back in 95 when I was living in merry ole england I got into a fight with a drunken prick who tried to front like, goodness gracious, yesss, I swear by the queen’s crotch hairpiece that we brits do indeed know how to rap. I was like, oh yeah? really? who amongst thouests knowsest how to drop lyrical bombz? you know, proper-like. the stereo MCs get yrself get yrself get yrself connected? OK yeah that dude rocked the anorexic look pretty freaky deaky but por favor. that was some whiteboy call and response to old soul records, you could hardly call it RAPPING. the problem, I informed my beer breath mate, was that all those brit crews tried to sound American. they studied our slang and intonation and played it back to us, but this time that shit didn’t work. they had no understanding that unlike rock n’roll hip-hop is folk music—it’s rooted to a specific time and place. oh for fuck’s sake, he slurred, don’t give me that “from the heart and being real” shite that you Americans are so hung up on. nah, nah, quothe, I, its not about authenticity. I agree that’s some bogus bullshit on the part of my compatriots. what I’m talking about is proximity. hip-hop demands a certain closeness. somewhere between the intimacy of fucking and the claustrophobia of the clink. hip-hop is about making music out of the language you hear every day, on the street where you live.
I could tell that I was convincing (not to mention charming as hell) but like I said, dude was a drunken prick. a drunken oxy-foxy prick on top of that, with his school scarf wrapped proudly around his neck and his brideshead reshitted coif bouncing boyishly in his beady eyes. I swear you could never tell who was gay in that school, they all drank with their pinkies out they all crossed their legs and even their undershirts were ironed. anyway he went on about class and accents and tried to get me to say some lines from pulp fiction and when I finally relented, muttering “royale with cheese” he doubled over like it was the funniest shit he’d ever heard.
oh, what a funny place. he said. your America.
whatever, I said.
not bad for a former colony, he said.
man, you must be really drunk to say that shit like you’re PROUD.
right, right, right, he said or something like that. I was sick of his crap and only hanging around for the free rounds.
what’s the lowliest accent in england? I asked him
there are several, he said, although I doubt you could tell the difference.
how about cockney? I asked
well right. that’s pretty low.
and distinct, I said. even a dumb American like myself knows what it is.
yes, he said…and?
and so mark my words…you’ll know that the golden age of british rap has begun when a rapper comes up slingin in cockney. yes. that’s what it will take.
cockney! he said, almost spitting out his drink. you’re batty! that will never happen.
mark my words, I said.
royale with cheese, he said, chuckling
awww fek off, I said.
…9 years later, I am REDEEMED…
dizzee rascal
rocks the cockney straight up and down
mf played his first U.S. show in Brooklyn
on the 40th anniversary of the beatles invasion
coincidence? prophecy?
neo-one-and-only?
all I’m gonna say is oy.
oy, motherfuckers.
now praise jah
and pass that shit
the real ish
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