Tupac and the Soul of Hip-Hop

Life is a funny thing. It has a funny way of getting you to think sometimes.

Yesterday, while I was at work, I had to unload boxes for a shipment we'd received in the morning. The guy who was with me, Danny, had his MP3 player with him. The first song that played was Game's "Hate it or Love It," but as the list played on, Tupac came on. As I carried one of the boxes, he looks at me and asks:

"You like Tupac?"

"Yeah," I reply.

He looks at me again and smiles. "Tupac or Biggie?"

"Pac," I say without hesitation.

The dynamic seems mundane, but for me it wasn't. I have a tendency to think of hip-hop as being a solely black phenomenon, so the fact that Danny liked it so--he's Arabic--left me a bit awestruck.

He's not the only one, either; a basic internet search will bring up hip-hop being evident throughout various cultures in the world, from Arabs, to Italians, to the Japanese. Don't believe me? Just ask Palestinian youths who saw Tupac's music as nearly synonymous with their cause during the First and Second Intifadas.

When I consider hip-hop on a global scale like that, it leaves me with a sense of amazement. This is was hip-hop, at its best, should be: not just a mode of communication for one group of people, but communication for various groups. Indeed, poverty and struggle are universal experiences, so it shouldn't be a surprise that Pac's music resonated with one of the poorest groups of people in the world. 

So why, then, is it such a surprise? For me, living in a country where hip-hop is reduced to commercial viability and social scapegoat colors my view, and it's sometimes difficult for me to see how it impacts people worldwide. This isn't to say that hip-hop's on par with diplomacy, but I do think that many Americans sell it's potential short, for a various host of reasons. More on that later. First, though, I want to mull over Tupac; to the extent that he is still viewed as one of the greatest emcees ever, there is nothing new that I can say about the man. He is one of the best to ever pick up a mic. However, I do think that how he is remembered, and the songs that he is remembered for, are in some ways a disgrace to both the artist and the art form he so well represented.

While I was unloading boxes and Pac continued to play, I took note of the songs that played. "I Ain't Mad At Cha," "Ambitionz Az a Riddah," "Hail Mary," "Heaven For a G," and "Can I Be Ya N.I.G.G.A." all played in succession. While they played, I thought about Pac, his career, his iconic status, and what it all means for hip-hop. He's remembered as one of the greatest ever for good reason: he is easily the most influential artist rap has ever had outside of Rakim, and he's also the most visible. Even now, his shadow looms large over the genre; conversations about it inevitably come back to him, and his absence permanently changed the course of rap. His death led to a myriad of imitators and copycats; aspects of his style can be seen in the likes of DMX, Ja Rule, and 50 Cent. However, while the overriding theme of Pac's music was nihilism and overcoming it, the aforementioned three merely managed to scrape the surface of his style, their lyrics lacking the depth and feeling that Shakur was able to inject into his songs with such ease. (and on a side note, it's this feeling that ultimately separates Pac from one Christopher Wallace. I'll always maintain that Biggie was far more technically advanced than Tupac, but Pac was infinitely more personable. Where Biggie was cocky and charismatic, Pac was conflicted, emotional, and unsure. Pac's willingness to struggle with himself and his surroundings is part of what made him the artists that he was. The listener always got the full picture with him: his optimism, his sense of hopelessness, and his paranoia. While Biggie occasionally showed flashes of that depth--particularly with songs like "Everyday Struggle" and "Suicidal Thoughts"--he by and large maintained his bravado, rarely revealing his inner self. Pac's ability to do so made him more human and more relatable to listeners.) 

However, the ultimate tragedy of Pac's death isn't the stable of imitators, it's the misconception of his music. His double CD, "All Eyez on Me," dropped shortly after his death, and was immediately lauded as Pac's best album, and even as the best album ever by various publications. The bitter irony lies in two facts: "All Eyez On Me" isn't close to being Pac's best work (he's easily got three and possibly as many as five albums that are better), and the album is largely a betrayal of the body of work he'd amassed prior to his death. If "2Pacalypse Now," "Strictly for My N.I.G.G.A.Z.," and "Me Against The World" portrayed Pac as man who had demons and valiantly struggled against them, "All Eyez On Me" portrayed him as a man who ultimately succumbed to them. "Can I Be Ya N.I.G.G.A." is an artistic slap in the face to "Keep Ya Head Up." "Wonda Why They Call U Bitch" spits on "Brenda's Got a Baby." This isn't to say that Pac's humanity doesn't shines through at times-- songs like "Picture Me Rollin," "I Ain't Mad at Cha," and "Life Goes On" all show that Pac's depth didn't miraculously disappear--however, the good moments are buried between too many mediocre ones to justify it being considered as one of rap's best albums. The album has significant historical importance, but more than that, it stands as a dramatic artistic decline for a man who was loved and revered for his sincerity.

So, why, then, is "All Eyez On Me" considered Pac's best work? For me, it's because of two reasons, both of which have to do with timing. The first is because of Pac's death; it was the first album released after his passing, and as one Jadakiss would rap later, "You know dead rappers get better promotion." Indeed, "All Eyez" stands as Pac's most commercially successful effort to date, selling over 9 million copies to date. The singles that pushed the album, from "California Love" to the blockbuster "2 of Amerikka's Most Wanted," also undoubtedly helped with sales.

The other reason for the success of the album is a bit more complex. By 1996, rap was just into its Silver Age; while the preceding era saw hip-hop begin to take stage region by region, the Silver Age would see the genre begin to become mainstream. Jay-Z had exploded onto the scene with "Reasonable Doubt," and Nas, with one classic under his belt, aimed for better sales with "It Was Written." Additionally, commerical revolution would come to the South as well, with Master P founding No Limit Records and dropping his debut album in "Ghetto D." As rap became more viable in the mainstream, it would attract more fans. Hip-hop was no longer a black phenomenon, and it was no longer regional. People--mainly white teens-- from the suburbs had access to rap albums and took advantage of the opportunity. Unfortunately, the Pac they were exposed to wasn't the reflective, thoughtful one that had captivated fans in the past; instead, they got the vengeful, shallow Tupac who had largely betrayed his previous work. In short, most fans only got a small glimpse into an artist who had bared his soul for many years before. Given this, it's no surprise that this is the Tupac that is remembered and revered. Unfortunately, it is not the man in his totality.

This is the ultimate tragedy of Pac's death, and this is ultimately the tragedy of hip-hop in its entirety. The genre has never been the same in the wake of his death, and now, thirteen years later, rap has a hole in its soul, one devoid of thought, consideration, and raw emotion. Instead, false bravado and thoughtlessness fill that void. When Tupac Shakur died, a piece of hip-hop went with him.