Rockin' On The Beat Box: My Memories of Mid-Eighties Rap
"I
don't waste my talent/my talent is ample/And if
you don't believe me/ then here is an example The words that I used by
means of the brain/ transformed into words that can never be plain"
Just
Call Us Def---Steady B (1985)
"Fresh is the word/that's how I'm described
and so sweet is the rap/ of what I prescribe"
and so sweet is the rap/ of what I prescribe"
Fresh
Is The Word---Mantronix (1985)
"Biggest
rap/no crap/I do not sing
You wanna show/let me
know/just gimme a ring"
Together Forever (Live at Hollis Park '84)-Run-DMC
Today's streaming era reminds me of mid-eighties rap. It was about the single. Back when a 12- inch rap record's durability knew no end. The good old days when a hot song could rock for an entire year, the way records like Rapper's Delight, The Breaks, Feel The Heartbeat, The Message and Planet Rock marked time to hip hop's chronological beat.
These seminal records help kick off the era of indie labels run by Blacks, White ethnics and Jews---a throwback to the days of early R&B/rock-and-roll (dubious contracts included). These imprints had colorful names like Enjoy and Sugar Hill. Tommy Boy and Prism. Sleeping Bag, Profile and Reality. Vintertainment and Pop Art. Beauty and the Beat. Select and Next Plateau. Cold Chillin' and Def Jam.
Some labels had staying power of an NBA journeyman. Others came and went faster than a draft pick bust. One and done.
From these labels sprang songs like MC Shan's The Bridge and Run-DMC's Together Forever (Live
at Hollis Park '84). were a powerful sonic blitzkrieg strong enough to topple
the Statue of Liberty. There was no doubt they touched listeners of all hues but clearly they were soundtrack for YBMs---young Black (and Latino) men
in their teens and early twenties. There was something special about mid-Eighties rap for the first time. There weren't many videos out but it didn't matter. I found joy in anonymity set to high decibel DMX or 808 drum machines shattering post-soul R&B to pieces. Rap music in this pre-sample era was loud. It bounced through inner-city hoods like a signal from a cell tower, roaming through New York's five boroughs and beyond.
Act I: Genesis (1982-1984)
Drum breaks like rocker Robin Trower's Big Beat and the Headhunters' God Made Me Funky were the wind beneath emcees' lyrical wings. The arrival of one record pointed towards the future. It was Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five's Flash to the Beat, a legendary routine-turned-rap record featured sounds from an old Vox Percussion King proto-drum machine. Flash purchased it for $125 from his drummer neighbor. Instead of calling the equipment by its name, he christened it the "beat box."
Legendary producer Ron Lawrence's memoir Where I'm From: Growing Up Hip Hop captures the moment he first heard Flash to the Beat while hanging out in East Elmhurst's 127 Park. Already on a high from recently seeing his hip hop heroes at Harlem World, Flash to the Beat would change his life. "My man Ruff pulled out the latest tape he got from Harlem. The Furious Five were rocking a dope routine. As usual, it was hot but something was different. They weren't rocking to breakbeats. They were rocking to a drum manchine. My crew and I gathered around the boom box that day. We lost our minds."
During an interview with hip hop historian Jay Quan, Flash recalled that "the sound didn't catch on to the masses." He insisted that his sound would catch on later via the human beatbox sound popularized by Doug E. Fresh, the Fat Boys and Biz Markie. "It went to sleep and re-emerged with people doing with their mouths. "So the human beatbox is people emulating something that I created. I just want people to know that."
Due to high costs, electronic equipment was out of reach to rappers in the late 70s/early 80s. Drum machines were pretty much the domain of studio producers/artists from other genres with deep pockets. When rap music made the jump from wax, early rap labels used live bands to replicate the music. Run-D.M.C.'s Sucker MCs was supposed to follow the same model. Producer Larry Smith lacked the budget for musicians and used an Oberheim DX machine instead. The record was a game-changer.
On the heels of Sucker MCs were T La Rock's It's Yours and LL Cool J's I Need A Beat. There were no keyboard sounds. No singing. No hooks. These songs were like a nude sculpture, hard as ceramic and stripped down to a sonic nakedness. The forceful beats and nimble raps gave the records a bounce like a trampoline. Early rap records had a sinewy funkiness but these jams were taut like a rubber band.
The sound of these records were orchestrated by Bronx dj Jazzy Jay and two rap music fans from Long Island and Manhattan---Rick Rubin and Beastie Boy Adam Horvitz. Their collaborative were the catalyst for the Def Jam "slow and low" sound. They were engineered by Steve Ett, the label's residential sound man who held court in Chung King Studios. Ett's technical and rock-and-roll chops were instrumental in shaping the sonic quality of Run-D.M.C. LL, The Beastie Boys and Public Enemy's albums.
