When asked I tell people that I’m a music connoisseur. It sounds good in mixed company and elevates my status socially, sort of like saying that I like Jazz, the Ballet and Sushi. I was only half bullshitting when I confessed to having an affinity to vinyl, later the cassette and then the CD. I really do like music. I do, or I did, but then something catastrophic happened. Something that sent me over the edge forever tainting me with the dirty knowledge that I was a pretender and wasn’t really a music lover at all. How could I be when I could abandon the medium with just the slightest provocation?
I love to dance, twitch, rock my hips and tap my feet to anything that has a semblance of a beat. Some people like the lyrics but I’m a slave to the rhythm. It makes me want to shake something. In another life I would have been a dancer. More Crazy Legs— Rock Steady Crew and less Alvin Ailey. It would have been all the same to me. Music made me happy. But then some obscure teenager ruined everything for me. With the creation of one song, Hip Hop, and thereafter all music, was dead to me. I swore not to listen to anything created past 2003. I hold the rapper Hurricane Chris responsible for the assassination of my love of music with the creation of one song. The air play of the song entitled, She’s Fine (Halle Berry) forever convinced me that new music was pointless and ridiculous. I enter into evidence the song lyrics:
♪She fine den a bitch, ass and her tits
Thick in tha hips, every nig want her
Call her Halle Berry, Halle berry
Halle Berry, Halle berry
She walkin like a model
Hands on your knees
Scrub the ground
She aint nothing but a tease
Halle Berry, Halle berry
Halle Berry, Halle berry ♪
I don’t mean to be all old-school and get all Prince, nineteen-ninety nine on y’all but I think Super Sistah is getting old. When I start complaining like my mother that they just don’t make good music anymore, then I know my ass is getting decrepit. I like hip-hop, really I do, I like dancehall, I love me some R& B, but to keep it real and tell you the full one hundred, I must admit that I stopped listening to the new stuff long ago; Chris was just the last straw. I couldn’t take it, the nonsense people were spitting and calling it rhymes started polluting my ears. Yes, yes, I know, I must be ancient right? Not really. Super Sistah was born to generation X. Translation? I remember Michael Jackson both black and white. It means that back in the day I felt I knew LL Cool J personally. It means that I was there when Hip-Hop breathed its first breath. I know my jams. After the Hurricane Chris tragedy, I tried taking some Viagra for the ears, just enough to give me the stamina to rejoin the new millennium musically. This time the rapper Trina and her song “White Girl” is to blame for ruining the reconciliation.
I know that the white girl is on many a black woman’s mind as they dance off with football player after football player, NBA stud after NBA stud and with our High School boyfriends, but do they really need their own theme song? Is Trina’s rendition of White Girl supposed to be like Lil Wayne’s Party like a Rock star? Implying again, partying like white people is way more cool? Are they wilder than us in the Y2K+10? Only the diehard party goers, music aficionados and those addicted to Sirius radio truly know. As for me, I miss the good old days, in that I mean the nineties, when they played music that I could comprehend lyrically.
Is Hip-Hop Dead? Is there any music worth the price of the CD? Give me some examples of something that Super Sistah can jam to without the temptation to rip off her cape and jump off the nearest bridge.