Misogyny On the Mic
The art of egotism and technical prowess that is hip-hop is the exact opposite of the compassionate, sentimental, and victimizing registers that are traditionally assigned to them.
In France as well, in the manner of Sylvia Robinson, women are at the forefront. They are often even more visionary and daring than men. The first example comes from Laurence Touitou. A very young architect in the early eighties, she flew off to New York, where she met LL Cool J as a teenager. On her return to the country, she was the originator of the famous TF1 show H.I.P. H.O.P., presented by Sidney in 1983 and 1984, which popularized this culture in France. Moreover, if the first French television channel agreed to open its airwaves to a discipline still so marginal, it was again thanks to a woman. Then, as programming director, Marie-France Brière defended the show tooth and nail, putting her position on the line in the face of dubious executives.
If France can boast of programming the first show dedicated to hip-hop on a national channel, it is thanks to two women. And even three, since another also participated in the adventure. A friend of Laurence Touitou, originally from Tunisia like her, Sophie Bramly also lived in New York (where she was a photojournalist). She frequented the nascent hip-hop scene assiduously, along with a few other French people such as Bernard Zekri, a future heavyweight in the media industry (Radio Nova, Les Inrockuptibles, I-Télé). Bramly, notably, signed the cover of “Change the Beat,” a single by Fab 5 Freddy later identified as the most sampled track in history. For the record, one could also hear on the B-side several figures of hip-hop culture—rappers, dancers, or graffiti artists, among whom Fab 5 Freddy, Futura 2000, and Rammelzee—along with raps recited in French by another woman, B-Side, alias Ann Boyle, the American partner of Zekri.
However, it is for a completely different reason that Sophie Bramly earns a prime place in the history of hip-hop. In 1987, she settled in London, where she joined MTV’s European channel. Given her early commitment to the rap scene, a show about this music was soon entrusted to her, titled Yo! MTV Raps. It was then a small revolution, the famous music channel having long-delayed broadcasting of African-American music—in particular rap—which it thought did not suit its predominantly white audience. Yet the show spread on the channel of the American parent company from 1988 (initially hosted by Bramly’s old friend, Fab 5 Freddy), as well as through its various continental or national versions, playing a crucial role in the large-scale dissemination of this music.
These few examples demonstrate that hip-hop culture, in its early days, was far from closed off to women. Yet the situation will change, at least in appearance, toward the end of the eighties, at the very moment when rap, originally perceived as a passing fad, becomes a musical genre in its own right and gives birth to its first enduring stars. The vast majority of these latter (Run-D.M.C., Beastie Boys, LL Cool J, Public Enemy, etc.) are indeed male.
The late eighties correspond to the moment when, after fraternizing with a multiracial, bohemian, and trendy elite, rap returns to the environment that gave it birth: the African-American ghettos. It then becomes not only a matter of promoting, in a good-natured spirit, innovative musical practices, but also of representing the culture one comes from, of taking advantage of this new mode of expression to speak about one’s problems and to assert one’s own values. And in this rap that leaves behind its old school period—whether it be the rough, minimalist, and stripped-down style of Run-D.M.C., the virulent and committed style defended by Public Enemy, or the gang-inspired style popularized by Ice-T and N.W.A.—women are essentially relegated to the background.
There are several reasons for this relegation. A discipline based on competition (one must show oneself to be the most eloquent on the mic and strive to ridicule the competition) means that rap operates on testosterone. This is observable in most of the spaces where this music takes root: intimidating venues with a notorious reputation, often prone to brawls, offer little room for women. Moreover, this art of egotism and technical prowess that is hip-hop is the exact opposite of the compassionate, sentimental, and victimizing registers that are traditionally assigned to them.
In France, too, during those eighties when a hip-hop scene was developing, women ran up against these limitations, as testified by the pioneer Saliha: “When you’re a girl, the audience has more preconceived ideas, more prejudices; you have to fight twice as hard, not fall asleep on stage. To do rap as a woman, you must not be afraid of getting your ass kicked.”
Added to this are the family obligations which, in an African-American milieu where single parenthood is common, most often fall to women, as well as pregnancies and the jealousy of possessive partners. “I know female MCs who can rap, but they have to give up because their boyfriends get jealous when they go to the studio to work with male producers or because they have families to raise,” laments Special One from the female duo Conscious Daughters in an interview. These limitations affected the first major female rapper in the media as early as 1981. Then, while pregnant, Sha-Rock of Funky 4 + 1 suffered from nausea and had difficulty traveling, causing the anger of her male counterparts, who accused her of delaying the success that was within their grasp.
