Ten years ago today, hip hop lost its most eloquent and incisive voice with the murder of Tupac Shakur. During his lifetime, Pac elevated hip hop to an art form—he “changed the game,” as rappers like to say—by recording disturbing yet deeply moving songs about the horrors of the ghetto and, later, about the perils of celebrity.

Although Pac lived the so-called “thug life” and predicted that he would die at a young age (he was 25 when his car was ambushed by a gunman in Las Vegas), he should not be remembered as a martyr or a prophet. Hip hop fans worshipped him, but he should not be remembered as a hero, either. Pac should be remembered because he articulated his confusion and rage so well. His music reflects the complexity of a life spent trying to reconcile a career that brought great fame and riches with a youth of poverty and crime.

One of the reasons Pac’s music is so compelling is because he tells powerful stories—about a pregnant, unwed teenager (“Brenda’s Got A Baby”), about a friendship that falls apart because of drugs (“If My Homie Calls”), about a criminal called “America” that is charged with the murder, robbery, and false imprisonment of black people (“Words of Wisdom”).

In the decade since Pac’s murder (and the murder of the Notorious B.I.G. six months later), mainstream rap has moved away from this narrative tradition. Party songs have replaced protest songs on albums and radio playlists. Boasts and threats are more plentiful than captivating tales about life in the ’hood. Chuck D from Public Enemy once referred to rap as “the black CNN” because of the way rappers reported on conditions in black urban areas. Now rap might be called “the black E!” because songs contain more fluff than substance.

The problem is not that today’s hip hop artists are less talented or ambitious than their predecessors. Instead, it seems that most are more interested in living the gangsta lifestyle—characterized by conspicuous consumption, loud parties, drug use, belligerence toward competitors, and defiance of authority—than in making creative, meaningful records. Somehow, Pac was able to do both.

The gangsta mentality is so dangerous because when rappers think of themselves as mobsters instead of artists, they reach for their guns instead of their pens to settle disputes. Although it may seem funny, it is really just tragic that rappers feel the need to wear bullet-proof vests in public. But the greater tragedy is that, after what happened to Pac, rappers and their associates are still dying violent deaths.

In April, Proof, from the group D12, was shot and killed during an altercation at a Detroit nightclub. Two months earlier, a security guard for Busta Rhymes was gunned down outside of a recording studio in New York. That murder, like the murders of Pac and Biggie, remain unsolved. Witnesses have refused to step forward with information because the street code forbids “snitching,” or talking to police.

Despite, or perhaps because of the violence, rap music is more popular than ever. Chamillionaire is ridin’ the airwaves with his Houston swagger; Kanye West and Pharrell Williams, two producers-turned-rappers, have made hip hop accessible to a wider audience through their collaborations with rock and pop artists; and Jay-Z continues to rep Brooklyn on the mike, even though he supposedly retired three years ago.

If people are pleased with what they hear, why should we care about how the artists live their lives? The answer is simple: Hip hop demands the public’s respect. When rappers act foolishly, they tarnish the legacy of all those who built hip hop into the dynamic and vital institution that it has become. And when they pose as gangstas, they betray the memory of the real Bronx rebels who started a movement called hip hop 30 years ago.

We should also care because this is an age when entertainers have ever-greater influence over how young people think and act. A boy in a poor neighborhood with poor schools is more likely to model his behavior after his favorite rapper than his favorite teacher (if he has one). As the gangsta lifestyle becomes normalized through this process of imitation, delinquency and ignorance pervade and destroy entire communities.

In his song “Unconditional Love,” Pac deconstructs the gangsta lifestyle and shares his optimism about the future: “This fast life soon shatters/ ’Cause after all the lights and screams nothing but my dreams matter/ Hoping for better days, maybe a peaceful night/ Baby don’t cry, ’cause everything gonna be alright.” Rappers today are still addicted to the fast life. When will they wake up? When will the violence end and the better days arrive?



Andrew C. Esensten ’07, a Crimson editor, is a literature and African-American studies concentrator in Adams House.