Def Jam's consistency, prolific releases and high profile acts cemented its reputation as rap's most dominant label of the era. There were other major players. Over in Philly, Schooly D and Code Money's TR909 earth-shaking boom inspired the Def Jam sound. Mantronix sonic power was strong enough to crush boulders.
Then there was Larry Smith---rap's first super-producer. Working his magic on Whodini and Run-D.M.C, the music he made for Whodini's platinum-selling Escape had heavy drum kicks that were crisp as a fresh stack of banded Franklins.
Songs like Run-D.M.C's Jam Master Jay had a sound so "nervous" that party people in the Disco Fever up in the Bronx would spill their sniff coke when the record came on. As Run-D.M.C. and Whodini were dominating the scene with their unique musical styles in 1984 and 1985, Sugar Hill productions stuck to their old and dying formula. On the retooled Grandmaster Melle Melle and the Furious Five's Step Off, Melle---hip hop's reigning king wagged his finger at the new school with a rhyme that sounded it like it came from the heavens. Unfortuanately, the musicians and singer's interpolation of Gamble and Huff's For The Love of Money sucked Melle's verse of all its potency.
Act II: Amazing Bass How Sweet the Sound
Act I: Genesis (1982-1984)
Drum breaks like rocker Robin Trower's Big Beat and the Headhunters' God Made Me Funky were the wind beneath emcees' lyrical wings. The arrival of one record pointed towards the future. It was Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five's Flash to the Beat, a legendary routine-turned-rap record featured sounds from an old Vox Percussion King proto-drum machine. Flash purchased it for $125 from his drummer neighbor. Instead of calling the equipment by its name, he christened it the "beat box."
Legendary producer Ron Lawrence's memoir Where I'm From: Growing Up Hip Hop captures the moment he first heard Flash to the Beat while hanging out in East Elmhurst's 127 Park. Already on a high from recently seeing his hip hop heroes at Harlem World, Flash to the Beat would change his life. "My man Ruff pulled out the latest tape he got from Harlem. The Furious Five were rocking a dope routine. As usual, it was hot but something was different. They weren't rocking to breakbeats. They were rocking to a drum manchine. My crew and I gathered around the boom box that day. We lost our minds."
During an interview with hip hop historian Jay Quan, Flash recalled that "the sound didn't catch on to the masses." He insisted that his sound would catch on later via the human beatbox sound popularized by Doug E. Fresh, the Fat Boys and Biz Markie. "It went to sleep and re-emerged with people doing with their mouths. "So the human beatbox is people emulating something that I created. I just want people to know that."
Due to high costs, electronic equipment was out of reach to rappers in the late 70s/early 80s. Drum machines were pretty much the domain of studio producers/artists from other genres with deep pockets. When rap music made the jump from wax, early rap labels used live bands to replicate the music. Run-D.M.C.'s Sucker MCs was supposed to follow the same model. Producer Larry Smith lacked the budget for musicians and used an Oberheim DX machine instead. The record was a game-changer.
On the heels of Sucker MCs were T La Rock's It's Yours and LL Cool J's I Need A Beat. There were no keyboard sounds. No singing. No hooks. These songs were like a nude sculpture, hard as ceramic and stripped down to a sonic nakedness. The forceful beats and nimble raps gave the records a bounce like a trampoline. Early rap records had a sinewy funkiness but these jams were taut like a rubber band.
The sound of these records were orchestrated by Bronx dj Jazzy Jay and two rap music fans from Long Island and Manhattan---Rick Rubin and Beastie Boy Adam Horvitz. Their collaborative were the catalyst for the Def Jam "slow and low" sound. They were engineered by Steve Ett, the label's residential sound man who held court in Chung King Studios. Ett's technical and rock-and-roll chops were instrumental in shaping the sonic quality of Run-D.M.C. LL, The Beastie Boys and Public Enemy's albums.
Def Jam's consistency, prolific releases and high profile acts cemented its reputation as rap's most dominant label of the era. There were other major players. Over in Philly, Schooly D and Code Money's TR909 earth-shaking boom inspired the Def Jam sound. Mantronix sonic power was strong enough to crush boulders.
Then there was Larry Smith---rap's first super-producer. Working his magic on Whodini and Run-D.M.C, the music he made for Whodini's platinum-selling Escape had heavy drum kicks that were crisp as a fresh stack of banded Franklins.
