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[sonicauthentities]

Introduction: Socioeconomic Status as a “Sonic Authentity”

What does it mean for music to be authentic? How do we decide when something sounds authentic and what exactly empowers us to do so? 

Authenticity is a heavy term. As professor of performance studies E. Patrick Johnson states “if one were to look at blackness in the context of black American history, one would find that, even in relation to nationalism, the notion of an ‘‘authentic’’ blackness has always been contested” (Johnson, 3). This seems especially true when considering the ways in which music has been racially categorized. The views on authenticity are widespread. Concerning Negro spirituals, American writer Zora Neale Hurston once argued that genuineness stemmed from improvisation and that black singing was the “very antithesis of white vocal art” (Hurston, 222-224). Meanwhile, black Swan Records, a Harlem based label founded by Harry Pace in 1921 known for its jazz and blues records such as Washington’s “I Want To,” suggests that authenticity is about ownership and who is in control. However, authenticity, or what is perceived to be authentically black, is as much about marketing than it is about performance and ownership. 

When we examine how authenticity is marketed, we must place the intended audience at the center of discussion. To do this, we can utilize the framework of the “listening ear” provided by scholar Jennifer Lynn Stoever. She defines it as the driver of the sonic color line, the process in which sound is racialized by those listening (Stoever, 7). With Stoever’s “listening ear” in mind, we can identify a new keyword for how authenticity is created and received by audiences, that keyword being “sonic authentities.” 

“Sonic authentities” are facets of identity projected onto different genres and styles of music that deem it culturally authentic. They work to emphasize certain aspects of social identity through the production, promotion, and aesthetics of music. To demonstrate this term, this gallery hopes to investigate the “sonic authentity” of socioeconomic status. We can explore the ways in which socioeconomic status worked as a “sonic authentity” during the emergence of hip hop in the Bronx throughout the 1970s. Through technological innovations, party flyers, hit records and more, we can better comprehend how the “sonic authentity” of class shaped the story of hip hop and its origins. 

Preface: The following exhibition does not seek to determine whether the hip hop genre was/is authentically black, nor does it seek to determine what that particularly means. Instead, the exhibition is meant to showcase how socioeconomic status was an integral part of how hip hop was marketed and received as an authentic black music genre. 

[sonicauthentities]

1970 First Came the Words: The Last Original Poets’ Right On!

In order to understand the origins of hip hop, we must first take a look at The Last Poets, a group that emerged from the black nationalist movement in the 1960s. The original members included Gylan Kain, David Nelson, and Felipe Luciano. In their 1970 film Right On! advertised in the accompanying press release packet, The Last Poets performed poetry over the beat of a conga drum, becoming a widely credited precursor to the hip hop musical genre (Batey). The film marketed itself as authentically black, with producers claiming to make “‘no concession in language and symbolism to white audiences’” (Magliozzi). Contemporary reviews of the film argued that this was done through sound as The Last Poets spoke “to the beat of slow-moving and erotic rancor. Being niggas, they have rhythm, you see.” 

With multiple flyers for the project, The Last Poets made sure their film was respected in its art form by including quotes by critics and festival mentions, but also was appealing to urban black communities by employing the vernacular in a convincing dialogue. Separate flyers catered to separate audiences. For example, the dialogue line “ this here is no jive movie” is meant to emphasize the film’s blackness through language where “talking ‘‘white’’ is equivalent to speaking Standard English and talking ‘black’ is equivalent to speaking in the black vernacular” (Johnson, 5). But the film’s marketing as “black” went beyond sound, describing blackness through inner city identity, claiming that it was a story “about the life your people had, and your peoples are the people who talk like you and crept up the same alley as you when you were nine.” This is a nod to urban life, characterized at the time by economic struggle, poverty,  and deindustrialization (Rose, 48). Hence, before hip hop was even created, socioeconomic status and sound worked together to preemptively authenticate its blackness. 

