Chicago hustle and flow : gangs, gangsta rap, and social class

264 Pages·2014·2.562 MB·English

by  Harkness, Geoffrey Victor

Chicago Hustle and Flow
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Chicago Hustle and Flow
Gangs, Gangsta Rap, and Social Class
Geoff Harkness
University of Minnesota Press
Minneapolis
London
Portions of this book were previously published as “Gangs and Gangsta Rap in Chicago:
A Microscenes Perspective,” Poetics 41 (2013): 151– 76; copyright 2013; reprinted with
permission from Elsevier. Portions of chapter 3 were previously published as “Get
on the Mic: Recording Studios as Symbolic Spaces in Rap Music,” Journal of Popular
Music Studies 26 (2014): 82– 100; copyright 2014; reprinted with permission from Wiley
Blackwell.
Copyright 2014 by the Regents of the University of Minnesota
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photo-
copying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by the University of Minnesota Press
111 Th ird Avenue South, Suite 290
Minneapolis, MN 55401– 2520
http://www.upress.umn.edu
Harkness, Geoff rey Victor.
Chicago hustle and fl ow : gangs, gangsta rap, and social class / Geoff Harkness.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-8166-9229-3 (pb : alk. paper)—ISBN 978-0-8166-9228-6 (hc : alk. paper)
1. Gangsta rap (Music)—Social aspects—United States. 2. Gangsta rap (Music)—
Illinois—Chicago—History and criticism. 3. Gangs—Illinois—Chicago. I. Title.
ML3918.R37H27 2014
306.4'842490977311—dc23
2013049673
Printed in the United States of America on acid- free paper
Th e University of Minnesota is an equal- opportunity educator and employer.
20 19 18 17 16 15 14 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
Preface vii
Acknowledgments xv
Introduction. Welcome to the Terrordome:
Chicago’s Gangsta- Rap Microscene 1
1. Who Shot Ya? A Tale of Two Gangsta- Rap Rivals 33
2. Th e Blueprint: Social Class and the Rise of the Rap Hustler 71
3. Bangin’ on Wax: Recording Studios as Symbolic Spaces 105
4. In Da Club: How Social Class Shapes the
Performative Context 139
5. Capital Punishment: Crime and Risk Management
in the Rap Game 167
Conclusion: Rap Hustlers or Sucker MCs? 191
Epilogue: Six Years Later 203
Notes 211
Bibliography 223
Index 239
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Preface
Th ere is a growing awareness that class- based stratifi cation is among the
most pressing social issues of the day. Th is can be seen everywhere from
the Occupy Wall Street movement to debates over tax cuts for the wealthy,
the fl ow of transnational labor, and the growing disparities in income be-
tween wealthy and poor. Social class may be more salient than ever because
upward class mobility — the cornerstone of the American dream — has
become increasingly diffi cult to achieve.
Th e promise that through hard work, motivation, and sacrifi ce one
can achieve upward mobility is central to understanding Chicago’s rap
underground. Chicago’s underground rap microscenes — encompassing
socially conscious and gangsta rap — are bounded by social- class divi-
sions. Th is book considers how social class shapes meaning, interpreta-
tion, and opportunity for young men involved in rap, particularly those
who are also members of street gangs. While I focus on social class
throughout the book, readers are cautioned that social class and race are
inherently linked. To a large degree, any discussion of social class is also
a discussion of race, and the young people in Chicago who were involved
in both gangs and gangsta rap were nearly all people of color. Gang mem-
bers and gangsta rappers are two widely maligned and misunderstood
groups, and assuming the identity of gang member or gangsta rapper is
not without consequence. My hope is that readers will come away with
new understandings of these cultures, as well as the role of social class in
shaping the young people involved in them.
I did not arrive at these topics in a linear or straightforward manner.
Ethnography, like life, is complicated. I was raised by a single mother, lived
in government- subsidized housing as a child, and remember waiting in
line for food stamps. Mom tells stories about how she used to position
our groceries at the front of the refrigerator shelves so it would look like we
had more food. Th e family car only had one working gear — reverse. Yet I
don’t remember especially feeling poor, at least not in the melodramatic
vii
viii  PREFACE
way that poverty is oft en portrayed in the media. Yes, my clothes and
my sister’s came from the Salvation Army, and we knew the taste of gov-
ernment cheese, but we were no better or worse off than anyone else on
our block. No one had much, but I never saw anyone wring their hands in
poverty- stricken despair, either.
When I was six, the family moved to the heart of Kansas City, Missouri.