Songs like Run-D.M.C's Jam Master Jay had a sound so "nervous" that party people in the Disco Fever up in the Bronx would spill their sniff coke when the record came on. As Run-D.M.C. and Whodini were dominating the scene with their unique musical styles in 1984 and 1985, Sugar Hill productions stuck to their old and dying formula. On the retooled Grandmaster Melle Melle and the Furious Five's Step Off, Melle---hip hop's reigning king wagged his finger at the new school with a rhyme that sounded it like it came from the heavens. Unfortuanately, the musicians and singer's interpolation of Gamble and Huff's For The Love of Money sucked Melle's verse of all its potency.
First generation emcee Reggie Reg
was signed to Sugar Hill Records with his Harlem group the Crash Crew during
this period when Roland and Linn drum tracks were leaving his label behind.
Sitting for an interview for writer/filmmaker Charlie Ahearn's book Yes Yes
Ya'll: The Oral History of Hip Hop's First Decade, Reg remembers Sugar Hill's
reluctance to upgrade their sound. "Def Jam was a newer fresher label.
They weren't doing the old stuff Sugar Hill was doing. We used to plead with
them, yo we need a drum machine. Forget that live drum player you got there. We
need a 808. We need to make it electronic. And they didn't want to
change."
Act II: Amazing Bass How Sweet the Sound
The music celebrated the strength of the crew and the posse---the term lifted from the Western film genre from which the Jamaican rude
bwoy/gun-man culture also sprung. The music was the soundtrack of stone-faced home-boys who in
another life could have been bow-tied FOIs or tougher-than-leather clad Black Panthers keeping America all shook up like Elvis Presley.
It signaled the return of stoic Black masculinity lost at sea since the post-blaxploitation film era. Public Enemy's ear-splitting Too Much Posse featuring Flavor Flav sums things up perfectly:
"What do ya gotta say about this
A force so strong that ya can't resist
You may as well as join'em
You can't beat 'em
past a hundered people
ya know ya gonna need 'em
to all the posses trynna out-posse
yo! we got the stuff that will scatter ya brains
from here to White Plains!
We got the stuff you just can't %$ with!
It signaled the return of stoic Black masculinity lost at sea since the post-blaxploitation film era. Public Enemy's ear-splitting Too Much Posse featuring Flavor Flav sums things up perfectly:
"What do ya gotta say about this
A force so strong that ya can't resist
You may as well as join'em
You can't beat 'em
past a hundered people
ya know ya gonna need 'em
to all the posses trynna out-posse
yo! we got the stuff that will scatter ya brains
from here to White Plains!
We got the stuff you just can't %$ with!
These posse deep devotionals were usually heard
from the booming systems rattling from the trunks of Motor City grown-man
chariots turned homeboy cars: Oldsmobile 98s, Buick Regals and Park Avenues and
Caddy Sevilles and Eldorados. Massive boom-boxes were a must. Derogatively known as ghetto
blasters, they were tuned to high-level frequencies and sucked the life out
of D batteries like Dracula.
Act III: From The Mouth That Roared
"Rap deals. It's abrasive. It doesn't hide shit.
R&B hides shit. It's Barry Manilow.
It's Frank Sinatra."
---Chuck D (1988)
"Rap deals. It's abrasive. It doesn't hide shit.
R&B hides shit. It's Barry Manilow.
It's Frank Sinatra."
---Chuck D (1988)
"Treat her like a prostitute/don't treat no
girlie well/Until you're sure
of the scoop/Cause all they do
is hurt and trample"
Treat
Her Like A Prostitute---(1986)
If you wonder where Brand Nubian emcee Lord Jamar's comments about female rappers came from, look no further than mid-80s rap. Consisting of one-note declarations of lyrical supremacy and DJ shout-outs, they basically represented the point of view of young male listeners. The music was brash. It had sexist overtones. There was profanity. Females loved rap, but whenever they needed a respite from all the macho posturing, sex talk and female
put-downs, they hit the
lobby for a taste of New Edition's popcorn love while the homeboys stayed for the
hardcore main feature.
Then there were those adult thirty and forty somethings raised on Stevie Wonder's Golden Lady and Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes' Ebony
Woman now tuned into Anita Baker and Luther Vandross' quiet storm. They had no
love for chilling soundtracks like Schooly D's PSK featuring
homicidal lyrics like "sucka-ass nigga/I should shoot you
dead." Antoxicated by 80s champagne-and-roses R&B, they were equally repulsed by explicit tales detailing
sexual intercourse with "skeezers."