From the very origins of rap, women have encountered more obstacles than men. They must fight to be paid in proportion to their talent or to impose themselves on managers who prefer to confine them to the role of singers rather than rappers. This is the case with the Mercedes Ladies, the very first female rap group, as later recounted by one of its members, Sheri Abernathy, alias Sheri Sher, in a fictionalized biography. The career of a very great lady of rap also reflects this difficulty for women in finding their place in this milieu. At the end of the eighties, indeed, MC Lyte’s signing on a major label was only possible with the support of her protector, Nat Robinson. The Atlantic label was initially interested only in its sons, the duo Audio Two, but Robinson insisted on including the female rapper in their deal.
Asked today about their first steps in rap, several women who have become references in the genre speak of the disdain and insults they suffered from their male peers. For example, Salt from Salt-N-Pepa recalls having been considered by the influential Russell Simmons as a flash in the pan, because he judged her music too mainstream, not sufficiently in tune with the underground and hardcore mood of those years. Roxanne Shanté also recalls having been harshly rated by Kurtis Blow during a battle, because the first hip-hop star believed that the credibility of rap would take a hit if too many girls were put forward. Another notable case is that of The Lady of Rage, whose album was long delayed and was only released after the best years of the Death Row label, without having benefited from the care devoted to the classics of her predecessors.
Yet female rappers are not to be pitied when compared to DJs. Already more in the background than their MC counterparts since rap became popular, there are very few female representatives among them. Its actors are overwhelmingly male, despite a few notable exceptions: Baby D (later known as D’Bora), the DJ of the Mercedes Ladies, who later pursued a career in house music; DJ Spinderella, the third member of Salt-N-Pepa; or even DJ Jazzy Joyce, known for having collaborated with another pioneering female rapper, Sweet Tee, and then with the group Digable Planets.
In the eighties, female rappers and women DJs struggled to find their place. However, the public success of hip-hop was such that some managed to stand out. This is the case of Roxanne Shanté. In 1984, when she was not even fifteen years old, the teenager proposed to producer Marley Marl and his entourage to release a single, “Roxanne’s Revenge,” in response to the track “Roxanne, Roxanne” by the group U.T.F.O., whose fault had been standing her up at a concert. These reprisals led to others, with U.T.F.O. hiring their own female rapper, The Real Roxanne, to oppose the other. And yet another woman, Sparky D, became Shanté’s designated adversary. Thus began a long battle through interposed texts and singles, later called the Roxanne Wars. With “Roxanne’s Revenge,” Roxanne Shanté actually launched the first major edition of a lasting rap tradition: beef.
Since we are speaking of the first very great female rappers, it is necessary to mention MC Lyte once again. Without overplaying her femininity, she defies men on their own terrain: that of verbal skill. One must also cite, in a more Afrocentric register, Queen Latifah, one of the first female rappers to advocate an openly feminist stance, thanks to powerful and historic tracks such as “Ladies First” or the anthem “U.N.I.T.Y.”
However, the greatest success in the eighties goes to a trio composed of two female rappers and one DJ, Salt-N-Pepa, who equally combine festive, sexy rap imbued with feminist considerations and whose first album, propelled in 1986 by the successful remix of the track “Push It,” is the first platinum record in female rap. In a similar register, that of mainstream and very danceable rap variety, a few other groups occasionally achieved success, such as the Miami Bass duo L’Trimm, with the track “Cars With the Boom,” or the Californians of J.J. Fad, with their hit “Supersonic.”
These latter come from places other than New York, thus marking the growing popularity of hip-hop scenes outside the major East Coast metropolis. Now, this phenomenon is amplified with the success of West Coast rap in the early nineties. In turn, this school of rap co-opts female rappers, who then engage in rap often more virulent than that of their predecessors. This is the case with Yo-Yo, the protégé of Ice Cube, and Lady of Rage, a close associate of Dr Dre and Snoop Dogg. The Californian sound also suits women from other backgrounds, such as Boss, a girl from Detroit who represents the gangsta style of the West Coast on the New York label Def Jam, or Da Brat, a resident of Chicago who, with her album Funkdafied in 1994, achieved the first platinum record for a solo female rapper.
All these female rappers, to varying degrees, contribute to bringing a feminine perspective to rap. Most, indeed, sign tracks calling for the emancipation of women. But none truly innovate. Few play a real role in the formal evolutions of rap. Taken in hand by men, of whom they are the understudy, the guarantee, or the showcase, they content themselves with capturing, with skill, the spirit of the times. Salt-N-Pepa, for example, appears to be a feminized version of the most important group of their era, Run-D.M.C. Queen Latifah, on her part, is a facet of the clever and arty rap of the Native Tongues collective (A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, Jungle Brothers, etc.) to which she is affiliated. More obscure and now forgotten, Isis (later called Lin Que) and Queen Mother Rage are close to X-Clan, an important group of the engaged and Afrocentric phase of rap, whose political theories they adopt.
