It was February, at the Grammys, when in the middle of the broadcast, almost two dozen rap acts took the stage, one by one, and owned the history they made, the history they were. But somebody made a case, and the case made a fool of me. I was down to bring that dogma to my grave. So this anniversary couldn’t matter, according to me, because - well, isn’t it just on a continuum that bends from the African drum to the spiritual to ragtime, jazz, gospel and the blues, to R.&B., folk, rock ’n’ roll, funk, disco, new wave and house? Isn’t it also just more soul music, an energy that never dissipates but simply changes hosts? The energy giving this form its art, this life its force - wasn’t that forged centuries ago with every African hauled onto this land? As far I could tell, hip-hop was just “always.” That energy has been with us Black Americans - in church, on stages, in studios, on the streets, in outfits and hair and posture and teeth, glinting, grinning, gritting, smirking, snarling, beaming, blinging.
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