In Memory of All The African-American Rappers Lost to Gun Violence in 2022
While in Los Angeles driving south on US Highway 101 listening to John Lennon’s “Happiness Is A Warm Gun,” my mood was pensive and introspective as I struggled to emotionally process the murder of Takeoff, the hip-hop star from the Migos who was murdered this week in Houston, Texas. As Lennon aggressively and unapologetically screeched the lyrics of the song encapsulated in a melody as haunting and satirical as its linguistic counterpart, I thought about the power of words preserved and re-transmitted through the technologies of sound recording. Musicians credit the poignant and powerful lyrics to an NRA magazine Lennon read while writing songs for the studio album The Beatles, a musical masterpiece that would become known colloquially as The White Album. The irony of Lennon's death from a shotgun wound in 1980 pierced my brain as I thought about Takeoff's tragic fate at the age of 28. Much like Lennon, Takeoff, whose birth name is Kirshnik Khari Ball, was also a lyrical genius who used his artistic license to comment on violence in our world, swaddling his social commentary in a cocoon of infectious melodies that left fans crazed and in awe of his talents and giftedness. Along with his brothers Offset and Quavo, the Migos served as our modern emissaries and griots interpreting the language and experiences of black American street culture for the rest of the world to understand and appreciate. For example, on the song “Two Infinity Links,” Takeoff explained the complex coupling of emotional pain and violence when he exclaims “I know n***** cried, but they get active on that drill.” References to gunplay were a mainstay in his rhymes, but Takeoff was merely the messenger. As the coda of “Happiness Is A Warm Gun” initiates the song’s final chorus, I am reminded once again that words have power as I continue to drive down the highway.
Stuck in traffic, I restlessly struggle to reconcile a number of fragmented ideas into a conclusive thesis that helps to contextualize my feelings. Too often art imitates life for rap stars, and we see the poetry of their lyrics come to life in catastrophic and senseless acts of violence and inexplicable pain. Numerous African-American rappers have died this year due to the brutality of gun violence. We have used social media to share our opinions and commentary ad nauseam, yet we have emerged numb and emotionally displaced with very few concrete explanations for why this keeps happening. The industries that underpin the mass production, proliferation, and distribution of violence in hip-hop lyricism continue to perpetuate the concept of black male criminality and violence as an aspirational lifestyle, simultaneously productizing the best and the worst of African-American musical expression. I find this to be in stark contrast to what I know to be true about the black male hip-hop artists who I have personally worked with in the studio. It’s through these interactions that I have learned how multifaceted hip-hop artists are. Many of them are hardworking family men striving diligently to keep their children in private schools. They are men tirelessly pursuing careers in efforts to support and sustain large extended families. They are men who are accomplished musicians who play a multitude of instruments, infusing much of their art with a creative sensitivity and technical discipline comparable to classical and jazz musicians. Most importantly, I have learned that they are men who value living abundant lives and who desire to grow old. My studio experience begs to question: what incentivizes these hip-hop artists to masquerade as violent killers on record when they are in actuality quite sensible and compassionate truthseekers, enterprising entrepreneurs, and family-oriented community builders merely playing a part to feed the public’s insatiable demand for violent entertainment and content? I posed this question silently to myself as I inched along in traffic and “Martha, My Dear” played hopelessly in the background.
Feverishly looking for someone to blame, I directed my angst to myself: a lover of rap music, a 10-year music industry professional, and a music producer. My self-criticism came in the form of a flurry of questions, much like an interrogation. Does the industrial arm of the music media business bear any responsibility for these lost lives? Am I thereby culpable as a representative of the business who has remained silent for too long? Have I remained silent in too many A&R meetings and on too many marketing calls as music infused with death-conjuring lyricism is being prepped, processed, and stamped with a parental advisory label for uninspected dissemination to every corner of the world? Is it my fault for carrying on “business as usual” after another brother has died, presumably hit by a boomerang in the form of a bullet ricocheting off the death certificate he signed in the last song he wrote? Words have power!
I hit my right turn signal as I prepared to merge onto an adjacent lane toward my exit, which I saw forming like a mirage in the distance. John Lennon bemoaned, “I’m So Tired” through my speakers. The lyric was undeniably appropriate. I am tired. I am tired of getting tragic news about great rappers slain month after month. I thought about what I would say to every black male rapper if I could address them one by one. I would say this:
“You don’t have to keep pretending. We love you just as you are. You are special. You are intelligent. You are loved. You are already Kings. You don’t need drugs, jewelry, or guns to be great. You’re blessed by virtue of who you are. I would like to hear more about your children in your music. I would like to hear more about your mothers and fathers in your music. I would like to hear you talk more about life and not death in your music. I promise; I will buy it. I promise; I will come to the shows. I promise; I will support you if you tell the truth. I want you to be here. I want to see you reach 30-years-old. I want to see you grow old. I want to see you build your neighborhoods with your copyrights. I want to see you build your estates for the next generation. You are loved, and happiness is not a warm gun. Words have power… more than most of us realize.”
Gripping the steering wheel, I started to tear up as I thought about my 5-year-old godson. I want him to grow up in a world where his favorite rap stars live long lives. Once more, Takeoff came to mind. I prayed solemnly for him to be seated at the right hand of the Father in heaven draped in a floor-length robe decorated with precious stones fit for a king. The words “Servant, Well Done” are stitched in gold and fine embroidery on the breastpiece of his garment as his name is sketched beautifully and permanently in The Book of Life. As The White Album continued along its chronological journey, it provided the soundtrack of my ride. When I heard Paul McCartney sing “Blackbird, fly,” I knew at that moment that Takeoff had received his wings. I took my exit.
