As much as I try to make it out to see cool bands, all scarves and sweaters and leather pantsed, as often as I trek out to some mystery, converted loft space to see the flavor of the month DJ, hit up the swanky soul Sundays here at the bar, or get so wasted that dubstep is dope, I keep going back to shit venue after shit venue to catch unknown emcees flow over mediocre beats to lackluster crowds. What is it? Why do I continually do this to myself? It must be how alcoholics feel opening the door to an empty, loveless apartment clutching a fifth of vodka in their cold, twitching hands.
I love underground hip hop!
I don’t think any other genre of music puts up with what us devotees of underground hip hop deal with. Underground hip hop is like the worst husband ever: out late, gets drunk, sleeps in, makes a mess, never cleans, gets angry, hates his kids! From promoters disappearing when it’s time to pay the artists, to venues located in what would be considered the ‘hood in Fallujah, from headliners bailing to intoxicated 40-something has-beens still biggety-biggety-busting the siggety-siggety-same ol shit – it’s stupid!
The first problem is really how the music is promoted. The scene is so rife with people who don’t really care about the music, or so unprofessional that we get a bad name with venue after venue. These days good up-and-coming talent does not get put on. It is drowned in a sea of pay-for-play stooges filling up line-up after line-up. The money that is earned by the artists (usually just paid out of pocket because let’s be honest – who’s paying top dollar to come see most of these some of these tired mother fuckers) goes to the promoters who pay the headliners. It’s a broken system.
Promoters are no longer promoters but brokers between self-indulgent, crappy artists whose place on a line-up featuring said headliner justifies for them their continued existence, and headliners who are ultimately suffering from lackluster support. But I guess they are getting paid, sometimes. The burden of promotion and profitibility has fallen on the artist. That’s not a system that works for quality control or for nurturing good, young, quality acts. Sadly, the music suffers.
The second problem is the people who like this music. I go to other shows and the people are so nice. The crowd is respectful of the venue, polite to each other, and generally well-behaved. The focus seems to be on dancing or listening. The focus of most hip hop crowds seems to be to either look cool by standing around nary a head nodding, or trying to get fucked up, write on shit, and generally not give a Fuck. Some of it can be chalked up to youth, maybe even socio-economic status, bad parents even, but it’s killing the music. Girls! Underground hip hop is scary. I love girls who love underground hip hop! Some of the downest females around. But they are a rare breed. Lack of quality control mixed with all that mad-dogging leads to one sausagefest after another.
There is nothing more fun than being pressed shoulder to shoulder with like-minded fans who know every hook, arms up at every chorus, head nods signaling every bass kick or sample drop. Each kind of music has that moment: the bacchanallic rave groove, the moment you might have just heard the next band to blow up on the radio while dancing with a beautiful girl in a onesie and bangs, the sheer insanity of a mosh pit. To each his own!
I’ve enjoyed each of these and more. But there is something special about the hip hop underground that keeps me coming back. Like a woman in an abusive relationship, it’s because I know there is beauty in there. I know that deep down this music is about love, and caring, and unity. I know it meant well. I see what it can be, “glorious, put it in the Smithsonian.” But goddamn it if every time I think things are going swimmingly the shit hits the fan.
I’ll keep entertaining other genres of music, keep going out for that band on at 7 pm, keep fighting to stay awake for that DJ whose set is at 2… but somewhere in between, down a dark, graffiti-coated alley, past all the mean mugs and blunt smoke, magic can be found at about 85 bpms and with your mother fucking hands in the air. Despite all of the bullshit it puts me through, I’m in love with underground hip hop.