ANGRY MOB TURNS UNRULY WHEN "UNFAIRLY" LABELLED AS ANGRY.
"We like to think of ourselves as mildly discontented" said mob participant Joseph Santwich "and to be so unfairly mislabeled as angry...well that's just un-American." Shortly after Santwiches statement was taken, the then calmed mob thinned out into a “throng” and settled on a more neutral disposition: “uneasy.” Uneasy throng member Stanley Polowitz claimed the new formation “more accommodating and less intimidating.” As dusk began to fall so did emotions which previously ran high. Those who had prior engagements left as did those who just plain lost interest along with those who found solace in other neighboring and more volatile groupings of humans – groupings that were teetering on the precipice of “riotous.” The uneasy throng further devolved into simply a small-but-talkative-crowd. “We may be small but we have big hearts and we tackle big issues” said small-but-talkative-crowd member Sandy Kaufman, “and this is just a start” she continued “we plan on being heard.”
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Fear of a Black Brother Part I
The hat was kind of big and blocky to begin with. It didn’t quite fit the way I wanted it to. One of life’s many sad truths: nothing ever really fits the way you want it to. Freshly dyed black with a strange rope-like thing across the top of the rim just at the base of where the rim and the head part meet. If memory serves it was fastened in the back with the typical plastic hole-and-peg fastening system. That satisfying snap that would occur after just the right amount of resistance was fought with. Over the years I would find myself repeating that little action to no lesser or greater gratification. No fitted cap was this. In fact I’m almost certain I’ve never owned a fitted baseball cap at any time in my life. A silhouette of a person, arms folded, with what appears to be a hat on their head, and two intersecting lines crossing the silhouette was emblazoned upon the front of this particular hat. Underneath this design were the words Public Enemy.
I knew even then how important Public Enemy was to African-American culture. I felt I was in on the ground floor of something huge that white America couldn’t understand yet. I understood it. I “got” it. I was certain that in ten years time I would have moved to some big urban center and be right in the midst of “it.” This music not only spoke to me it prophesied my future. It saw right inside of me and tapped into something I didn’t know was there. I “got it” even if I didn’t fully know what I “got.” I could walk with a swagger befitting someone much more confident than I and I could shrug off the naysayers with a simple head-nod.
My very own brother was one of those naysayers. Four years older than my-self and not a little embarrassed that his baby brother was pretending to “be black,” he was visibly bothered about my wearing this hat in public. If only my twelve year-old mind could’ve summoned the right combination of words to explain to him how wrong he was to be concerned. This thing I was doing was so much more important than getting good grades or going to church or, finally, looking like a fucking surfer! I was to stand in defiance to all of that. I’d walk around that multi-million dollar mall in stark contrast to the un-cool, racist, rich white assholes who have no fucking clue which way is up! I was going to wear my Public Enemy hat and that was that.
“YO! TAKE OFF THAT HAT!” The words came echoing across that obscenely bright and clean shopping mall and were sharp in my head yet muffled and distant to my ears. My immediate instinct was to do what that ever so demanding voice told me to, but I had to stand my ground. My brother was both pleased and further embarrassed for obvious reasons. I shot a glance in the direction of the voice; not in an attempt to defend my-self with a defiant look but more to confirm my suspicions that I really didn’t want confirmed. I recognized the familiar “yo” and the deep tone and the rhythmic cadence. I was right. The voice belonged to an African-American. “Fuck. What now? Experiment over? I can’t support black music in public anymore? And worse – does this mean my appreciation of said music is itself not only unappreciated but rather unwanted?” I asked myself.
I pushed the question out of my mind no sooner than it took shape. I was confident that the event was an anomaly and borne of ignorance. “If only they knew I had not just Fear of a Black Planet but both It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back and Yo! Bum Rush the Show.” I realized I needed to prove myself through at least one of the five elements of hip-hop in order to be taken seriously. I started with Graffiti Art.
Swirling, interlocking, and bulbous letters that cast a painted shadow behind them. Filled in with abstract shapes and bright colors. Names like PHASE and ZEPHYR and SKEME burned into my retina. It was all I could see everywhere. I would have to come up with a cool name and a style all my own. RANX 1 is what I came up with.