It wasn’t a great neighborhood — our house was robbed three times in the
fi rst year — but it wasn’t the worst, either. We still didn’t have much money.
We slept on the fl oor and cooked meals on a hot plate. We survived.
Eventually, Mom got an entry- level job in marketing, and our fi nan-
cial position began to improve. It wasn’t an instant leap forward, but
slow, steady upward mobility over several years. In the middle of fourth
grade, I transferred from the local public school to a private institution.
A year later, my sister followed suit. We stopped buying clothes at the
Salvation Army; we slept on mattresses. Th ings were improving.
Growing up, I was heavily into music, obsessed with KISS and the Bea-
tles. Every penny of my Kool- Aid stand money went toward the purchase
of records. My sister was into disco and made sure kids in the neighbor-
hood memorized every line of “Rapper’s Delight.” Fast forward a few
years, and mom landed a job at a concert promotion company. Suddenly
we had front- row tickets and backstage passes for every concert in town.
I was an eighth grader, running around backstage at the Clash, Van Halen,
and Duran Duran. Heaven.
When I was thirteen, I got my fi rst job, stocking shelves at a record
store. Most of my salary went towards the purchase of more records, and
I became immersed in all things music. I bought a guitar, started taking
lessons, and joined a punk band. My sister had graduated from disco to
Run- D.M.C. and Whodini. I loved the sound of Eddie Martinez’s guitar
on “Rock Box,” which was, with apologies to Aerosmith, the real fi rst rap-
rock tune.
At seventeen, I’d had enough of the Midwest and moved to Los Ange-
les with my band’s drummer, Skunkhead. Being under eighteen meant
limited employment opportunities, so I took the only thing I could fi nd,
telemarketing. Skunkhead, his drums, and I shared a one- room studio
apartment with two other guys. I still have nightmares about the smell.
Th e day I turned eighteen, I applied for a job at a record store. It paid
minimum wage, so I continued to put in night shift s at the telemarketing
company. But at least I was working around music again. Th is was a great
PREFACE  ix
time to be living in Los Angeles, playing in a band, and working in a re-
cord store. West Coast gangsta rap was just beginning what would come
to be known as its golden era, and the record store gave me a front- row
seat. N.W.A, Cypress Hill, DJ Quik, Kid Frost, and A Lighter Shade of
Brown were in heavy rotation. Oakland party crew Digital Underground
dropped an EP that had everyone debating the merits of Shock G versus
the group’s new recruit, a young upstart named Tupac. Th e East Coast was
holding its own with everything from classic Public Enemy and LL Cool
J joints to the native tongue twists of De La Soul, A Tribe Called Quest,
and Black Sheep. Even the pop rap of the day was new jack swinging —
MC Hammer, Heavy D, Bobby Brown, PM Dawn, Guy, Young MC, Kid
‘n Play. And everyone loved “Ice Ice Baby” without so much as a trace of
irony. I devoured it all.
On April 29, 1992, everything changed. Th e media blamed the Rodney
King beating, but in Los Angeles we knew that it was only part of the
story. We knew that the Latasha Harlins shooting was just as signifi -
cant. And we knew why Korean businesses were specifi cally targeted
for destruction. Public Enemy got credited for its ability to address impor-
tant social issues, but in Los Angeles we knew that Ice Cube was the real
voice of the people. Not the black man’s CNN, as Chuck D famously
described rap music, but everyone’s.
Cube’s 1991 opus Death Certifi cate perfectly captured the range of dis-
cussions that were taking place in Los Angeles in the year that preceded
the uprisings. “Black Korea” got all the attention, but “Us,” “A Bird in the
Hand,” “Man’s Best Friend,” and “My Summer Vacation” were equally im-
portant points of dialogue, all set to the most head-b obbing rapstrumen-
tals ever committed to tape. While “conscious” groups like De La Soul and
A Tribe Called Quest rhymed about roller- skating and Bonita’s apple bum,
gangstas like Cube were rapping about subjects that really mattered.
I returned to the Midwest in October 1992, ready to change the world.
I knew working in record stores wasn’t going to accomplish that, so I en-
rolled in community college and waited tables on weekends to pay the
bills. In my second semester, I enrolled in intro to sociology, where I was
assigned to read articles that analyzed rap music and the LA uprisings.
I’d found my calling.
In 1999, I began graduate training in sociology at the University of
Kansas. I also landed an entry- level job as a music journalist for the local
newspaper. It paid next to nothing, but I would have done it for free — CDs,