March of 1997, hip hop fans reacted with understandable shock and grief over the loss of their two biggest icons.
But the aftermath of that feud and those twin murders slanted the perspective of hip hop audiences--in a way that seems to have created a chasm between late 90s/2000s hip hop fans and hip hop heads who remember what the landscape looked like before 2Pac and the Notorious B.I.G. were decreed the two bi-coastal pillars of rap music.
The late 90s emergence of Jay-Z is also significant. His popularity, along with the martyrdom of 2Pac and Biggie, have led to a generation of hip hop fans that are most familiar with the approach that 'The Trinity' used to make music. In the post-2Pac/Biggie/Jay-Z hip hop world, a DJ is more of a sideshow oddity and a top rapper has beats emailed to him and he just picks the ones he prefers to rock over. While this approach isn't 'new' at all, it has become the dominant approach and resulted in a generation of artists and fans who have a very limited notion of hip hop and artistry.
There are constant debates regarding who is the Alpha Male of hip hop currently. This is a decidedly post-1996 conversation. Prior to 2Pac and Biggie, hip hop's pinnacle was shared by groups and solo artists. Run DMC were hip hop's kings in the mid-1980s, with Public Enemy assuming the mantle as the 1990s dawned. Other collectives like N.W.A., A Tribe Called Quest and Wu-Tang Clan also emerged as pivotal forces in the genre. But it seems that groups began to die a slow death following the Death Row/Bad Boy beef. And while rap fans have argued about the best emcees since the genre's inception, the idea of who's 'running' hip hop became an ongoing topic after the dominance of the 'Super Solo' rhymer in the late 90s.
Rappers didn't want to be in groups anymore--they wanted to be kings.
The slow demise of hip hop groups led to another shift in the sensibility of hip hop fans; the idea of the self-contained hip hop group. A friend was watching the A Tribe Called Quest documentary, Beats Rhymes & Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest, and asked if Ali was a 'real' member of the group. They didn't understand why someone who didn't rap was in a rap group. In the first twenty years of hip hop's recorded history, the DJ was an indelible part of the music, culture and scene. Hip hop groups weren't just collectives of emcees--they were emcees, DJs and (many times) the producer/beatmaker was also a member of the group.
Groups like like Tribe, N.W.A., Wu-Tang Clan and more never had to go outside of themselves for producers; the producer was in the group. And the DJ was always included. MC/DJ duos were very common as well, with the DJ's name almost always listed first--a testament to the turntablist's importance to the hip hop aesthetic. Even solo rappers like LL Cool J and Big Daddy Kane made a point to shout-out their DJs on a fairly consistent basis.
As more and more artists and fans fill up the blogs, Twitter and various message boards with their opinions on who are the best rappers today; it would benefit the genre for everyone to get more familiar with what was happening before 1996. Broaden the horizons of hip hop's future by understanding and celebrating its past.