[sonicauthentities]

1973 Then Came the Music: Technics SL-1200

The turntable was the invention that made hip hop possible. More specifically, the Technics SL-1200, or the 1200, revolutionized music production. As a genre, “rap is dependent on technology,” so when the 1200 hit the market, it soon became more than a music player for consumers as originally intended, and transcended into a tool for producing fresh sounds (Rose, 37). For any motivated DJ in the Bronx, having a turntable was just the first step, it was what a DJ could do with one that really set individuals apart and showcased their talent. black artists used the turntable to mix already existing tracks to create a completely new one. But the 1200 did not come with such sophisticated features built in already, “as Dj Premier, Gang Starr’s legendary producer, explains...‘With the 1200, you have to be deep into experiment, with taking it apart, going inside the motor, and adjusting the brakes,’”(Tompkins). For its ability to be taken apart and revamped by consumers, the turntable was dubbed “The Middle Class Player System.” It was not the sound machine of industry elitists and music executives. And so, hip hop was defined by its production, both musically and physically. The ingenious behind the beat was evident in not only how the song was sonically produced but also in the sound system’s mechanical innovations, as homemade “advances provided aspiring musicians with greater access to recording and copying equipment at less expense” (Rose, 27). Thus, creating authentic black music was about making the most of what you had, a sentiment unique to less affluent classes. It was about consolidating equipment and gathering found objects to bring your turntable to new heights (Piskor, 12-13). In the case of hip hop, blackness in music was about affordable creativity. 

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1973 Born on the Streets: Genesis of a Genre

During the early years of hip hop, the streets were the studio. From break dancing on the sidewalk to graffiti on building walls, urban public space was integrated into all things hip hop. Performances were without charge as DJs “would draw power from a streetlight to play on a basketball court for free” (Piskor, 8). No formal venues or stages were required. The prime location of early hip hop opened itself to an audience made solely of community members. It was an underground movement, “a grass-roots music, that despite its profitability in world markets, is still deeply entrenched in the urban black vernacular” (Basu, 1997). With its lyrics referencing specific groups and its music videos capturing subway rides, the street was at the essence of rap. As sociologist Tricia Rose defines it, “rap music is a black cultural expression that prioritizes black voices from the margins of urban America” (Rose, 22). The images of the city so closely entwined with the genre were contextualized with the white flight and the economic decline the Bronx and so many other urban neighborhoods were facing. Familiarity with the neighborhood gave hip hop artists that started out in the Bronx credibility in a way that executives from the music industry were lacking as “the internal dynamics of rap music are so fast that it is continually necessary to go back to the street in order to produce something ‘bangin’” (Basu, 1997). This credibility made one’s music perceivably more authentic than a record produced by a corporation trying to capitalize off the new movement. The music’s relationship with urban life, and more subtly economic stagnation, reveals how class identity works with how sound is created in order to define itself as authentic.   

[sonicauthentities]

1973 Life of the Party: DJ Kool Herc’s “Back to School Jam”

What has often been credited as the birthplace of hip hop is DJ Kool Herc’s party at 1520 Sedgwick Ave. Born as Clive Campbell, Herc immigrated to the United States from Jamaica as a child and later gained popularity in the Bronx for his DJ skills. On display is an index card advertising a party his sister Cindy was hosting in the summer of 1973 at their apartment complex. The flyer being on an index card handwritten with pencil and black marker reveals a casualness about the whole event. The materiality of the flyer, in addition to its title “Back to School Jam” and the low fares being a quarter or two, highlights the fact that the party was geared toward young people. Here, hip hop seemed to be a movement by and for the youth. As a result of the audience being youth, rap was not seen as a money-making genre in the early 1970s, especially given that kids were not expected to have their own funds (Piskor, 25). At the same time, this same young audience was exactly what gave the genre potential, as Rose argued “the drawing power of rap is precisely its musical and narrative commitment to black youth and cultural resistance” (Rose, 39). The infamous party, and more importantly hip hop in general, was thus tied to this sub identity of the young urban class. 

The significance of Herc’s marketing, however, goes beyond who the audience was, it also spoke to who produced the music. Not only was his party considered the kickstarter to hip hop, Herc as a figure was/is considered the originator of the genre by many, and why that is deserves an exploration of its own. Before he took off as a DJ, Herc attended auto mechanic trade school, like many other black hip hop artists he “transformed obsolete vocational skills from marginal occupations into the raw materials for creativity and resistance” (Rose, 54). As a member of the working class, Herc’s own identity was reflected in the marketing. Once again, the use of an index card indicated that the party was anything but a high budgeted affair. With a lack of high funds, the audience and the creator were one and the same. As professor Ewoodzie Jr. argues, “in this case, it is as if the socioeconomic circumstances of the Bronx in the 1970s, combined with the social life of South Bronx youth, came together in Herc’s life to spark something new” (Ewoodzie Jr., 19). Perhaps this is the reason why DJ Kool Herc is credited for being the pioneer of hip hop instead of figures such as DJ Hollywood, who “gets less credit for creating the culture... because most future participants were precluded from going downtown to see Hollywood due to expensive cover charge, fancy dress codes, and strict age requirements” (Piskor, 8).  As the widely regarded originator, Herc inherently became the standard for what hip hop was, the standard for what authentic hip hop was. Therefore, Herc as a young immigrant in a working class neighborhood exemplified how class identity was projected onto how hip hop was marketed. 