The same goes for Harmony and Ms. Melodie, two sisters who remained in the shadow of KRS-One’s Boogie Down Productions—the husband of the latter—or for Sister Souljah, who joined Public Enemy and is better known today as an activist and writer than for her past as a rapper. Even the very mainstream rapper MC Hammer then has his female offshoot, with his protégées from Oaktown’s 357. And a little later, with the help of his producer Jermaine Dupri, Da Brat shamelessly mimics the style of Snoop Doggy Dogg a few months after the first triumph of the Californian rapper. The time when, in the early eighties, the Winley sisters invented conscious rap and when the female rapper Sha-Rock used a reverb technique that would influence Run-D.M.C. now seems long gone.
The very masculine character of rap might have left many indifferent. After all, it is not the first musical genre to overrepresent men by any means. In rock, too, as in so many other disciplines, musical or not, women had to fight for a long time to become visible and legitimate. And rappers are certainly not the first to use sexist lyrics. The standard “Hey Joe,” popularized by Jimi Hendrix, speaks of a man who shoots his partner for cheating on him. And in their lyrics, the Rolling Stones made multiple references to rape and the submission of women. But rap suffers from aggravating circumstances: the brownish appearance of its performers, which is often the root of the problem for its accusers—who are often more lenient when sexism comes from whites—and also, it must be admitted, the visible, excessive, and repetitive nature of its misogyny.
From the eighties onward, examples abound among rappers, even the most subtle ones. This is the case, for instance, with Slick Rick. Universally recognized as the best storyteller ever produced by this musical genre, the New Yorker of British origin was also one of the great misogynists, as clearly evidenced by the title of one of his emblematic tracks, “Treat Her Like a Prostitute.” In that track, the rapper rattles off several little stories, whose moral is always the same: women are not reliable, they cheat on you at the first opportunity, and they must, therefore, be treated like the prostitutes they are.
Another notorious example is Too $hort. Based in Oakland, in the San Francisco Bay Area, he owes a good part of his success and influence to his degrading lyrics toward women. A substantial part of his repertoire revolves solely around that. “Freaky Tales,” the track that launched him in 1987, is a humorous description of his numerous sexual conquests, “Blowjob Betty” evokes an expert in fellatio, and “Invasion of the Flat Booty Bitches” attacks women with insufficiently generous buttocks. The most striking thing about Too $hort is that his rise occurs essentially underground. It is by selling his albums from the trunk of his car, like a drug dealer, that he builds his reputation. Contrary to what some claim, the triumph of the most scandalous rap is not a choice made by record companies. On the contrary, it is imposed on him by the base. The idea of a music industry investing in gangsta rap and misogyny to divert fans from hip-hop with more political and social content is largely based on an ideological construction and a conspiratorial delusion.
In truth, the rap of Too $hort and other notorious misogynists has deep roots. It feeds on figures that have long been conveyed by African-American culture, blaxploitation cinema, or community literature, notably that of the pimp (the procurer), popularized by the writer Iceberg Slim in his autobiographical novel. A source of many fantasies, this character, capable of enriching himself through his hold over women, is one of the most popular and most frequently portrayed in rap. Many others identify with him. Notably, Snoop Dogg, who pushes vice as far as inviting himself onto the set of the MTV Awards in 2003, accompanied by two lightly clad women, decked out in dog collars and kept on leashes. That night, with 50 Cent, the star performs a track entitled “P.I.M.P” naturally.
In the following years and decades, rap continues to abound with lyrics that speak of submission, aggression, rape, or even the murder of women, as in the case of the brutal and enraged “Kim,” in which Eminem stages the assassination of his ex-partner. Even worse, the words are sometimes accompanied by actions. The history of rap is peppered with news items attesting to violence against women. 2Pac was convicted of gang rape in a hotel room, Flavor Flav of Public Enemy, for having beaten the mother of his children. In 1990, Dr. Dre violently assaulted Dee Barnes, smashing the head of the TV presenter against a wall because she had the misfortune of having presented his group N.W.A. in an unflattering light. And such actions are not a passing phase. Nearly thirty years later, similar charges hang over new-generation idols, such as Kodak Black, Playboi Carti, and XXXTentacion.