Most, and The least surprising fact about hip hop's 50th anniversary is its longevity. It wasn't meant to last this long, but it had to survive. In August 1973, on a Bronx dance floor, hip hop was born, a fusion of rhymes, beats and pulses from which everything that followed started. It was the beginning of a tumultuous decade, just a few years after black Americans had won the right to vote. With that fateful moment by DJ Kool Herc, the first scratch on the record, hip hop proclaimed what it was. It was an attempt to be something more.
Hip hop refused to back down. Its expression, its kaleidoscope of style, earned it self-esteem. Because hip hop is often a tale of regional loyalty, I was introduced to it through rap radio in Southern California. I listened to 92.3 The Beat and Power 106 on lazy afternoons and was enthralled by everything I heard. The hydraulic funk of Dr. Dre. The supple lyrics of Snoop Dogg. Before hip hop was something I wore, it was something I was, something I was where I was from.
Hip hop represented you, and you represented hip hop. So you rebelled. You yelled, “Fuck the police.” You asked, “Can I just blow your ass?” You thought your mind was playing tricks on you, but it wasn't. Hip hop was real. It was a story of heroes and legendary feuds. It was its passions and its pitfalls. Their stories were your stories. Hip hop was a place to discover more of yourself, to develop confidence. It was an attitude. Hip hop was an attitude.
From Run-DMC and Queen Latifah to Wu-Tang Clan, Outkast, and the 1998 Lauryn Hill's miseducationHip hop fueled every aspect of pop culture. It was fashion. It was fashionable. It was in your face. It was luxury. It was television. It was stomach and Boyz in the HoodThat was what you read atmosphereAt the 1995 Source Awards, Suge Knight called out Puffy for being “all in the video.” It was primetime news. It was international. It was everywhere. Hip hop defined cool. And cool was what everyone wanted.
The evolution of hip hop is as vast and astonishing as its sound. That world began with Missy Elliott and her multi-dimensional Izzy, Izzy, oh From Pharrell's alien production environments to Too Short's trunk-permeating fables, hip-hop is the smooth hustle and bustle of Jay-Z, the Detroit soul of J Dilla, the southern stomp of Young Jeezy, DMX, Eve, and the entire Ruff Ryders crew. Hip-hop's constant evolution is what keeps it going. It keeps it young and curious.
After Y2K, as technology spread into homes and the Internet expanded in all directions, borders completely disappeared. Hip-hop was no longer a U.S.-only product exported overseas. It was a global voice. It was from everyone, for everyone. When cassette tapes and CDs died, hip-hop was streamed on Napster. MP3 files were easy to share. Hip-hop communicated through blogs, podcasts, and thick ZIP folders. “Technology killed the DJ star,” Questlove told WIRED in 2014, as hip-hop came of age in its 40s. “Or maybe technology created the DJ star.” Hip-hop was evolving faster than one could keep up. Hip-hop can be given or taken away just as easily.
