The assassination of hip hop
There was a stage when hip hop lived, thriving in the streets, in the spirits of the ghetto children, embedded in veins and souls, just like the blues used to be to plantation slaves. There was a time when hip hop music was a conscience, the canvases that the ghetto masses painted their everyday graffiti, sent out messages of hope, resistance, injustice. There was a time too when hip hoppers were artists, not just performers, their impressions were lasting and they had substance. Love was not sex and verses were not mere preschool rhymes repeated over some beat.