While you’re laughing let me explain the etymology of that name. Around 1990 or so, already falling deep into the cult of hip-hop, I was exposed one Sunday afternoon to “dancehall” reggae. I was well aware of Bob Marley and Peter Tosh and even Steel Pulse but I had no idea what was about to fall on my impressionable ears. A local radio station was apparently, unbeknownst to me, airing nearly three hours worth of modern and vintage reggae every Sunday afternoon. This particular Sunday I happen to not be at church. Instead of shifting in uncomfortable brown and green pews with my head swathed in the droning prose of a familiar pastor whose voice I had learned to tune out lest I be riddled with guilt I was shifting in the uncomfortable white and off-white pew of a friend’s father’s boat. Speeding along the Newport coast somewhere this large and imposing man’s oldest son tuned the radio to 103.1 FM. The alien sounds of Eek-A-Mouse came warbling over the air waves. This was followed by a steady stream of unfamiliar yet immediately recognizable music. Recognizable as the thing I had been waiting all my life to hear. The next few years I would become slightly obsessed with “dancehall” reggae. I would find that among some of the most famous dancehall “toasters” of that time was an artist who went by the name Shabba Ranks. I would find later that this was a popular surname of dancehall reggae artists. There was a Nardo Ranks, a Mackie Ranks, a Junior Ranks (I think), a Louie Rankin, a Cutty Ranks, and so on. I took it upon myself to be the hopefully first stateside graffiti artist to ply his trade under the nom de plume Ranx One.
...to be continued
I knew even then how important Public Enemy was to African-American culture. I felt I was in on the ground floor of something huge that white America couldn’t understand yet. I understood it. I “got” it. I was certain that in ten years time I would have moved to some big urban center and be right in the midst of “it.” This music not only spoke to me it prophesied my future. It saw right inside of me and tapped into something I didn’t know was there. I “got it” even if I didn’t fully know what I “got.” I could walk with a swagger befitting someone much more confident than I and I could shrug off the naysayers with a simple head-nod.
My very own brother was one of those naysayers. Four years older than my-self and not a little embarrassed that his baby brother was pretending to “be black,” he was visibly bothered about my wearing this hat in public. If only my twelve year-old mind could’ve summoned the right combination of words to explain to him how wrong he was to be concerned. This thing I was doing was so much more important than getting good grades or going to church or, finally, looking like a fucking surfer! I was to stand in defiance to all of that. I’d walk around that multi-million dollar mall in stark contrast to the un-cool, racist, rich white assholes who have no fucking clue which way is up! I was going to wear my Public Enemy hat and that was that.
“YO! TAKE OFF THAT HAT!” The words came echoing across that obscenely bright and clean shopping mall and were sharp in my head yet muffled and distant to my ears. My immediate instinct was to do what that ever so demanding voice told me to, but I had to stand my ground. My brother was both pleased and further embarrassed for obvious reasons. I shot a glance in the direction of the voice; not in an attempt to defend my-self with a defiant look but more to confirm my suspicions that I really didn’t want confirmed. I recognized the familiar “yo” and the deep tone and the rhythmic cadence. I was right. The voice belonged to an African-American. “Fuck. What now? Experiment over? I can’t support black music in public anymore? And worse – does this mean my appreciation of said music is itself not only unappreciated but rather unwanted?” I asked myself.
I pushed the question out of my mind no sooner than it took shape. I was confident that the event was an anomaly and borne of ignorance. “If only they knew I had not just Fear of a Black Planet but both It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back and Yo! Bum Rush the Show.” I realized I needed to prove myself through at least one of the five elements of hip-hop in order to be taken seriously. I started with Graffiti Art.
Swirling, interlocking, and bulbous letters that cast a painted shadow behind them. Filled in with abstract shapes and bright colors. Names like PHASE and ZEPHYR and SKEME burned into my retina. It was all I could see everywhere. I would have to come up with a cool name and a style all my own. RANX 1 is what I came up with.
While you’re laughing let me explain the etymology of that name. Around 1990 or so, already falling deep into the cult of hip-hop, I was exposed one Sunday afternoon to “dancehall” reggae. I was well aware of Bob Marley and Peter Tosh and even Steel Pulse but I had no idea what was about to fall on my impressionable ears. A local radio station was apparently, unbeknownst to me, airing nearly three hours worth of modern and vintage reggae every Sunday afternoon. This particular Sunday I happen to not be at church. Instead of shifting in uncomfortable brown and green pews with my head swathed in the droning prose of a familiar pastor whose voice I had learned to tune out lest I be riddled with guilt I was shifting in the uncomfortable white and off-white pew of a friend’s father’s boat. Speeding along the Newport coast somewhere this large and imposing man’s oldest son tuned the radio to 103.1 FM. The alien sounds of Eek-A-Mouse came warbling over the air waves. This was followed by a steady stream of unfamiliar yet immediately recognizable music. Recognizable as the thing I had been waiting all my life to hear. The next few years I would become slightly obsessed with “dancehall” reggae. I would find that among some of the most famous dancehall “toasters” of that time was an artist who went by the name Shabba Ranks. I would find later that this was a popular surname of dancehall reggae artists. There was a Nardo Ranks, a Mackie Ranks, a Junior Ranks (I think), a Louie Rankin, a Cutty Ranks, and so on. I took it upon myself to be the hopefully first stateside graffiti artist to ply his trade under the nom de plume Ranx One.
...to be continued
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