of my students have influenced me, but I would especially like to thank those from my “Hip-Hop and Performance” graduate seminar at New York University, all of whom are substantial scholars in their own right: Wonderful G. Bere, Jalylah Burrell, Rhiannon Fink, and Amma Ghartey-Tagoe.
My editors at Wesleyan University Press were extraordinarily helpful, and their work is much appreciated. They are Matthew Byrnie, who guided me through the early stages of my book’s publication, and Suzanna Tamminen, who guided me through the late stages.
My friends—like (one hopes) everyone’s friends—are so essential to my ability to work that the idea of thanking them for it is almost absurd in its failure to convey the magnitude of their contributions. Thanks anyway: Andy Brown, Elle Chan, Chris Coleman, Njeri Cruse, Veronica Eady, John Elstad, Lee Ford, Daniela Garaiz, S. K. Honda, Mae Jackson, Malaika Lafferty, Mira Levinson, Spyridon “Iron Spyder” Nicon, Sandra Pai, Lorri Plourde, Mike Singer, Aaron Tucker (wherever you are, dude), Jessamyn West, and Gretchen Yanover.
Finally, people often say that you can’t choose your family, but even if you could, I would still choose mine, ’cause they’re the best: John Schloss, Suzanne Schloss, Sara Schloss Stave, and Channing M-L Stave.
Making Beats
chapter 1
Introduction
Joe: I wanted to get you to tell that story about when you were talking to your mother-in-law about painting….
Mr. Supreme: Oh yeah, and we were arguing, ’cause she was saying I didn’t make music. That it’s not art…. She really didn’t understand at all, and we argued for about two hours about it. Basically, at the end she said … if I took the sounds, it’s not mine—that I took it from someone.
And then I explained to her: What’s the difference if I take a snare drum off of a record, or I take a snare drum and slap it with a drum stick? OK, the difference is gonna be the sound. Because when it was recorded, it was maybe a different snare, or had a reverb effect, or the mic was placed funny. It’s a different sound. But what’s the difference between taking the sound from the record or a drum? It’s the sound that you’re using, and then you create something. You make a whole new song with it.
And she paints, so I told her, “You don’t actually make the paint.” You know what I’m saying? “You’re not painting, ’cause you don’t make the paint.” … But that’s what it is; it’s like painting a picture. (Mr. Supreme 1998a)
Some people make beats. They use digital technology to take sounds from old records and organize them into new patterns, into hip-hop. They do it for fun and money and because their friends think it’s cool. They do it because they find it artistically and personally fulfilling. They do it because they can’t rap. They do it to show off their record collections. Sometimes they don’t know why they do it; they just do. This book is about those people and their many reasons.
Beats—musical collages composed of brief segments of recorded sound—are one of two relatively discrete endeavors that come together to form the musical element of hip-hop culture; the other element is rhymes (rhythmic poetry). This division of labor derives from the earliest hip-hop music, which consisted of live performances in which a deejay played the most rhythmic sections of popular records accompanied by a master of ceremonies—an MC—who exhorted the crowd to dance, shared local information, and noted his or her own skill on the microphone. When hip-hop expanded to recorded contexts, both of these roles became somewhat more complex. MCs began to create increasingly involved narratives using complex rhythms and cadences. And although deejays continued to make music with turntables when performing live, most also developed other strategies for use in the studio, and these eventually came to include the use of digital sampling. As these studio methodologies gained popularity, the deejays who used them became known as producers.1
Today, hip-hop is a diverse and vibrant culture that makes use of a variety of techniques and approaches to serve many communities throughout the United States and, in fact, the world. There remains, however, a surprisingly close bond among producers regardless of geographical or social distance. They see themselves as a breed apart, bearers of a frequently overlooked and often maligned tradition. This book is about these hip-hop producers, their community, their values and their imagination.
I have relied heavily on ethnographic methods such as participant observation to study these questions. As a result, the picture that emerges in this study expresses a rather different perspective from that of other studies of hip-hop or popular music in general. It does no disservice to previous work to say that it has tended to focus on certain areas (such as the influence of the cultural logic of late capitalism on urban identities, the representation of race in popular culture, etc.) to the exclusion of others (such as the specific aesthetic goals that artists have articulated). Nor is it a criticism to say that this is largely a result of its methodologies, which have, for the most part, been drawn from literary analysis. We must simply note that there are blank spaces and then set about to filling them in. Ethnography, I believe, is a good place to start.
Due to the approaches I have employed, common issues of poststructuralist anthropology—such as the social construction of “the field,” the effect of the power relationships that exist between a researcher and his or her subjects, and the subjectivities of academic writing—have exerted a decisive influence on the way my study is framed. Conveniently, these are also issues that are rarely addressed in studies of popular music simply because most academics who study it do not use ethnography. But I believe that—beyond self-critique—such questions have much to contribute to our understanding of the social world from which popular music emerges. The recent ethnographic work of scholars such as Harris Berger (1999), Kai Fikentscher (2000), Dawn Norfleet (1997), Norman Stolzoff (2000), and especially Ingrid Monson (1996) have been particularly influential on me in this regard.
In preparing this study, I have spent time with a variety of producers (as well as MCs, deejays, businesspeople, and hip-hop fans). Although I have tried to collect a wide range of opinions on the issues I address, most of the producers I interviewed tend to hold certain qualities in common. Though some of the artists I spoke with are well known to hip-hop fans, most are what could be called “journeymen”: professionals of long standing who are able to support themselves through their efforts, who have the respect of their peers but have not achieved great wealth or fame. Virtually all are male, a fact which exerts a huge, if underarticulated, influence on the musical form as a whole. Although my consultants include a relatively small number of women, I believe that their representation in these pages is actually disproportionately large when compared to their actual representation in hip-hop (at least in the capacities with which I’m concerned).
Another significant demographic aspect of my sample is its ethnic diversity, which I feel accurately reflects the diversity of the community itself. That said, however, one of the foundational assumptions of this study is that to the extent that one wishes to think in such terms, hip-hop is African American music. Hip-hop developed in New York City in neighborhoods that were dominated by people of African descent from the continental United States, Puerto Rico, and the West Indies. As a result, African-derived aesthetics, social norms, standards, and sensibilities are deeply embedded in the form, even when it is being performed by individuals who are not themselves of African descent.
Scholars such as Robert Farris Thompson (1996), Kyra Gaunt (1997), and Cheryl Keyes (1996) have demonstrated this in very specific terms on both abstract and practical levels. Thompson (1996: 216–218), for example, traces the intervening steps between traditional dance forms in the Congo and b-boying or b-girling (also known as breakdancing), and Gaunt (1997: 100–112) connects
