Each month, our Aux.Out. Book Club reads and discusses either a canonical piece of music writing or something fresh off the presses. This month, we followed a young David Foster Wallace and Mark Costello into the Boston underground rap scene of the late ’80s. First published in 1990 and reprinted in late 2013 with a new preface penned by Costello, Signifying Rappers not only documents two Ivy League “white yuppies” exploring their shared enthusiasm for hard rap music, but also marks one of the first sincere, intellectual studies of the hip-hop phenomenon as a serious artistic movement. Read on to see the Book Club’s reaction to the classic Signifying Rappers.
Book Club Members:
— Matt Melis, Senior Editor
— Paula Mejia, Staff Writer
— Steven Arroyo, Staff Writer
— Henry Hauser, Staff Writer
For Next Month:
Dinosaur Jr. by Dinosaur Jr.
A “Closed Show”
Matt Melis (MM): From the first pages of Signifying Rappers, Costello and Wallace are cognizant of and adamant about being “outsiders”—that is, not Black—in a world of “Black music, of and for Blacks.” Wallace refers to rap as a “closed show.” That’s a far cry from the praise music often receives today for its ability to transcend race and unite all types of people.
Henry Hauser (HH): Well, they certainly write from an outside, privileged, academic perspective. Right up front, they identify rap as a closed art form that’s not necessarily meant to be understood, dissected, or interpreted by white critics and intellectuals. The authors even suggest that rap can’t always be understood or even heard by white audiences. Now, that’s some pretty extreme stuff, and, I believe, fully tongue-in-cheek. What they’re doing is turning the tables on the imbedded rock critic establishment that refused to recognize rap as a legitimate art form. DFW and Costello are blasting back at these detractors by saying, “Well, you’re not legitimate critics because you’ve dismissed rap without every really hearing it.”
Steven Arroyo (SA): It plays a huge part in that element of self-awareness—through which the entire book is laid out. They really poke fun at themselves throughout. “Hey, look at how white we are!” And it was that up-front acknowledgement that allowed them to be so self-indulgent and ridiculous. They never dropped the premise that this is a closed show, we are complete outsiders, and that allows us to be completely obsessive here.
It works on the other hand, too. The book, itself, is a closed show to anybody in that world. Wallace writes, “They were irrevocably outside Our scene, complete woods-babes when it came to the violent & debased world of creative writing/criticism; had not even a vision of such a world… except thru the window of pop media stereotype.”
MM: Which reminds me of them going undercover and trying to talk to people within the scene. They dressed “mean”—scruffy, jeans, bowling shirts—and when that failed, they fell back into the pop stereotype of professors with tweed jackets and elbow patches, and that sort of worked because it was familiar to the people they were trying to get an “in” with. They’d seen it in a movie or on television.
Paula Mejia (PM): At the end of the book, I still hadn’t arrived at a conclusion as to whether I agreed with them on rap being closed to whites. I’m inclined to believe that rap transcends sociocultural, political, and ethnic boundaries in the same way that they talk about rap—as inherently having no structure. It’s pretty much carried by a singular beat, and if you try to dissect it, like they talk about… it’s really easy to accept but almost impossible to dissect.
I love the section… I think it’s Mark Costello. He talks about vernacular and slang, and it’s my favorite chapter in the whole book. But that’s something you need explained to you. Some terms they listed I didn’t know, and I’ve been listening to hip-hop my whole life, but that’s because I didn’t grow up in that environment, and those types of linguistics were closed to me. But couldn’t you say the same for anyone who grew up elsewhere?
MM: This “outsider” take made me think of the hip-hop-obsessed kids at the school I sometimes teach at. Most of my 9th grade students are poor Black kids, and it’s impossible not to notice that rap music resonates with them in a way that it just doesn’t with me—even when a track I love and they’ve never heard before comes on. It hits on a deeper level for them. Maybe it’s because rap can reflect so many aspects of Black culture: language, politics, social views, humor, fashion, resourcefulness out of necessity. There’s a lot of overlap there between genre and cultural identity, which also might be why my kids become very defensive when someone becomes overtly critical about the rap they listen to. When you attack their music, you’re, in a sense, attacking them.
PM: I’m struggling to think of another genre that’s as territorial as rap. It’s incredibly bound by location and time period. It was probably in a review of some pop album, like Miley Cyrus’s Bangerz or something, and someone wrote that while her point of reference her entire life has been hip-hop instead of pop music, it’s still not right that she’s appropriating this music because she’s a white girl.
Years ago, it wasn’t the same as it is now in the sense that now we can be lovers of all different types of music. Genres were very divisive then. In the ‘60s, when rock criticism was emerging… people, like Lester Bangs, Robert Christgau, and Ellen Willis, had to defend rock music. Now, you can be a lover of all types of music, but people get very territorial when you’re calling it your own music, when you’re using the possessive.
SA: So, what did you think about the “Walk This Way” passage? Costello colors it as Run-D.M.C. saying that it’s okay to try and merge these worlds, where, in reality, they’re just working with a band, Aerosmith, who is appropriating this style from a style that was appropriated from another style that was appropriated from Black music once again.
PM: It’s an entire cycle. You could dissect every genre and see how it appropriated something else. Like, rock would not be rock if it didn’t appropriate the blues. Hip-hop is so indebted to jazz and funk. I had an argument the other day with a friend who is a big hip-hop head, but he can’t listen to jazz music on its own. And I told him, “You do realize that so many of these samples are from Art Blakey and Miles Davis riffs, right?” The foundations of contemporary hip-hop music stem back to those artists who laid down the foundations of those earlier genres.
