There's an adjective we ascribe to people, artists in particular, when we don't understand them. It's a dangerous word, albeit a colorful one, often reeking of extreme disregard on the part of the user. Crazy: It's what we have called every artist from Bob Dylan to Dave Chappelle when he walked away from a $50 million contract offer at the peak of his success. An artist most recently stamped with that "crazy" designation is Lupe Fiasco, whose latest album Tetsuo & Youth is chock full of intricate poetics and energized social commentary. While less politically contentious than some of his previous offerings, it's clearly the work of a weary poet re-imagining himself.
Over the years, Lupe Fiasco has given voice to some of the more pressing matters of our time. He's been especially vocal about the war on terror, and US foreign policy, and the gun violence that has plagued Chicago. While he's not the first musician to be driven by deep convictions, he's one of hip-hop’s louder mouthpieces for political dissent. His Twitter screeds are well-documented and his interviews are intense. He's infamous for his starts and stops and cancelled engagements, for his restlessness as a man of this world. He's not crazy, though. He's fiery but far from unstable. He’s impassioned.
Most people readily dismiss what they don't fully grasp, music or ideas or politics that don’t neatly affirm their own experience. It’s easier to name-call and attribute illness than to do the work of practicing empathy. It's just easy, requires less on our part; we’re just here for entertainment, right? But crazy is an actual thing, and that's the thing. It's not a term meant to serve as filler when we're at a loss. Its meaning lends to conditions like dementia, derangement, and the inability to distinguish fantasy from reality. Lupe Fiasco is self-actualized. Whether one fundamentally agrees with his condemnation of the government is of little consequence. The problem here is not whether it was justifiable for this people group to invade that people group's land. Nor is the problem whether or not an entertainer's stance on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict aligns with one's own. The problem is denying Lupe a seat at the table because he speaks with so much fire on his tongue.
Some just want rappers to shut up and make them dance, as if a rapper has no place to claim any sort of moral agency. But what if he or she has something to say? What if, in a time of such bloody horrible everything, their ideals are exactly what we need out in the open air? No, but that would humanize them, that would make them like the relatives we argue with at Sunday dinner. Hip-hop will always be a language of protest, and language will always be innately political, whether we choose to see it that way or not.
In an interview on "Sway in the Morning", supposedly one of the last of his career, Lupe spoke candidly on what he feels he's contributed personally to the world of music. "Go through my whole history," he said, "it's all about empowering, showing balance, getting you to think." And he's right; he's never once betrayed his soul by giving his audience anything they can't chew on. Even his radio singles, from "Kick, Push" to "Superstar" and "Hip-Hop Saved My Life", offer perspective. Still, his moves as of late feel like a star slowly inching away from the spotlight. Like, for really real. Sure, he's threatened retirement before—or the prospect of not making music for "commercial purposes"—but it doesn't mean he doesn't mean it when he does say it. It makes you wonder what the heart is behind these statements, these pronouncements of his impending withdrawal from public life. Has he had just about enough of the backlash? Lupe can be quite the scold and an instigator. But is that what we want, for him to bounce? Does the collective rap audience just want to see Lupe fade to black on account of his so-called craziness and penchant for pissing fools off? Let's hope not, because that would be insane.