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1979 The Great Debate: “Rapper’s Delight” vs. “King Tim III”

The title for the first rap song has been debated by the general public for some time now. For many, the debate has focused around two songs: the popular hit “Rapper’s Delight” by The Sugarhill Gang and the lesser known “King Tim III (Personality Jock)” by The Fatback Band. A look at the two songs’ marketing history may help us better understand why these titles played such an important role in the greater scheme of rap and hip hop. 

“Rapper’s Delight” by The Sugarhill Gang

The track by The Sugarhill Gang revolutionized music. Released in September, 1979,  “Rapper’s Delight” was a mega hit, introducing what was once the underground rap scene to broader white audiences. The song transformed rap and “‘made it palpable. And by making it palpable, it made hip-hop as a commercial medium possible’” (Blair). “Rapper’s Delight catered to a greater audience in ways that earlier songs did not. Its lyrics were evidence of these intentions, as Wonder Mike raps “​​I'd like to say hello/To the black, to the white, the red/And the brown, the purple and yellow.” Here, The Sugarhill Gang is presenting their music in a way that is supposed to appeal to all audiences, not just members of the black community in the Bronx for its intentions were to not only create an innovative track but to capitalize off the music. The label that produced the song, founded by Sylvia Robinson, was on the verge of bankruptcy (Blair). But by widening their audience, did the group lessen the authentic blackness in their music? Some would argue that they did as the song received backlash at its release, claiming it “did not reflect the urban anger of other rap at the time” (Blair). Instead, it celebrates the country with all its faults in the line “America: we love you.” Yet, others have claimed that rap was unique in that one did not need to “sell out” or abandon their “blackness” to be successful (Basu). Either way, the hit song demonstrated how separating music from a specific identity, such as socioeconomic status, and race in conjunction, caused listeners to question its authenticity in spite of its success. 

“King Tim III (Personality Jock)” by The Fatback Band

Although The Fatback Band’s single did not receive as much attention, many still consider it the first rap record as it was released six months earlier in March, 1979. Despite being classically trained in percussion, founder of the group, Bill Curtis, made his money in “party music.” Therefore, as a black man, “party music,” or tunes that were upbeat and danceable like hip hop, was more appealing and perhaps received as more authentic to audiences than classical music was. In the song, Timothy Washington raps “I’m not doin’ it for the money,” establishing the group’s intentions to experiment creatively and not necessarily profit. However, the story behind the track’s intentions was not so simple, and this was evident in how the song was physically marketed. Curtis had originally wanted the song to be on the A-side of the single, front and center, but he was at the discretion of the record label Spring Records, who were ultimately unsure about the track’s anticipated reception and viewed the unprecedented record as merely a “novelty” (Futch). This decision to issue the track as a B-side may have affected the song’s overall success, exposing a complex power dynamic based on economic status. Thus, the release of “King Tim III” revealed how identity established certain power dynamics that had the potential to lessen a track’s authenticity through the way it was marketed.

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Conclusion: Identities Authenticate Music

Expressions of blackness in music are complex. They are often defined and determined by those who perform it as well as those who listen. Hip hop has clearly shown this. Socioeconomic status, like many other related facets of identity, was deeply incorporated into how hip hop was produced by talented DJs and presented to young audiences, directly influencing the genre’s authenticity as an expression of blackness. 

Hip hop or any music genre regarded as black has a complicated history when it comes to marketing. As artist and scholar professor Kembrew McLeod argued “Hip hop's explicit focus on consumption has frequently been mischaracterized as a movement into the commodity market (e.g., hip hop is no longer “authentically” black, if it is for sale). Instead, hip hop's moment(s) of incorporation are a shift in the already existing relationship hip hop has always had to the commodity system” (McLeod, 141). Thus, “sonic authentities” in relation to how music is marketed is worth our attention and consideration as it can teach us more about how history and larger societal structures of race affect the way we listen and categorize sound.