DISCO ESSAYS

Oh, Oh Sheila, Where did you go wrong?

The other night I was sitting with Christine, Rayhan, and Adam Sparkles (the cat) and we were watching our favorite TV show, Franchise Live We were anticipating a stellar show—Ronnie Ron had totally killed it the other night when he had an entire show of Luther Vandross videos, and then a few nights later an entire show of Beyonce videos. Instead, though, this show ended up being much like those awful public television giving campaigns: two or three unexceptional videos would play, followed by 5 minutes of Ronnie Ron asking for donations. So I was in an unreceptive mood, and then Ronnie Ron played this:

It’s the video for “Numba 1” by Kardinal Offishall ft. Keri Hilson.

The song itself is terrible—so awful, I don’t think it really deserves any more comment. But watch the video. What happened to hip hop dancing? Look at 0:53 onwards. It’s bad, but not in a funny uncoordinated middle-school-dance way. In fact, it’s too coordinated, too considered, too choreographed. It’s academic, it’s thought-out, it’s deliberate. But what it’s really trying to say is, “Hey, I’m not too old yet. I’m still relevant. I’m cool and spur-of-the-moment. Please like me. Please.”

Personifications aside, the video really does question the evolution or, perhaps, the de-evolution of hip hop dancing in videos. The format of dance in the videos—small groups of people showing off choreographed moves to a crowded hall—recalls hip hop dancing’s earliest roots on a cardboard square in the South Bronx in the late 70s and early 80s. Yet unlike its predecessor, the dancing in this video is pure merchandise, meant for entertainment only.

It’s an obnoxious cop-out to say that the earliest days of some trend—music, dance, art, fashion—were the realest, the most pure. To say that the beginnings of punk or hip-hop or twee or whatever was when stuff was really happening is meaningless. It’s self-congratulatory babble that says nothing of the cultural trend, only that the speaker was there, man, and, like, totally knows. It’s easy to chalk up the poor, overly-aestheticized dancing in the video to the woeful decline of hip hop and voila! Say no more. But that’s boring. And dumb. So can we get some contextualization or what?

A VERY BRIEF CONTEXTUALIZATION OF KARDINAL OFFISHALL’S VIDEO

As I previously stated, the video clearly references the earliest roots of contemporary hip-hop dancing: breakin’ in the Bronx. Bronx teenagers found their voices through their bodies; they built up and perfected a large vocabulary of moves to communicate a wide variety of emotions and messages (though I’m not sure how many interpretations The Dick Spin could have). Each move merged with the next to create a fluid poetic language. Like other cultural dances such as salsa, every move had a goal, a purpose for execution. Grandmaster Flash stated this eloquently when he said that breaking was a “way of expressing how the music sound[ed]…like a Fred Astairish type of thing.” Yeah. It’s just like tango: there’s a bank of moves stored in the dancer’s memory. Based on the beat of the music, the circumstances of the dancing, and personal emotions, the dancer will create combinations with these moves. These combinations are not pre-meditated, however—they are a spontaneous, unchoreographed chaining of steps driven by the energy of each dancer. Like hula, the dance moves in breaking aren’t just aesthetic actions. They are gestures, filled with emotion, concept, and message. Young guys would grab their crotch to symbolize greater virility than their opponents. They would point or stare at their rivals or move toward another individual, violating his personal space and thereby threatening him. Yet unlike hula, hip hop dance wasn’t really for storytelling.  More than anything, though, hip hop in the early 80s was about competition. It was male-dominated, and the cardboard square was the ego on trial. There were constant challenges, and each challenge presented an opportunity to gain dominance and respect or be defeated. The entire culture of the dance mimicked what young black teenagers felt at the time. Things were bleak—the war on poverty turned out to be an extinguished false hope, while racism and segregation were very much present in everyday life. So the teens mimicked the struggle they felt in the real world on the dance floor. They created and acted out epic dramas of enemies, tribulations, and romance. These struggles were in no way less real than the ones they faced in everyday life, but they were, perhaps, more controlled. Or, at least, because they were somewhat self-imposed and self-mandated struggles, they appeared to be more feasible—it was possible to win at dance, whereas it wasn’t really possible to win against The Man. A win on the dance floor was a true victory—hard work and effort being rightfully rewarded by praise, admiration, and hot girls. The American Dream, fully realized.

