The Era of Bad Bitches
Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown ushered in the era of “bad bitches,” hyper-sexy, desirable rappers who nonetheless retain control over their own destinies.
Despite their bitter rivalry—one of the longest-lasting in rap history—Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown share many essential traits. Initially friends (they collaborated with Da Brat on a remix of “No One Else” by the R&B group Total, and they had even planned a joint album, Thelma & Louise), these two young women are both from Brooklyn. Each joined one of New York’s most prominent collectives at the time (Notorious B.I.G.’s Junior M.A.F.I.A. for Lil’ Kim, and Nas’s The Firm for Foxy Brown). Their respective debuts featuring the same revealing lingerie on the cover would become major rap successes and were released just two weeks apart. They also dealt, more or less, with the same themes: the streets, luxury, and the mobster lifestyle.
Even more fundamentally, they share a groundbreaking approach to female rap. They are far more sensual than their predecessors and more sexualized, as evidenced by the titles of their albums, each referencing pornography. Without restraint—through suggestive poses and skimpy outfits—they flaunt the attributes of their gender. By presenting themselves in this way, Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown change how women are positioned in rap. They usher in the era of “bad bitches,” hyper-sexy, desirable rappers who nonetheless retain control over their own destinies.
HYPER-SEXUALIZED FEMALE RAPPERS
Before the rise of the bad bitches, female rappers often opted for a unisex style. Despite lyrics that confronted the pervasive sexism in rap, MC Lyte did not overemphasize her femininity. Her clothing was similar to that of the men, and she hinted at her gender mainly through discreet jewelry and makeup. Later on, Da Brat or Boss would assume harsh expressions, show aggression, wear short hair, and don the baggy clothes typical of male rappers.
However, revealing outfits and provocative poses soon became the norm. Several future rap stars had honed their suggestive looks in a career as strippers (Trina, Eve, Azealia Banks, Cardi B, Kash Doll). Others pursued parallel careers as models. By the late nineties, this standard had become so ingrained in rap that even Da Brat—originally known for a very masculine style—eventually showcased her femininity.
Yet a closer look shows that Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown’s approach was not entirely new. There had been predecessors. Ten years earlier, Salt-N-Pepa had used seduction as a weapon, proclaiming their right to pleasure on their first hit, “Push It,” and titling another of their successes, “Let’s Talk About Sex.” But they were never as extreme or systematic in this regard as future generations. There was also MC Smooth, who presented herself as a “Female Mac” in 1993. In the eighties, a Houston rapper named Choice delivered extremely explicit lyrics, Eazy-E of N.W.A. launched the very salacious Hoez With Attitudes (H.W.A.), three young women who pranced around in lingerie, and the aggressive duo BWP (Bytches With Problems) responded to 2 Live Crew with raps just as crude as theirs. However, because these acts did not always succeed commercially or sustain long-term quality, their impact was limited or delayed.
Another notable precursor was Darlene Ortiz, partner of Ice-T, one of the first big gangsta rappers. Ortiz didn’t rap, but in 1988, she appeared on the cover of his album Power standing chin-up, with a defiant gaze and a long gun in hand, wearing a swimsuit that left little to the imagination. That image quickly became iconic (and over time inspired an entire line of merchandise), having a huge influence on the hip-hop imagery that followed. Its power stemmed from a still-rare fusion of erotic charge and an attitude (not to mention an album title) signaling pride, power, and domination¹.
AN AFRICAN-AMERICAN MODEL
In reality, Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown’s influences run even deeper, predating rap itself. This strong, sexy—sometimes uninhibited—woman model already existed in African-American culture, most prominently in blaxploitation films of the 1970s. These were designed to give Black people empowering on-screen roles. One of the genre’s biggest stars, Pam Grier, epitomized this ideal by portraying characters who could throw punches as effectively as any man and flaunt their bodies in very risqué scenes. Her influence on hip-hop is indisputable. Foxy Brown (1974), one of her landmark films, provided the rapper Foxy Brown with her stage name. And in 1993, when Snoop Dogg dominated the rap scene, Pam Grier appeared in his “Doggy Dogg World” video.
Looking just at the music realm, one should also remember the highly suggestive lyrics of numerous soul, funk, and disco singers in the 1970s. The most famous example is probably Millie Jackson, who openly sang about topics such as oral sex and, on one album (Feelin’ Bitchy), declared herself feeling “bitchy.” As a side note, Sylvia Robinson—“the mother of hip-hop”—had a rather steamy biggest hit when she was a soul singer. For whom “Pillow Talk” was initially intended, Al Green refused to perform it, finding it too scandalous for his image. Released in 1973, that single featured suggestive moans foreshadowing the orgasmic sighs Donna Summer made two years later on “Love to Love You Baby.”
Finally, it is essential to mention Betty Davis. A funk singer once married to Miles Davis for a year, she played a key role in exposing the jazzman to more modern musical trends. She was also among the first to highlight her physique with sexy lingerie and provocative poses and to use very explicit lyrics—like in “Nasty Gal,” where she brazenly proclaims, “I’m just a nasty gal!” It is hard not to see in her a forerunner not only of today’s rappers but also of certain white singers, like Madonna, who fully leveraged their bodies and erotic potential.
We should also mention dancehall, rap’s Jamaican cousin that periodically influences it. Emerging in the eighties as a reaction to the religiously infused, roots-oriented reggae, dancehall embraced explicit lyrics and sexually charged attitudes, reflecting the Caribbean “slackness” culture of bold vulgarity. Men have been the main exponents of this trend, but it has also seen the rise of a few female figures, such as Lady Saw.
