This week WorldStarHipHop made its entry into documentary filmmaking with The Field: Violence, Hip-Hop & Hope In Chicago, the latest in a recent crop of firsthand investigations into the war zone that locals know as "Chiraq." The Chicago episode of HBO’s "Vice" premiered last June; in August, British filmmaker Will Robson-Scott released his "Chi Raq" project. While noble in intent, these documentations often come with a skeevy sense that the story is being told by an outsider looking in. The resulting works are incomplete at best, Kipling-ly imperialist at worst (Robson-Scott had never visited Chicago prior to 2012). With its reputation for fanuting street violence into memes, its name now a literal battle cry, WorldStar might not seem at first glance like the most natural moderator for a conversation on the ouroboric relationship between Chicago’s gang-ravaged areas and the often nihilistic music incubated within it. But Q, the site’s founder who executive directed the project, is a actually a fairly ideal candidate for the job. Though not a Chicago native, he’s more than well-versed in the content here from all angles, particularly rap-wise. Without WorldStar, it’s entirely possible that Chief Keef’s career would look nothing like it does today.
Some of the most prominent names in the city’s ballooning drill scene appear in the 40-minute film: Lil Durk, King Louie, Katie Got Bandz, Lil Bibby, Lil Herb, Lil Reese, Tink, Lil Mouse, Young Chop. Interviews and freestyles are weaved around a brief rundown of what created "Chiraq" as it stands (namely, one of the nation’s largest and sloppiest attempts at eradicating public housing, geographically displacing previously unified gangs and creating not only hyper-segregated, often block-based gang fractions that have become increasingly lawless as they grow younger and less organized). Those interviewed ping wildly between optimistic and hopeless—mostly depending on the extent to which rap money has saved their lives. Katie grins as she talks about getting arrested three or four times a week before she started recording. Bibby laughs nervously as he admits, "I don’t really like this rap shit, to tell you the truth. This shit stressful, man." L’A Capone, Durk’s OTF (Only The Family) affiliate whose debut mixtape was released this week, crows with a smirk, "We like this shit. It’s fun, really." The 17-year-old was murdered on September 26.
To even a casual observer, most of this is not news. Recall the endlessly circular debates that clamored through 2012, the year Keef broke through: Isn’t he a horrible role model? Does it matter? Which came first, the devastating rap music or the devastating environment? What I find most striking about The Field is the reminder of how much this discussion over the past couple years has been dictated by outside parties.
The word "drill" returns to its origins here. Just as "trap" has in some circles has come to mean something purely musical, devoid of all context of its unglamorous namesake, it’s easy to forget that before "drill" was a catch-all genre for young, post-Luger Chicago rap, it was a verb—see: Lil Reese’s 2011 "Letz Do A Drill", King Louie’s 2011 Chiraq, Drillinois mixtape, Katie Got Bandz’ 2012 "Ridin; Round & We Drilling". A significant amount of meaning has been lost as drill has gone nationwide, like a particularly anarchic game of telephone.
"What people don’t know is, it was blocks going against blocks, basically beefing on wax," Larry "Larro" Wilson (founder and CEO of Lawless Inc, the local label that represents Louie and Katie) says of drill’s propensity for getting lost in translation. "But nobody knew to the masses, because they don’t know anything about these neighborhoods. They don’t know who’s from this hood, who’s from that hood, or even the name of the hood, cause it’s not a real recognized neighborhood." When covering Chicago rap, there’s a tendency in internet-based music criticism to blindly toss around the term "South Side" as a faux-informed signifier of "the scary part," without any specific geographic information whatsoever. (In fact, drill has historically been more affiliated with the city’s east side Dro City neighborhood.) By contrast, interviewees in The Field are designated by names, neighborhoods, specific intersections—Durk and his family in Englewood’s Lamron hood, Lil Bibby on the east side Rock Block, Lil Mouse in the far south Wild Hundreds. It’s a small gesture, but it feels significant, symbolic of identities that go beyond "rapper" or "unlucky kid."
The Field features a memorable segment on 12-year-old Lil Mouse, who gained national attention in 2012 for his seemingly age-inappropriate "Get Smoked" (eventually remixed by Lil Wayne). A man called Big Folks responds to the track’s most common response, an aghast inquiry as to how anyone’s parents could allow this to happen: "To hear it come from a young man, so young, to the rest of the world it’s strange. But to us it’s not. Our youngins start early; they get off the porch at ten years old." Mouse giggles as his father—supportive, if not wholly at ease—recounts his "potty mouth" as a child, and shows off his baseball trophies. It’s an eerily calm reminder to anyone turned off by a preteen championing the ideals of drill; what would Mouse’s life have been if he hadn’t become a YouTube celebrity? (He’s currently being homeschooled to focus on his rap career.) Big Folks compares Mouse and his contemporaries to news reporters a bit later, and it feels like a half-truth. Certainly these rappers are doing true boots-on-the-ground guerrilla journalism in their work—unquestionably better than any of the past year of touristy "Chiraq" documentaries, if you know how to listen.
Unlike most recent Chicago documentaries, The Field offers alternatives to a life of drilling: the CeaseFire program (now called Cure Violence), which uses outreach workers to mediate gang conflicts, and rapper turned social servant Rhymefest’s songwriting program "Got Bars?". As inspiring as these organizations are, though, they're presented here with a whiff of futility. "Motherfuckers just want to fit in or something, they don't wanna be no lames out here," Young Chop scoffs at one point, scoffing at the cache of being a hitter. "Fuck that shit. I ain’t never shit no nigga, I ain’t no motherfucking lame." It's a powerful assertion. Documentaries made to raise awareness are generally positive forces, The Field is one of the better ones—but actual change comes from the inside out and rarely vice versa. It left me wondering what it would look like if a young Chicago native—a DGaines or a Young Chop—were given creative control.