They say with age comes wisdom. It also comes with
amnesia too. The kind rap critics are afflicted with when they fail to link rap's bawdy humor to their beloved brown paper "blue" party albums of
the 60s and 70s or risqué tongue-in-cheek proto-raps from funk groups:
"Jack and Jill went up the hill
to
have a little fun
stupid Jill/forgot her pill
and now they
have a son
I Don't Wanna Believe You Wanna Get Up
And Dance(Oops Upside Your Head) (1979). (The Gap Band
"There was a man from Peru
who went to sleep in his canoe/he was
dreaming with Venus
and took out his penis
and woke up with a hand full of
goo"
Take Your Dead Ass Home (1976) Funkadelic
Circa '86, if a young rap fan searched their parents' record collections for breakbeat fodder, they would have unearthed psuedo-erotic album covers and sexy
soft-porn anthems like The Moments' Sexy Mama, Sylvia's Pillow Talk
and Sweet Stuff. And let's not forget about the orgasmic erotica of Major Harris' Love
Won't Let Me Wait and Leon Haywood's I Wanna Do Somethin Freaky To You.
On the outside looking in, mainstream America critiqued rap music's lyrical content, conveniently forgetting double standards from the past. Beneath the Rat Pack's buttoned-up Vegas veneer was a
booze-driven world centered around the sexual conquest of "hookers and
broads."
Guilty fingerprints of sex-drugs-and rock and roll have been wiped clean by revisionist history detailed in books like Pamela Des Barres' I'm With The Band: Confessions of a Groupie. Even worse were later accusations from rap elitists blaming the West Coast/ Southern Rap for low-brow content contaminating hip hop. They seem to overlook rap's decadent catalog during the Reagan era---harmless to my teenaged ears but would have never been released in today's #metoo and #timesup climate.
Guilty fingerprints of sex-drugs-and rock and roll have been wiped clean by revisionist history detailed in books like Pamela Des Barres' I'm With The Band: Confessions of a Groupie. Even worse were later accusations from rap elitists blaming the West Coast/ Southern Rap for low-brow content contaminating hip hop. They seem to overlook rap's decadent catalog during the Reagan era---harmless to my teenaged ears but would have never been released in today's #metoo and #timesup climate.
"Ice-T said best in his statement--albums are
meant to be put in a time capsule sealed up and sent out to space so
when you look back you can say that's the total reflection" ---Chuck D (1997)
Before the backlash of the reality show craze, Public Enemy
dressed down female obsession with soap operas on She Watch Channel Zero
and brashly chastised promiscuous women on Sophisticated Bitch ("Nasty
girl, stone freak/stayin' in the bed /a whole goddam week").
There was Whodini's Nasty Lady ("I didn't
have no money/so she did it free")and groupie love anthem I’m A Ho (“I
rock three different freaks/after every show”). Stetsaonic's Faye was an ode to group sex
(“Whose date will you be?/one/two/makes no difference to me”).
Just Ice's This Girl's A Slut was a
literal PSA about the dangers of STDs.(“She’s got crabbies up her butt”). LL
Cool J dressed down Dear Yvette ("Somethin's smellin' fishy/and
they say its you/all I know is you made it with the whole damn crew").
The B-Boys’ Girls was both a celebration and
put-down of female promiscuity (“There is Nita/ragged by Skeeter/rocked by
Matt/dogged by Peter”). Bad Boys featuring K-Love's Veronica was
probably the raunchiest of all. Decades before parental advisory stickers, it came with an X-rated label stating that the record could only be purchased by an adult.
In'87, Rick had a unique take on his Treat Her Like A Prostitute's
similar content:
"A lot of girls don't like it because they
think I am being too harsh or too vain. But really I am just trying to look out
for boys alone because no one girl will look out for boys unless it someone's
mother. Say there's a girl that you like but you don't know nothing about her.
The best way to find out if she is a nice girl or a tramp is to treat her like
a tramp first. But if you treat her good first you will never know."
Over a decade later---older and wiser, Rick reflects
on the mental psyche of a 21-year old rapper scarred by low self-esteem.
Beneath the bravado was a divided soul trapped by lingering insecurities of his
youth:
"I was bitter and bent...I had gotten played
different times and I thought these girls liked me and I find out that they
were with the next guy....See a nice girl, you get a little sexually involved
and you probably think the girl is into you because she gave herself sexually
to you and she's like Ugh..Whatever! You're so open. you're treasuring the
moment and shit. And you ain't no Denzel Washington! You skinny! I tried every
trick in the book to hide my eye. Different glasses. The Ray-Bans. But sometime
the Ray-Bans gotta come off. So sooner or later, they lost interest or reality
took its course and they weren't attracted. Back in the day, they were
cold-blooded. they didn't care! Be sure of the scoop! Was what I was
saying."