Cut to 1998. We’ve made it through the those 7-minute epics by Newcleus and Doug E Fresh and Slick Rick, the invention of (and unequivocal height of) the mixtape by geniuses like DJ Battery Brain and Dr Dre, the raw anti-establishment in-your-face ethos of Wu-Tang Clan and N.W.A., the violent angriness of the east coast-west coast battle (remember when that was actually a thing?), and, of course, the constant commercialization of the movement (exhibit A: Vanilla Ice). By commercialization, I don’t mean to imply that hip hop was being watered down, or was attempting to be more palatable to mainstream America (listen to “Super Nigger” by Schoolly D if proof is necessary). But over the course of those 18 or so years, hip hop went from something accessible to a very small group of kids to being a commanding presence on any top 40 radio station anywhere in America. It went from Bring da Ruckus to Bring da sweatshirts, da shoes, da gift basket. This is no different from other music sensations—who doesn’t have a Beatles piggy bank, an Aerosmith lunchbox, a Guns N Roses novelty tie? In 1998, hip hop was still in a very early stage of commericalization. It had just emerged from a fiery and aggressive early 90s adolescence. By 1998, hip hop was a high-school senior. The songs were, in general, a manageable 3-4 minutes long, dominated by a bumpin’ beat, and the political and social fierceness had been largely replaced by more common themes of problematic relationships, lusty feelings, and maybe a slight innuendo of unapproved activities—sex, drugs, violence—but that was much more hush-hush than it had been five years prior. Most importantly, though, hip hop was still weird. In the age analogy, hip hop was the senior in high school who thought everything was really figured out, and was wearing really crazy clothes (remember the hats?) thinking, “this is not a fad. This is real. This is the future.”

It is right at this point when the video for “My Way” by Usher came out. The video serves as a perfect middle ground between the breakdancing of the 80s and the Kardinal Offishall abomination of today. Lest we not forget, Usher gave off an entirely different public persona back then. His fashion sense was bizarre, outlandish, and trendsetting. His own choreography had a distinct personal style that lived somewhere between the angularity of The Robot and the fluidity of acrobatics. The video for “My Way” was groundbreaking, and is of particular interest to this essay because, like the video for “Numba 1”, it references the dance-offs of the Bronx. So watch the video, especially 2:20 onwards (do you see what I mean when I say hip hop was weird back then?)

The video chronicles the very theatrical beef between two dance crews and a girl caught in the middle of them. To win her affection, Usher and the antagonist (and their respective crews) battle it out on the dance floor. Just like his recent hit “Love in da Club”, he wins the girl in the end (in this sense, there is no difference between the Usher of 98 and the Usher of today—he’s still a stud).

The big dance-off in the video mimics and dramatizes the battles of the Bronx. However, there are a few noticeable differences—the most obvious, of course, being that this isn’t breakdancing anymore. There are moments in the choreography that allude to breaking, like when Usher’s spinning around on the floor or a few moves that are frozen. The competition is gone—the dance’s purpose is for entertainment only. It has developed similarities to other highly choreographed styles of dance such as ballroom and ballet. It has acquired a new language—instead of getting in an opponent’s face, dancers now get in the face of inanimate objects (like the camera) or non-responsive partners. As a result, there is no longer a reactionary or interpretive element to the dance.

This is not to suggest that, at the time of “My Way”, hip hop dance had sold out at all. Though it was navigating a very different terrain than it had 18 years previously, it was still in a process of adaptation. It was still being integrated into the American consciousness. Though there was a vocabulary of moves specific to 80s breakdancing, there wasn’t really the same thing for hip hop dancing in the late 90s. In other words, it wasn’t really clear as to what hip hop dance was. The genre was still relatively new, as was the music. Subsequently, the field was ripe for experimentation without any authority to dictate what was acceptable and what was not—there was no overarching aesthetic dogma concerning what things should look like.

Today, the authority is absolutely everyone. By now, hip hop dance has become so integrated into pop culture, the fourth graders I worked with over the summer of 2005 taught me Missy Eliot’s famous two-step (no joke. I also learned the Souljaboy dance from a 5th grader I worked with.) We’ve seen the videos, been to the dances and clubs, and watched the footage of teenagers in France on YouTube. Not only that, but now we have classes at every gym and dance studio to teach us the genre. 45-year-old moms are getting in shape shaking their yogapants-clad booties to Ja Rule. We can even buy the videos that teach us the specific dances from the songs we love. Hip hop dancing is ubiquitous in any normal contemporary lifestyle, even if said lifestyle has nothing to do with listening to Power99 and hanging out at the Gallery—it is impossible to watch television, use the internet, or walk around Philadelphia without being exposed to it. We know what it is, we know what it’s supposed to look like. As a result, the area for experimentation has been greatly reduced within mainstream hip hop. Of course, hip hop dancing struggles against its own commercialization and popularity. There’s a pressure for the dancing in music videos to be a step ahead of that which is freely available to the public. After all, the video costs millions of dollars to produce. It features the famous choreographers, the famous hand-picked dancers, and the ultra-famous stars. So it has to be better than the stuff in clubs, the stuff in beginner classes, the stuff on YouTube, right?

