Un-Brotherly Love

Can we get a hip-hop club? Please.

by Jennifer Carey

People’s knee-jerk associations with rap music tend to revolve around young African-American people and violence.

Since Philly has cranked out almost as much musical talent as it has cheesesteaks, and has made pioneering contributions to hip-hop to boot, is it so far-fetched to think the city might be progressive enough to move beyond such trite confines? That it would be a mecca for the lyrically gifted, a nesting ground for burgeoning spinmeisters?

You’d think. But try to find a venue dedicated solely to rap music in this city. You’d have better luck finding "Rapper’s Delight" on 8-track.

Rewind to 1986 when I was a teenager and rap was just beginning to get decent airtime — Run DMC had their Adidas, LL had his radio, Doug E. Fresh had six minutes — you get the point. There were no hip-hop clubs and most of us rap devotees were too young to get into one anyway. Strangely enough, the high schools were the caterers and you could catch Schoolly D, Steady B, Cool C or Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince at a Central High party kicking a rhyme on the mic, or in someone’s cousin’s sister’s basement working a house party. Power 99 and Lady B gave play to local rappers and the emergence was undeniable.

Rap was growing… but so was its negative rep, thanks to fights and gun-toting youths who were more the exception than the rule.

Fast forward to 1988 and hip-hop clubs had come to life. First, After Midnight at 10th and Spring Garden and, shortly after, Down South sprung up on Fourth and South much to the chagrin of neighborhood associations. According to the Inquirer the merchants on South Street claimed Down South attracted crowds of youths that scared the shoppers and visiting suburbanites.

Both clubs closed almost as quickly as they opened. Could it have been the "kind" of youths? The Inquirer also reported that after two and a half years a federal court jury awarded the owners of the clubs more than $3 million, stating that their civil rights were violated when After Midnight’s dance hall license was denied and Down South was closed for fire-code violations. But the claim that racial discrimination was behind the licensing refusal because the club’s clientele was black was rejected by a jury of seven whites and one African American. Well, at least they didn’t close because of violence, right? But it probably would have been just a matter of time. As rap’s popularity grew, so did the number of violent episodes, but more from its performers than its listeners.

Rappers and rap sheets are now synonymous. Puff Daddy, Slick Rick, Jay-Z, Keith Murray and Ol’ Dirty Bastard are among the many who must keep their lawyers on speed dial. You know what happened to Tupac and Biggie. Philly’s own rappers Warren "Steady B" McGlone and Christopher "Cool C" Roney were involved a botched robbery that lead to the death of local officer Lauretha Vaird in 1996. The list goes on.

But I won’t, because those very associations are what continue and keep venues dedicated to rap music from opening in this city. These days we have "hip-hop nights" instead of hip-hop clubs. Fluid, Butter, 700 Club, Brave New World, Cloud Nine and Guru are among the clubs that still give the hip-hop headz a play, but no one is all rap, all the time. Cozmo, one of Fluid’s turntable wizards for "The Remedy," its Monday night rap rejoinder, states simply, "It all stems from fear. A large amount of club owners are still latching onto the antiquated notions that black audiences will bring trouble [and] complaining neighbors and that hip-hop doesn’t make money." Fluid’s hip-hop night is the club’s longest running, going into its third year. And making money? Who do you think made Puff Daddy enough greenbacks to hobnob in the Hamptons?

Rap music itself isn’t so much about violence as it is the thugs who perform it. A jail sentence has become a preferred publicity tool. The artists aren’t even true examples of the audience today. The violent ones are now onstage, not in the crowd. But the current crop of Philly talent is, by and large, anti-gangsta: The Roots (won a Grammy) and their Motive Records/Okayplayer crew, Eve (performed at the Grammys), Will Smith (the former Fresh Prince has won Grammys and has enough money to buy himself more if he so desires). But, save for Club Dances, way out of the way in North Philly, there are still no hip-hop clubs.

The predominantly African-American audience is still getting a bad rap and although hip-hop music has progressed to a different vibe, the attitudes toward it haven’t. Spend five minutes in a mosh pit, then look me in the eye and tell me that rap audiences are violent. Remember last year’s Woodstock? Wasn’t that supposed to be a peaceful gathering? And as MTV gave us replays of the fights, looting and rampant pyromania you know the question is when they’ll hold the next one, not if. Philly is supposed to be the City of Brotherly love, but it seems that the love just isn’t for hip-hop’s young "brothas and sistas."