Everything is Hip Hop
You are a hip hop diehard. To you, hip hop has been the single most powerful cultural influence in your life. You’ve devoted years of your life, minutes or hours at a time, ingesting, absorbing, analyzing, memorizing, imitating, creating, discussing, and just plain loving the music, the rhymes, the rhythms, the art, and the essence of hip hop.
Tonight, you are attending a true hip hop party. You hop the MUNI at 11:30pm, on your way to Club 6 south of Market. One transfer and a short walk down 6th Street later, as you approach the club, you see the eclectic mix of hip hop heads milling about in front of the club. Though it’s late, the heat of the day has not dissipated, and you are comfortable - warm even - in your thin short sleeve shirt. Moments later, your friends hop out of a cab and cross the street and you are greeted by hugs and a pound. You turn, all four of you falling in line, each then paying the $15 cover charge, then you’re wrist is stamped with an unintelligible mark in blue ink. Inside, the high ceilings don’t seem to provide much relief from the immense heat of the day, but your enthusiasm is lifted with the sounds of true hip hop emanating from the sound system. By the time you make it to the long bar running the full length of the spacious room, your forehead is already drenched in sweat. No matter - the crowd is beautiful and your drink is strong, thanks to your pocket-sized stainless flask. A few introductions later, your friends suggest a foray to room downstairs, where the evening’s featured DJ will be performing.
Across the room you walk, between gyrating hips and designer jeans, reaching the back of the club and the stairwell descending below you. This lower room is dark, lit dimly with red incandescent and fluorescent fixtures haphazardly located on the low ceiling. The heat. Oh, the heat. The heat of a sauna, without all the steam. But the energy is contagious, the beats are absolutely ridiculous: nonstop bangin’, true hip hop, with the song changing before the chorus can be repeated. But ohhh, the heat. Are these people serious?! Without a doubt, they are serious. Within moments, you too are dead serious, intoxicated by the vibe and the music and the utter purity of it all. The crowd is thick but not too thick, a perfect, beautiful, and eclectic Bay Area mix of ages, shapes, skin tones, and economics. All with one thing in common: we are in love with the music.
See, it’s DJ Jazzy Jeff rocking the ones and twos. It’s insane. The man, his skill, his music selection, it’s like nothing you’ve heard. No, he is not Q-Bert. But you know his style: you once memorized every cut, scratch, and sample from his & the Fresh Prince’s first record “He’s The DJ, I’m the Rapper.” You groove, you see some friends and give ‘em a pound. Once or twice, you head back upstairs for momentary oxygen replenishment. But you are happy, even in the oppressive heat.
Eventually, you force your way up to the front of the crowd, next to the turntables. You are standing two or three feet from Jeff. You watch him as he picks out the wax, places it on the 1200, and then in a single motion locates the groove and beat he’s looking for. Three seconds later, he has the tempo adjusted and he starts scratching: perfect, syncopated, groovy, original. Then, when the fourth bar is done, the new record is playing, just like that, right on time. The crowd cheers, you wave your hands in the air and nod your head even harder. You are mesmerized.
Jeff is amazing. So you retreat and find your friends and demand that they push up to the front of the crowd. You politely create space so that they aren’t two or three deep, but instead directly in front of Jeff. Next to him. Feeling the wizardry. Time is not existent, only beats and grooves matter now. By now, your body and clothes are completely soaked, drenched from sweat and humidity and heat. You keep dancing. Jeff’s hype-man says over the PA “We just wanted to show that everything is hip hop.” OK. You’re with that, then Jeff gets Jazzy and starts making a beat. Two records play, two identical records. He plays one for a second, then the other as he brings the first record back and repeats the process in reverse. He does this dozens of times, each rendition a slight variation, each twist of his wrist raising the bar and building anticipation. He makes the beat in real time, he makes it phat… then a couple of minutes into it, he lets the record play and you are hearing Michael Jackson blaring in your ear. Jeff is done. Everything is hip hop.