Yeah, I guess. Take the video (finally) for Kardinal Offishall. Or, atleast, just take the dancing (because, honestly, I’ve watched the video 20 times now and I still can’t figure out what’s going on—they’re at a Carribean club where they’re performing, and there are tattoos being given, and a photo shoot, and a barber shop…? And can we just try to figure out what’s going on with the lyrics? Kardinal is rejecting a part-time girl because he’s not really into her, he doesn’t want her to have any substantial part in his life. Meanwhile Keri plays the part of the girl, wanting to become Kardinal’s Numba 1. So they’re in disagreement, but nothing in the video reflects this, especially in the dancing (it’s not like they settle the disagreement on the dance floor, which might make sense) And what’s with the displaced phrases like “light it up” and “the tide is high”? How do those make any contextual sense?) I’m standing proudly next to de gustibus non est disputandum when I say that the dancing is horrendous. It’s aesthetically displeasing, relying heavily on overly circular movements that are awkward and disjointed when sequenced. This is the product of the academicization of hip hop. The dancing is obviously choreographed; moreover, it’s obviously choreographed from a self-conscious source. It’s not like the Usher video, in which the dancing, albeit bizarre, seems to still flow within a logical framework. “My Way” dancing is suave and, most importantly, it’s relevant. By “relevant” I mean that the dancing is something that the viewer can actually take to the club and implement. The purpose of the dancing is entertainment, and Usher’s choreography never attempts anything more than just being some really smooth new moves. In the Kardinal Offishall video, it’s hard not to hear the choreographer questioning “is this cool? What does this mean?” The dancing clearly isn’t relevant or applicable to the viewer—though I haven’t been to Palmer’s Social Club since the video debuted, I’m pretty sure people aren’t dancing like that. The choreography is obscure and focuses on grand gestures and fast and furious dance moves as opposed to moving the body to the beat. Therefore, because the dance isn’t really about dancing (or, rather, for dancing), it has the presumption of being about (or for) something else. It’s trying to be the next big thing, it’s trying to outwit common, everyday hip hop dancing, it’s trying to move the genre forward. But in attempting all of this, it only succeeds in just trying too hard. Because of the commercialization and ubiquity of hip hop dancing, the entire field has become self-aware that it is a movement, that it has historical roots and is allegedly going somewhere. So every choreographer in every new video is attempting to clarify that direction. This is different from ten years ago, when hip hop dancing didn’t have enough history or as large a public eye on it for it to be so self-conscious.

I fear that the majority of my essays conclude with nothing more than “this pop culture phenomenon, which I have just dissected in a semi-academic manner, seems to be nothing more than a product of its times!” Duh. It reflects pop culture at a specific juncture in history—that’s why it was a thing. I also fear that I don’t have anything much more sophisticated than that to say about the three eras of hip hop dancing that I mentioned in this essay—the breakdancing of the early 80s, Usher’s “My Way” video of 1998, and the Kardinal Offishall video of 2008. Clearly, the commercialization and academization of hip hop have indelibly influenced the dancing seen in mainstream videos. The dancing has become self-conscious of its own standing as a real, serious genre—one that gets attention from middle schoolers, moms, and university professors alike. As a result, the choreography has to be about something now—that it has to be really serious and dance-y and artistic, as opposed to just being the stuff that happens in the clubs on Delaware Avenue. Because it’s taught in the same studios as ballet and jazz, hip hop is a legitimate art form, and its presence in music videos reflects this new, serious identity. Additionally, because of its ubiquitous presence in daily life, everyone is an expert on it (whether they acknowledge that or not). Hip hop dancing is constrained by a large and severe public opinion of how it should look. Both factors limit the genre—now hip hop dance has to be unique and artsy, but not too weird and experimental because, hey, it still has to be hip hop. We as the viewers are left with a slew of videos featuring obviously choreographed and highly considered movements that are unappealing, irrelevant, and uninspiring. So thank goodness for YouTube—2 Live Crew’s “Pop that Pussy” is forever available, the absolute best teacher of booty-shaking. And without the yogapants.