Qureshi Flip the Script

How Women Came to Rule Hip Hop
1. Auflage 2021
ISBN: 978-1-912489-31-2
Verlag: 404 Ink
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, Band 6, 96 Seiten

Reihe: Inklings

Flip the Script showcases some of the best rappers currently making music in the UK. It has taken a significant amount of time for women to get recognition in the genre, even though there have been phenomenal women in hip hop since its beginnings in the Bronx in the 1970s - but why did we take so long in the UK? Flip the Script gets to know the women who have paved the way, the successes and experiences of those that shape the thriving scene we have today. Arusa goes in depth with a number of female rappers who are making waves right now to find out about their relationships with hip hop, why they were attracted to the scene, what their thoughts are on the future of the genre and whether or not they feel a sense of belonging. Using her own research, and with reference to pioneers and critical theory, she explores hip hop's history of misogyny and how women have traditionally been looked over by their peers, and celebrates the brilliant icons who have made this one of the most exciting genres to be part of. A must read for fans of music, feminism, and culture.

Arusa Qureshi is a writer and editor with a particular focus on music, diversity and accessibility within arts and culture. She was formerly the Editor of UK entertainment and events guide The List, and her work has appeared in Bella Caledonia, gal-dem, the Guardian, GoldFlakePaint and more.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Qureshi, Arusa

Leseproben

Introduction: Bad bitch alert

Hip hop is an art form that originated in the margins, and can be simultaneously devastating and celebratory; an expression of pain, love and desire or an ode to the other, the underdog and the underground. It is empower-
ment and subversion, but also full of contradictions and unresolved controversy. It’s all of these things and much more. For me though, it’s the crucial association with social movements, revolutionary campaigns and cultural awareness, as well as protest and activism, that proves that hip hop can be a safe haven, especially for the oppressed.

Hip hop has always been something of a safe haven for me. Many would likely consider this an unusual statement to make, with a phrase like ‘safe haven’ perhaps
viewed as the antithesis to hip hop, but creatively, mentally and emotionally, it has been the place that I’ve landed throughout my adult life when my mind is in desperate need of a boost. My own connection to hip hop was forged in the ‘90s and early ‘00s, where I grew up with a music taste largely defined by an older sister who gravitated towards R&B and hip hop as a teenager. I remember vividly dancing around our living room while MTV blasted out music videos by the likes of TLC, Biggie and Aaliyah – just a few of our favourites. One of my earliest memories of my little brother also strangely revolves around the genre. Struggling to sleep as a newborn, we soon discovered that he had a natural fascination with the aforementioned music videos. So, my sister taped a random selection that were on heavy rotation, including 2Pac’s ‘Changes’, Missy Elliott’s ‘Get Ur Freak On’ and OutKast’s ‘Ms. Jackson’, and my brother would be gently rocked to sleep against the soothing backdrop of gangsta rap and alternative hip hop. This unorthodox method would have him snoring away in less than fifteen minutes and so began the legacy of ‘The Tape’. Why my fairly traditional, Muslim, South Asian mother encouraged this, I’ll never fully understand. But I think she secretly really liked Missy Elliott.

We were the type of first generation immigrant kids that naturally rebelled against our parents’ desire to assimilate into their South Asian heritage and so we looked to music and TV instead for a different cultural fix. We brushed off Bollywood in favour of American hip hop and shunned our parents’ Asian sitcoms and soaps for The Fresh Prince of Bel Air and Sister Sister. Black American culture spoke to us and, growing up in Scotland with very few brown people around, it was our only immediate bridge to other people of colour. Sure, it wasn’t our culture and it wasn’t about our experiences, but there was something in hip hop in particular that made me feel like it was okay to be the only brown person in the room.

My own teens were dominated by an all-consuming love for Nirvana and everything grunge but in the background, hip hop was always there. When I was around fifteen, I started writing, mostly silly poems and rambling essays about music, but I was also obsessed with pulling apart lyrics, trying to really understand what was being said and why. The Golden Age of hip hop was where I found most comfort at this point; the stylistic innovations, eclectic cadences and fast rhymes of the era drawing me in like no other form. This deep-seated interest never left me, only intensifying as I learnt more about the originators and pioneers of the genre, as well as what was happening in the present, in contemporary hip hop.

