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In 1991, Vanilla Ice appeared on the "Arsenio Hall Show" for a now infamous interview. From the moment his guest’s emerald green jumpsuit touched the couch, Arsenio’s demeanor was pointed, aggressive, and stern. Hall went at the white rap phenomenon like a shark smelling blood, grilling him about his past, his dancing, his relationships with other rappers, and more. Six minutes into the interview, Arsenio went for the jugular:
"I know a lot of black rappers are probably angry because some of the white people screaming didn’t buy rap until you did it… until they saw a vanilla face on the album…"
Surprisingly, Vanilla Ice’s response seemed to win the studio audience over that night, even causing them to heckle the show’s host. "It’s not my fault," he said. "Did I have anything to do with that? No… Whether I like it or not, it’s bringing rap music up. Rap music is here to stay."
It was an oversimplification of a complex issue, but it was also a hard argument to counter at the time. Rob Van Winkle, having just released the first hip-hop single to top the Billboard charts, wasn’t a marketing or record label executive; he was just a guy that made rap songs and danced in shiny suits. Hell, he was a Public Enemy fan himself! In 1991, new artists didn’t have much control over how they were being presented or packaged, and the public didn’t necessarily expect them to be vocal about socio-economic issues.
More than two decades later, questions of what to do with white privilege in rap music, and what responsibility the white rapper has to the cultural roots of their art form, remain in heated contention. Race in America is still at the forefront of our minds and headlines, and artists are now responsible for providing daily content via social media to the Internet. As a result, the argument started by Arsenio Hall and Vanilla Ice is still raging, and one needs look no further than Azealia Banks’ Hot 97 interview from December of last year, or controversies over Iggy Azalea and Macklemore, to see that the tone has only intensified.
Also, recent viral successes like Watsky ("Pale Kid Raps Fast") and Mac Lethal ("White Kid Raps Fast!") can no longer hide behind Vanilla Ice’s 1991 defense. They themselves purposefully titled their videos, to exploit the novelty of their whiteness, and cashed in enormously by doing so. Viral fame and acknowledgement from mainstream pop culture quickly followed, while equally talented black artists have remained unrecognized by those outlets. No word on whether Ellen DeGeneres has ever heard of Tech N9ne, but suffice it to say he has not yet been a guest on her show. Rappers are now packaging themselves more directly, and as such can be expected to answer more directly for the racial bias they exploit.
As a white rapper myself, I’ve been navigating these waters for years. When I began performing in New York in 1999, I immediately encountered Def Jam executives who were eagerly looking for "the next Eminem." I quickly realized this was an open door I could try and walk through, as excited A&Rs made clear at the private industry party I was invited to perform at after only a few public performances at the Nuyorican Cafe.
Years later, I’ve found myself frustrated and compelled to confront my white rap peers as recently as last May’s Soundset festival in Minneapolis. On my way between stages, I passed by Yelawolf’s (white) DJ in the VIP artist’s area, and was amazed to see him wearing a hat with the confederate flag on it. The idea that he would perform wearing it, as a white artist at a hip-hop festival, disgusted me. I later learned that Yelawolf has had his own past controversies involving his endorsement of that flag.
But are these artists doing anything wrong? Am I expecting too much, or being "oversensitive" in regard to issues like these? Maybe I’m clinging to an old ethic in rap music that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s been a long time since Chuck D’s famous statement that hip-hop was "CNN for black people." And anyway, what do I expect a white rapper to do/say in regard to racial politics in America?
By wrestling with these issues in my own career, interacting with my own fan base, and examining the question from a number of perspectives, I think I know: I expect a white rapper to be accountable for their whiteness and privilege, and to have an ongoing conversation about it with their white fans.
I expect this because, at least a couple times a year, I meet a fan who tells me my music is "more intelligent" than "most of what you hear." Or who rattles off a list of their favorite rappers that is noticeably devoid of black people. I know I’m not alone in this experience, and I believe that to not contradict or contend with the existence of those attitudes among my fans, while cashing in on their support, seems to me to be a form of perpetuating white supremacy.
If my rap is intelligent, it’s because I listened to black artists like KRS-One and Chuck D. If it’s poetic, it’s because I was influenced by De La Soul and Scarface. I learned the mechanics of rap by memorizing Biggie and Nas lyrics. Nearly everything that my white fans now celebrate about my craft and skill, I adapted and learned from black artists early on. Because I’m white, white fans are more likely to identify with me and my music. The result? White rappers are more likely to find themselves in rooms full of white fans, who have come to listen to rap music with varied understandings of its black origins. Those white fans are also likely to represent and experience the entire spectrum of white privilege, white frailty, and white supremacist ideas.
In the end, whether they acknowledge it or ignore it, only a fool would try to deny it: White rappers are bound to have some racist white fans. The question white rappers ultimately need to answer is then: "Am I comfortable performing for people with racist beliefs, helping solidify their racist ideas via my art, and benefiting from their support?"
When I began posting about the #BlackLivesMatter movement on my Facebook page, I began an ongoing dialogue with my fans that has caused me to argue with a great deal of them, and by some accounts "lose" a number of them. I’m well aware that the ideal way to grow a fan base is to give them as little actual information about me as possible, One Direction being the ideal model for success. Tell them your favorite color, but not where you stand on LGBTQ rights. Make them think they "know" you, but give them as little divisive information as possible. "When you talk politics, you lose half your audience," goes the usual advice. I’ve often been tempted to respond: "Yeah but, it’s the shitty half."
Fair warning: you will be trolled for doing this. Your statuses will be shared by hundreds of fans, whose uncles and aunts will then see them and jump into the topic with all manner of foul comments and racist GIFs. You will have to explain things multiple times, and you will be told that your opinions have "lost you" fans of your art.
If you stick with it though, something miraculous can start to happen. Someone will mention how "#AllLivesMatter" in your comment section, and you will watch a legion of your fans have a constructive dialogue and successfully rebut the commenter, before you even have time to. You will have empowered those who are actively resisting white supremacy, and those who are attempting to educate each other about privilege. Your fan community can be a place where white people talk to each other about race in a constructive manner, arguably the most important action that can take place in the struggle against systemic and individual racism.
In this way, white rappers can either be part of the problem or part of the solution. Given the fact that we earn our living from a black artform we have so recently adapted, I tend to think being part of the solution (and taking off our goddamn confederate flag gear) is the least we can do.
B. Dolan is a rapper, activist, and writer based out of Rhode Island. His latest album, Kill the Wolf, was released last month.