Once Aryan Skynet Goes Live It Doesn't Matter Who Pulled The Switch
This past week’s orgy of mass arson and looting in Ferguson furnishes yet another appropriate opportunity for Americans to remind themselves that the ongoing culture wars are real and not merely grist for Tipper Gore jokes. American blacks, whatever their innate weaknesses, have not always taken perverse pride in baring their buttocks in public, bragging about sodomizing each other, fathering bastards, peddling crack, posturing as devilish “Illuminati”, and excusing the most self-destructive behavior with a flippantly tweeted “YOLO!” What has brought about the change? Deric Muhammad, in a revealing essay at The Final Call, offers some insight into the matter:
Hip-hop as an art form and a culture is hands down one of the most powerful international social forces in the history of the world. There is no nation on Earth where its footprints cannot be found. Rap artists who create the soundtrack that fuels hip-hop culture become equally influential. They determine trends and the general course of youth culture globally. Yet while it appears these artists who often peddle images of invincibility are in control of hip-hop, we must look deeper to see who may be in control of them.
Rap in its infancy grew out of disco – happy, dance-oriented music about parties, girls, and gratuitous bragging about house-rocking and rhyming ability. The parent plants of what would overblow into gangsta rap were already present in those early years, however. (Forgive, please, a brief indulgence of hothouse metaphors inspired by USA Today’s poetic account of “the protest movement that blossomed” in Ferguson.) Grandmaster Flash’s epoch-defining “The Message” (1982), with its arresting and brilliantly colored broken-glass mosaic of ghetto squalor, is far from an endorsement of a life of crime, but does lay the groundwork for such a seduction with its depiction of young black men leading tragic existences constantly on the edge of survival. “Don’t push me ‘cause I’m on the edge,” Flash threatens before excusing himself with an air of helplessness: “I’m tryin’ not to lose my head” because “It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder how I keep from goin’ under.”
Old school rap artists of the mid-to-late 80s like Funkmaster Wizard Wiz would push the genre closer to gangsta rap proper with cartoonish sex-and-violence lyrics. Though he recorded a haunting anti-drug track with “Crack It Up” (1986), Wiz gives an indication of “the community’s” attitude toward both their elders and property rights in his signature “Bellevue Patient” (1986) when he confesses and boasts as follows:
This little old lady was walkin’ by.
She was carryin’ a sweet potato pie,
So I ran past her, the pie I took.
She should be happy it wasn’t her pocketbook.
The lesson should be apparent to all. Whites and order-abiding non-whites – the race of the “little old lady” is unclear – far from getting themselves all upset over the spreading plague of black crime, should be rather grateful and even “happy” that criminal congoids’ depredations are so accommodatingly mild.
Gangsta rap crystallized in the late 80s and early 90s with Niggaz Wit Attitudes and the subsequent solo careers of Dr. Dre, Ice Cube, Snoop Doggy Dogg, and their ilk. Dr. Dre’s 1992 album The Chronic, released on Death Row Records, then a subsidiary of Interscope, serves as well as any music could as a document and a predictive program for the final degeneration of the black race in America. Apart from the catchy hits “Fuck Wit Dre Day”, “Let Me Ride”, and the unparalleled “Nothin’ But a ‘G’ Thang”, The Chronic is sociologically noteworthy for its lionization of the 1992 L.A. rioters in a surprisingly forthright track entitled “The Day the Niggaz Took Over”. Along with the expected references to mother-son incest, the song (much of which Snoop for some reason delivers in a mock-Jamaican accent) proclaims that “nigga it’s time to rob and mob” and also has the following to say:
I got my finger on the trigger, some niggaz wonder why
But livin’ in the city it’s do-or-die
Hear that? Life is a matter of riot-or-death in the white supremacist meat grinder of Snoop’s neck of the ‘hood – and Grandmaster Flash had the nerve to wonder how he kept from going under? But moving on with the enlightening “Day the Niggaz Took Over” . . .
Dem wonder why me violent and no really understand
For de reason why me take me law in me own hand
Me not out for peace and me not Rodney King
De gun goes click, me gun goes bang [. . .]
Niggaz start to loot and police start to shoot
Lock us down at seven o’clock, barricade us like Beirut
The chronology is instructive here. “Niggaz”, who, as Snoop concedes, are “not out for peace”, attack and pillage and only then do the authorities respond with force. What, if not a desire for peace, motivates these “Niggaz” spirited resistance? Dr. Dre offers invaluable insight:
POP POP POP, another motherfucker drop
And I get relief like plop, plop, fizz
Smash, I crashed his head like a window
I ain’t Nintendo, I’m high off the indo
Creepin’ with the quickness to the cut
Bust one to his head while he munches on a donut
(But that cop was racist, so he had it coming.)
Considering how many blacks have been imbibing this poisonous message for decades now, can anybody still be surprised today when they go out and pull a Michael Brown or understandably take advantage of all the looting booty such a media-manufactured event affords them? As much as whites might like to point and have a private snicker at the most recent “chimpout” in Ferguson, the fact remains that a number of biological Aryans find themselves in sympathy with the destroyers. One wonders how many of these deluded “social justice” warriors cut their teeth as adolescents on the ethnomasochistic thrill of anti-white hip-hop peddled by Jews like Brooklyn-born Jimmy Iovine, the founder of Death Row’s field overseer and parent company Interscope Records. Deric Muhammad, the reader will recall, asserts that the purveyors of rap “determine trends and the general course of youth culture globally.”
Beloved meth abuser and tortured wigger Jesse Pinkman may only be a character played by Aaron Paul on Breaking Bad, but his type is a real one drawn from the times. Pinkman, whose name, like fellow protagonist Walter White’s, refers to his racially emblematic import, is less than reassuring in what he conveys not merely about white people’s taste, but the race’s collective trajectory into the blackest of civilizational holes. Why bother drudging up a topic as old-hat as the deleterious impact that rap music might have on the suburbs? Because (carjacking without checking privilege a recently popularized protest slogan) white lives matter.