Sunday, Sep 7, 2008
For Public Enemy, "Fight the Power" was the ultimate declaration of intent. Chuck D called out to the "brothers and sisters" in the street who were "swingin' while I'm singin'/ Givin' whatcha gettin'." Chuck wanted to let us know that he was black, he was proud and he was ready to force the establishment to "give us what we want/ Gotta give us what we need." The power structure had to be subverted, he believed, and only the people could make change. At a time when most rap songs spelled out the violence their authors would wreak within the confines of the black community, "Fight" sought to redirect the rage by declaring battle on the power structure.
Chuck's unapologetic lyrics called up a new kind of activism, born of knowledge and organization, not only passionate protest. "What we need is awareness/ We can't get careless," he commanded. "Let's get down to business/ Mental self-defensive fitness." Intelligence is both weapon and armor. But it would be a mistake to think that "Fight the Power" only affected the black community. Whether intentionally or not, the song also had a penetrating effect on listeners from all ethnic backgrounds, including white kids.
Through their music, Public Enemy suggested to Americans that oppression operates on many levels. Kids raised on MTV and rap would soon wear the label of sluggard Generation X-ers, known for their apathy, a cynicism brought on by a lack of connection to their broken communities and families, withdrawal from a government they no longer trusted and disillusionment with a corporate world that exploited them. Thus, a white kid who would never know the frustration of watching paramedics mishandle a dying friend or white artists make millions off the work of blacks would still know what it was like to feel thoroughly alienated.
These ideas were a threat to an American status quo already beginning to comfort itself with notions of multiculturalism and political correctness. "Fight the Power" brusquely dismissed the liberal hope that racial injustices will be remedied once everyone realizes we're all the same beneath the skin: "People, people we are the same/ No, we're not the same/ 'Cause we don't know the game." Meanwhile, conservatives, with their decreasing attention to social programs, seemed content to let America's race problems stay within the borders of the inner city.
Public Enemy wouldn't let that happen and their message was clearly heard. "Fight the Power" sold nearly half a million copies and made "Fear of a Black Planet," the album from which it was cut, a bestseller that's been called rap's answer to "Sgt. Pepper."
Public Enemy faced a host of troubles after the release of "Fight the Power." Professor Griff's anti-Semitic remarks put the group in hot water and led to Griff's dismissal. Rapper Flavor Flav's drug problems made national news. And though the band found critical and commercial success with their next album, "Apocalypse '91: The Enemy Strikes Black," they eventually seemed to hit a creative wall. Listeners eventually moved on and rap went on to produce its next generation of hip-hop prodigies.
A decade after "Fight the Power," the recording industry offered up Eminem as the new king of rap. Like many of his peers, for whom shock value has become the modus operandi, Eminem tries to build a career around button-pushing rhymes. His "Stan" is a good tune with a nice hook and clever lyrics, but like most of his work, it ultimately offers little more than a glimpse of a young punk's psychosis. Jay Z, with his delightfully sleazy cache of pimp music, joins Slim Shady in the industry's catalog of rap geniuses. But are the lyrics to "Big Pimpin'," an admittedly danceable megahit, really profound? "You know I thug 'em, fuck 'em, love 'em, leave 'em/ 'Cause I don't fuckin need 'em/ Take 'em out the hood, keep 'em lookin' good/ But I don't fuckin' feed 'em."
Today's artists don't seem to know what real provocateurs like Public Enemy know: Shock is a short-lived effect that wears off quickly and has no real consequences. Art can be relevant without being overtly political, but if there are no real motives or ideas behind shock, its images too often fall flat.
Maybe the culture is softer than it was when "Fight the Power" hit the scene. We're even more inundated with commercialism and the market's skewed view of what's controversial. "Urban" culture has become a trend factory, and hip-hop's dependence on faux shock has reduced the complexity of the art form. Rebellion has been commodified, a fact that is perfectly illustrated by the proliferation of rap stars' clothing labels. Dissent itself has become unthreatening.
So, sadly, there will probably never be another "Fight the Power." A song so rich with meaning, so smart and defiant, couldn't reach today's listeners, their senses numbed by too many years of schlock. Arguably, hip-hop itself is dead. Perhaps there have been worse deaths in popular culture: the death of jazz, the novel, God. But hip-hop's demise will mark the greater death of rock music and everything it allowed: snarling rebellion, sensual abandon, flipping the bird to the establishment.
"Fight the Power" pushed audiences to question authority, and said what we were too afraid to say about American society. The song came at a time when young people, who were being cast aside as gangstas or slackers, were hungry for meaning and connection. Not since the idealized '60s had there been such a force in music toward action. Music fans were reminded of their political strength and their right to defy the establishment. When Public Enemy called us to battle, it revived the notion that it just might be possible to fight the system. At the very least, we knew it was necessary.
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