MM: And notice Costello has no problem blasting Aerosmith—calling them a Zeppelin rip-off, I think it was. This goes back to Paula’s idea of ownership. He’s not as quick to dismiss Run-D.M.C., though he will say that they’re making music that’s not strictly for Black people. Costello’s careful about how he talks about another racial group’s music. You can think of that as an example of—rightly or wrongly—knowing your place and what’s yours to praise or criticize or, on the flip side, as showing respect to something outside your own experience—the opposite of the dismissal of rap by white rock critics that Henry spoke of earlier.
Rap’s Appeal to Outsiders
MM: Outsiders have been appropriating rap and hip-hop culture from day one. Wallace thinks fear may be rap’s appeal to non-Blacks. It’s a chance to access the authentic danger found in rap music without ever actually putting yourself in harm’s way.
HH: I think the appeal is multifaceted. On the one hand, there are simplistic explanations, like novelty. It’s something different, something unusual, and therefore something fresh that demands further investigation. In other ways, it’s horizon expanding because it allows us to access the plight and mood of a community on the edge of exploding, forcing us to view something we might otherwise ignore, something with a very hard, unfamiliar edge.
And whether rap music is just a superficial peek or an actual meaningful experience depends on how you interact with it. Are you just listening to its surface and scoffing, or are you trying to dig deeper and ask, “I find this lyric offensive, but where does it come from?” Looking to the root of a statement sometimes can be more telling than its actual substance.
SA: I don’t think you can ignore the fear element. It reminds me of a great Wallace line: “Interested whites, in fortunate or unavoidable moments, can only stare through a window whose bulletproof glass reveals what makes us glad that glass is there. Hell hath no illogic like fear that makes us pay to feel it.” And I think that’s a huge aspect of the appeal. In this book, Costello and Wallace are acknowledging the harsh truth that the things that no one wants to say are what make us interested in rap music. Or the part where he basically says, “Hey, all you from Chicago and New York. Ever notice how when the train goes through the ghetto all the white people get really quiet and just look out the window?” I loved that. It was brutal. But I loved the harsh truths in this book.
PM: I’d echo Steven’s idea that they’re acknowledging truths that no one wants to say. A lot of hip-hop is about selling the experience of something to an audience, and maybe it’s difficult to make a distinction between artists who are bards from their neighborhood showing what they’ve lived through and experienced, as opposed to artists who are selling that experience commercially. I’m not sure how easy it is to map that distinction, but I think the experience and fear factors are definitely appeals.
Actually, this reminds me of one of my favorite Wallace lines: “A lot of serious rap talks about the ends of things—illusions, lives, neighborhoods, rock ‘n’ roll, the World itself.” I think that it definitely adds to the apocalyptic edge that a lot of really serious hip-hop is trying to get at.
MM: Well, they do talk about hip-hop as being apocalyptic. It has a very brief past but no future. It’s all about what you have today. It doesn’t really imagine a tomorrow for itself.
PM: It’s similar to punk in that way. Like, the Sex Pistols’ “No Future”, right?
MM: It’s funny you say that because Costello and Wallace talk about punk, too. They discard punk as inauthentic. Basically, they’re saying that “the punk” doesn’t actually exist in any context outside a record or a stage, but the rapper comes from a genuine and authentic experience.
PM: Experience and authenticity are two huge words that come to mind when I think about this book. I’ve been thinking about how you create authenticity or what constitutes authenticity. People lose respect for rappers all the time when they rap about the streets if they don’t live on the streets anymore. If they become incredibly commercially successful—like Jay Z—is it still authentic if he’s performing the songs he wrote when he was living in the Brooklyn projects?
MM: Getting back to appropriation, though. A few weeks ago, Chance the Rapper played a show here at DePaul University. After the gig, I noticed probably a half-dozen groups of four or five white college kids roaming campus and sporting hip-hop fashion. Sagging and all that. One even told me, “No problem, nigga” after I thanked him for holding a door for me. Now, I can’t speak to that type of appeal. What makes kids like that want to appropriate hip-hop culture? Maybe it’s a perceived coolness factor or it seems more authentic than the suburban lifestyle they’re coming from.
For me, though, the appeal of hip-hop, as a teen, was that it could be political and angry. I was an affluent white kid who desperately wanted to be pissed off but had nothing to really be pissed off about. Enter Public Enemy. Problem solved. Granted, it was pissed-off music about white people, like me. But that’s not uncommon either. Public Enemy’s audiences are always full of former disgruntled, white teenage males. For me, it was embracing anger, not fear.
SA: Enemy was the only hip-hop act at Riot Fest this year.
MM: What was it like having Public Enemy there?
SA: I saw two songs at the end of the set, but this certainly was not the first time they performed for an all-white crowd. That’s for sure.
PM: Public Enemy was a big one for me as a teenager, too. I grew up in Texas—a third culture kid. My parents were immigrants, and I grew up in the United States. I’m Latina, but I don’t feel like I’m American or Latina. My little brother and I tread this weird ground where we have no real sense of identity because we’re pulling from our parents’ upbringing and trying to figure out what it means to grow up in the United States and what it means to be of color here.
I remember when I was 16 or 17, I picked up Fear of a Black Planet. I was completely blown away, because these were political and jagged songs getting at finding a sense of identity within chaos, which spoke to me immensely. When you’re a teenager, you’re struggling to grasp where you fit into the folds of anything. And hip-hop is a great medium for that because it’s toying with all these elements of discrimination, questions of class and race.
MM: But there’s an element of fun in all that, too. The PSA can also be a party.
PM: Socially conscious and danceable at the same time.
MM: What more could you possibly ask for as a confused teen trying to figure out who you are and where you’re going?