It all reached a climax at university. I took my interest a step further and wrote my undergraduate dissertation on the form. Studying English Literature, hip hop came up in exactly one slide in one lecture on vernacular poetry, but that was all the permission I needed. Sadly, my supervisor didn’t see it that way. He encouraged me to switch topics, commenting, “I don’t understand the point of hip hop. I don’t mind Jay-Z too much though…”

There were no people of colour on the department’s teaching staff and I felt as if I wasn’t taken seriously with my ‘lofty’ hip hop academia. Being determined (and desperate to stick it to the old white man who dismissed me), I went for it anyway. The topic? Defiance in hip hop. I’ve never felt as passionate about researching and writing something as I did that dissertation, and it sparked a lifelong dream to write about music professionally and academically. Which leads me quite nicely to the title of this introduction: Bad Bitch Alert.

In 2015, I was commissioned to write my first article for The List magazine. The article ‘Bad Bitch Alert’ was my take on how female MCs – including Lizzo and Leikeli47 – were challenging hip hop’s male reign. Women have occupied a vital space in hip hop from its very beginnings in the Bronx in the ‘70s but men have always dominated in one way or another, with gendered hierarchies becoming ingrained in the genre itself. I was lucky in that I was exposed to everyone from Salt-N-Pepa and Left Eye to Queen Latifah and Missy Elliott early on thanks to my older sister. Women were very much a big part of everything I knew about hip hop and, in many ways, the reason I started falling for hip hop in the first place. Seeing not only people of colour but women of colour on screen – powerful, confident and completely in control – contributed to what I believed was possible for us growing up. It contributed to my idea of this safe haven. It was obvious, though, in terms of the videos that were being played on loop on MTV and the rappers that were climbing the charts who was ruling the roost. I didn’t care though. Before I knew anything about misogyny or stereotypes, hip hop was female empower-
ment epitomised.

When I came to write that article, armed with years of research and analysis on the precarious relationship between women and hip hop over the past few decades, I really did believe that something was changing in the pecking order. I still do, all these years later. But crucially, it’s not just changing where it all began in the US.

Despite being the geographical focus of Flip the Script, the UK hasn’t made a significant appearance yet – there’s a reason for that. Since my childhood was so heavily governed by American pop culture, I didn’t listen to or really know what was happening in the UK scene. It wasn’t until I reached my late teens that I started to properly appreciate the sheer strength and vivacity of UK hip hop and its various iterations. People like Roots Manuva, Klashnekoff and Ms. Dynamite were just some of the artists rightfully taking up space in my music collection and playlists, but it took some time. When I was finally able to go back and delve a bit deeper into how the country adopted this Black American art form, I realised that it wasn’t just a case of adoption, it was the creation and restyling of a genre that spoke to an audience with a very specific social and political history. Many early UK rappers attempted to mimic the American sound, down to the accent, because it was popular and could potentially lead to commercial success. There were others, like the formidable London Posse, who took this genre of music from the Bronx and transplanted it into a very distinct and localised context, speaking for a generation of Black Brits born and raised in the UK. The descendants of the Windrush Generation and their part in sound system culture played a key role in the formation of UK hip hop, giving it a unique and authentic narrative that reflected the socio-political landscape, while still engaging with core themes found in its American roots like racism, violence, poverty and justice.

What always strikes me is how few women are included in any historical analysis of the genre or ‘best of all-time’ lists in the UK when, just like in the US, women have been in attendance since day one. It’s not about women not existing; it’s about visibility and often erasure. If hip hop is a vital cultural force and haven for the oppressed, how are the voices of many core figures so easily forgotten?

As I’ve continued towards my goals of hip hop scholarship, I’ve increasingly felt drawn to celebrating these voices and the genre keeps giving me all the more reason to. The unbelievable level of skill and finesse we’re currently seeing bubbling up in UK hip hop, especially from women, only accelerated in a year marked by lockdowns, cancellations and postponements. The winners of both the Scottish Album of the Year Award and the Welsh Music Prize in 2020 were female rappers, Nova and Deyah respectively. It indicated a seismic shift in both the music industry’s mentality towards women – with emphasis on women of colour – and the general public’s approach to hip hop as a respected and valued art form. More, it hinted at how UK hip hop cannot and should not be viewed exclusively through the lens of its capital city. Hip hop can be that bridge for many people to other cultures, as it was for me growing up in Scotland. Within these regional scenes, women are not only thriving, but importantly, dominating and leading the charge.

When I wrote that Bad Bitch Alert article, Nicki Minaj had already been nominated for seven Grammy Awards. Soon, Cardi B would release her first full-length project and Megan Thee Stallion was close behind with her debut single. It was a good time commercially for women in hip hop and this has snowballed since. This is where I feel we are with hip hop in the UK – at the cusp of something incredible. It’s time to embrace the changing of the guard.

Flip the Script is a homage to the women who are innovating and revitalising the genre,...