Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Ranheru Van Zant here. I have recently returned from a trip wherein I "hob-knobbed" and "canoodled" my way across south-east Asia (I'm HUGE in Japan). It was both relaxing and educational. So, imagine my shock and awe when I returned to the Secure Homeland of America and recieved this dreadful news, which I will now share with you all.
Friends, neighbors, groupies, internet stalkers... it is my sad duty to inform you... that hip hop is dead.
Hip Hop's slow, lingering spiral into death began innocently enough. When Eminem won a Grammy AND an Oscar, people were a bit surprised, but few of us caught the autumnal scent of death which wafted from Marshall Mathers' bleached blonde crown. "Finally, rap and hip hop are being recognized as the art form they are!" people thought.
More recently, a dance called the "soulja boy" (or maybe it's "soulja boi", I'm not sure how much cross contamination has occured between hip hop and faux-punk as examplified by Avril "Like I've ever heard of David Bowie" Lavigne) became popular. At first, it was a catchy club routine. The movements were fairly simple, and the song which accompanied the dance was truly a song that never ends; capable of being looped endlessly without any noticable pause, until one had no choice but to commit suicide to get it out of one's head.
But, as with most things, the internet ruined it for everybody.
The internet's cultural garbage dump, YouTube, is now chock full of videos featuring people doing the soulja boy. Everyone from four year old kids in preschool dance classes, to bored, white, middle-aged soccer moms picking up their spawn are now "superman, and ho!"ing all over the side of the information super highway. Much like the army of choreographed undead in Thriller, the reaction one feels upon watching these shambling wretches bust a move is a combination of amusement and abstract horror.
YouTube is also to blame for the sudden explosion in scrawny white kids "ghost riding" their "whips". For those of you unfamiliar with ghost riding, it is the process of putting a car in drive, jumping out, then dancing either on top of the car or alongside it as it idles down the street. Nonetheless, what began as a bit of west coast hip-hop celebration is now stereotypically the pursuit of bored teenaged suburbanites who wear oversized hockey jerseys and can't tie their shoes. Some of these ivory wonderbreads actually make it look fun. Far more, however, just end up in a sort of stumbling run along side an unattended vehicle while flailing their arms at random.
But the confirmation, my friends, came today. And I saw it with my own two eyes.
Snoop was on Ellen.
Allow me to repeat that: long-time rap icon Snoop Dogg was on Ellen Degeneres' talk show. The same show that started a four week media storm over a butch lesbian crying over a dog. (And if you don't think Ellen's a butch, google up some pictures of her and Portia Di Rocci at the Academy Awards a while back.)
Now, that alone may not have been so bad. Even bad ass mofos like Snoop have to play the PR game, after all. But no, the true trouble came when the musical segment came up.
A swooping camera zoom revealed Snoop, clad in black suit and wrap around sunglasses, sitting in some sort of cubicle, surrounded by a rather large band. He then performed his new single "Sensual Seduction" which, while sound in all technical aspects, lacks that certain... je ne sais que... which we've come to expect from the Masta of the Dogg Pound. Neither bitches nor blunts nor bongs were spoken of, and there was nary a cappin' or slappin' to be had. But even that was not what drove the nail into the literal coffin. Snoop's trying to grow as a person and "go legit", which is noble enough.
No, the problem was far less tangible. I, silently observing this act while smoking my favorite pipe, could not quite put my finger on it. Until my assistant, Bunni, walked into my office and glanced at the screen.
"Wow," said my 4'10" sidekick. "Stevie Wonder's looking good!"
Out of the mouths of babes, indeed.