FINIS: A CHANGE IS GONNA COME
Back in the seventies, love was the message. By the early-to-mid Eighties, fresh was the word. As the decade ended, the album format continued to expand rap's lyrical content. Like a baby's first steps, it started with a verse or two. Then the pace quickened. Now, entire songs emerged, adressing a range of social issues. In'82, the Furious Five thumbed their nose at The Message's serious overtones. What was atypical four or five years ago was now the norm. Some of the emerging styles bore regional fruit that was bittersweet: racism, crack addiction, and chilling tales of gangs life and police brutality.
In '87 Chuck D had watched the parade go by. At 27, he was nearly a decade older than most rappers. He tired of the "get stupid/get dumb" and wanted rap music to aspire to build "gold brains" instead of "gold chains." He sensed a change in the air. His first album had gone with the grain. Now he wanted to go against it. It would take a nation of millions to sway him from his new agenda:
"Two years ago, black kids used to think that saying nothing was alright; getting a gold chain, a dukey rope, was dope, the dope shit; its alright to sniff a little coke; get nice for the moment; get in my fly ride and do anything to get it; even if it means stomping the next man; cause I got to look out for number one. Its alright for a drug dealer to be making money, its alright for a dude to sell drugs; its alright cause he's making money. 1988, its a different thought, Because consciousness has been raised where people are saying the gold rope don't mean shit."
Nothing was ever the same. LL and Run's high-octane boasts seemed little hollow now. James Brown's funky drumming retired my rapid-fire machine gun funk. Mid-eighties rap became a one-term president lost in the shadows of Golden Era hip hop's game-changing consecutive terms. There will never be a year like '88. Nineties boom-bap/corporate rap is the stuff of legend. For my money, mid-Eighties rap is where its at.
One day awhile ago I was sitting in my car blasting LL's Radio with the windows closed. The bass was loud it could blow my Bose. While I was mentally genuflecting to the holy trinity of LL's rhymes, Steve Ett's mix and Rick Rubin's beats, a young brother came to me and asked who I was listening to. When I told him, he was shocked. His reply was quick. "When did this come out? What year is this? That's nice." Immediately, I was transformed back to Flavor Flav circa '87: The brother don't swear he's nice. He knows he's nice!" Instead, I let Todd have the final word. "I am in-fil-tra-ting your eardrums/in-crea-sing their rate of vibration."
FINIS: A CHANGE IS GONNA COME
Back in the seventies, love was the message. By the early-to-mid Eighties, fresh was the word. As the decade ended, the album format continued to expand rap's lyrical content. Like a baby's first steps, it started with a verse or two. Then the pace quickened. Now, entire songs emerged, adressing a range of social issues. In'82, the Furious Five thumbed their nose at The Message's serious overtones. What was atypical four or five years ago was now the norm. Some of the emerging styles bore regional fruit that was bittersweet: racism, crack addiction, and chilling tales of gangs life and police brutality.
In '87 Chuck D had watched the parade go by. At 27, he was nearly a decade older than most rappers. He tired of the "get stupid/get dumb" and wanted rap music to aspire to build "gold brains" instead of "gold chains." He sensed a change in the air. His first album had gone with the grain. Now he wanted to go against it. It would take a nation of millions to sway him from his new agenda:
"Two years ago, black kids used to think that saying nothing was alright; getting a gold chain, a dukey rope, was dope, the dope shit; its alright to sniff a little coke; get nice for the moment; get in my fly ride and do anything to get it; even if it means stomping the next man; cause I got to look out for number one. Its alright for a drug dealer to be making money, its alright for a dude to sell drugs; its alright cause he's making money. 1988, its a different thought, Because consciousness has been raised where people are saying the gold rope don't mean shit."
Nothing was ever the same. LL and Run's high-octane boasts seemed little hollow now. James Brown's funky drumming retired my rapid-fire machine gun funk. Mid-eighties rap became a one-term president lost in the shadows of Golden Era hip hop's game-changing consecutive terms. There will never be a year like '88. Nineties boom-bap/corporate rap is the stuff of legend. For my money, mid-Eighties rap is where its at.
One day awhile ago I was sitting in my car blasting LL's Radio with the windows closed. The bass was loud it could blow my Bose. While I was mentally genuflecting to the holy trinity of LL's rhymes, Steve Ett's mix and Rick Rubin's beats, a young brother came to me and asked who I was listening to. When I told him, he was shocked. His reply was quick. "When did this come out? What year is this? That's nice." Immediately, I was transformed back to Flavor Flav circa '87: The brother don't swear he's nice. He knows he's nice!" Instead, I let Todd have the final word. "I am in-fil-tra-ting your eardrums/in-crea-sing their rate of vibration."
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