New American Songbook

"In 20 years of listening to hip hop, its music and stories have never left me unchallenged or unchanged. Throughout its history—from Kool Herc to KRS and beyond—hip hop has told the story of America through the styles of noir, memoir, jazz and rhythm and blues, comic books and blockbuster action movies. It is everything we say we are, and those things we maintain we are not. This is the new American Songbook." - KMUW commentator, Zack Gingrich-Gaylord  

New American Songbook can be heard on alternate Mondays, or through iTunes.

The term ‘underground’ gets tossed around a lot in hip hop--usually, it seems, in an attempt to signal the superior taste of the person bringing it up. Ostensibly, an underground artist is obscure but deliberately so; slept on by mainstream audiences, and tapped into some kind of arcane but universal truth; the avant-garde.

In 1970, the poet and musician Gil Scott-Heron released "Whitey On the Moon," a scathing critique of the space race. In the poem, he describes the conditions of earthly poverty, but always invoking the gaze of the white astronaut.

The pianist and composer Thelonious Monk is instantly recognizable from tunes like ‘Straight No Chaser’ and ‘Round Midnight’. But one of his most heard recordings isn’t one of his own tunes, and it isn’t even the whole song. 

Warning: Some of the lyrics featured in this New American Songbook podcast contain explicit language.

In 2004, the producer Danger Mouse released ‘The Grey Album’, an amalgamation of the vocal tracks from Jay-Z’s ‘Black Album’ and the Beatles’ self-titled LP, or what most folks call ‘The White Album’. For people familiar with both albums and artists, it was more than just a remix, it was a statement, and on top of that, it sounded great.

There’s a scene in the third Mad Max movie, ‘Beyond Thunderdome’, where Max, recently banished from Bartertown, wakes up surrounded by children convinced he’s their messiah, Captain Walker. As they relay their mythology, they make use of familiar objects, or rather they make mis-use of objects: records become prayer-wheels, picture frames now move across rock paintings to keep place in the story. All of their stuff is pre-apocalyptic, including the functions of it. Now, after the apocalypse, the artifacts have lost most of their original context and usefulness, leaving the children free to make new associations.

In the late 80’s, jazz musician James Mtume was asked his views on sampling in hip hop. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he felt that sampled musicians should be paid for the use of their songs—actually, he went farther, deriding hip hop as ‘Memorex music’, and its creators as ‘the glorification of mediocrity’.

When you take away the words from a hip hop song, strange things can happen.

Hip hop is getting old, which no one in the early days really expected it to do. Sure, there was always the expectation that hip hop would be around in an archive—you could look back on it fondly, pull a dusty cassette out and take it for a spin—but I’m being more literal here: hip hop is actually getting old. Its practitioners are aging—some currently recording are closing in on 50 years old. Chuck D from Public Enemy is 56.

One of the most fundamental forms in hip hop, both metaphorically and physically, is the cypher. Dating back to the earliest days of hip hop, the cypher is the term used to describe a group of rappers or emcees, formed in a circle, delivering their rhymes in a frenzy of rhythm, improvisation and boisterous crowd participation. The cypher is both the primordial soup where new rhymes are born, and a coliseum where weak rhymes go to die.

Veteran emcee Sadat X, well-known as a founding member of the group Brand Nubian, recently released Agua, his eleventh solo album. Sadat X is 47 years old, and the entire album displays a mastery of form that doesn’t break any new ground, but hits all the right notes.

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