Evidence that the “bad bitch” ideal is primarily an African-American (and Afro-Caribbean) model can be found in its poor exportability. Among Canadian rappers, for instance, women generally stay more reserved and socially conscious. And within Francophone rap, there were few examples of this before the 2010s emergence of Shay (Booba’s protégé from Belgium, who titled an album Jolie garce) or Liza Monet, who admitted a past as a porn actress and prostitute. A decade earlier, Roll-K was virtually the only French rapper to adopt this salacious rap style without gaining much traction beyond a niche audience. As several French female rappers admit, talking about sex is still considered delicate and frowned upon in France, leading them to self-censor.
Even now, this uninhibited female rapper archetype remains marginal in France. Attempts in this vein, like those by the twin sisters Orties or Black Barbie, have largely fallen flat. Shay also faced a severe backlash when she was accused of having transactional sex with a soccer player. In France—where cultural values differ, and the rap community often stems from backgrounds more patriarchal and conservative than in the United States—independent women can be poorly viewed. “Peace to the sisters who preserve their virtue,” says Ali, Booba’s partner in Lunatic. Even French female rappers sometimes condemn women who too openly embrace their sexuality, as Sté Strausz does on the La Haine soundtrack, declaring, “That disgusts me—girls who don’t respect their bodies,” or as national star Diam’s does on “Cruelle à vie,” criticizing “skanks who lost their virginity without loving.”
THE JEZEBEL STEREOTYPE
Naturally, the emergence of these provocative female rappers triggered controversy. They shocked conservatives, who believe women should only have a sex life within marriage. They also sparked an outcry from some feminists, who would rather see female rappers focus on other topics besides sex. From that perspective—embraced, for instance, by director (and former rapper) Ava DuVernay in her documentary on women and hip-hop, My Mic Sounds Nice (2010)—these “loose” women merely pander to men’s fantasies. Being “sexy” is supposedly the only way to sell records and gain the rap industry’s attention, which is still largely male-dominated.
This criticism is not entirely unfounded. Desirable, scantily clad female rappers thrill male listeners and boost sales. It was, in fact, a man—her lover, Notorious B.I.G.—who supposedly urged Lil’ Kim to steer her debut album in that pornographic direction and who wrote a substantial part of those scandalous lyrics. Meanwhile, Foxy Brown’s texts were rumored to be penned by men as well, including JAY-Z, who is said to have written much of her Ill Na Na.
In addition to sexism, there is also the charge of racism. It does not escape notice that most uninhibited female rappers are Black, thus perpetuating a long-standing fantasy harbored by Western men toward “exotic beauties.” Like Josephine Baker in 1920s Paris, dancing topless with a banana skirt, this imagery fuels a cliché: that African women are particularly erotic, sexually skilled, and always available—a near-animalistic concept to be consumed at will. White men are thus allegedly being served up Black female flesh.
Critics label this the Jezebel stereotype, referencing the biblical queen known for her immorality and cruelty, with a fondness for makeup and luxurious attire—traditionally portrayed as a Black woman by some interpretations. During the colonial period, she stood in opposition to the prudish, “respectable” Victorian woman, who was invariably white. This division of roles by color remains deeply ingrained in the American mindset and, arguably, throughout the Western world. During the rap era, one example is Mariah Carey. Visibly white, she initially sang sweet pop ballads; but when she embraced or even highlighted her Afro-American heritage, she gravitated toward R&B and hip-hop, collaborating with edgy rappers like Ol’ Dirty Bastard and trading her long gowns for more revealing outfits. There has always been an expectation that Black women be desirable and lascivious, and this archaic requirement—rooted in white male desire—seems to live on in these hypersexualized, alluring female rappers.
EAT THIS CLIT UP TIL’ YA SPIT UP
However, calling bad bitches “anti-feminist” is a misinterpretation. These rappers are not merely offering themselves up to men. On the contrary, they are proud, intimidating, and unashamedly claim their own sexuality and bodily autonomy. “Not Tonight,” one of Lil’ Kim’s earliest hits, is an ode to female pleasure. The rapper firmly states that she won’t be servicing her partner tonight, but rather he needs to satisfy her via cunnilingus. A powerful anthem for women’s sexual liberation, the song has a second version titled “Ladies Night,” featuring Da Brat, Missy Elliott, Angie Martinez, and Left Eye. Additional female rap and R&B stars—Queen Latifah and Mary J. Blige—appear in the song’s music video, making it a historic moment.
“Not Tonight” is no one-off. Many other female rap tracks celebrate cunnilingus. It’s the embodiment of a sexual practice where men serve women’s pleasure and a perfect symbol of the reversal these women seek. It is the riposte to the countless “suck my dick” lines hammered out by male rappers, paralleling all those rap songs exalting fellatio.
The cunnilingus theme goes back to the early nineties, before the bad bitches era, with “Eat This” by Hoes With Attitude (H.W.A.), or Boss’s “Recipe of a Hoe,” in which a man yells, “Awww bitch eat a dick up til ya hiccup,” and the rapper fires back just as aggressively, “Naw trick! Eat this clit up til’ ya spit up.”
Over the following decades, more songs—whether hits or not—voiced women’s right to pleasure with equal force. On “Tongue Song,” Trina recounts how good a skillful tongue can make her feel. Khia’s only major hit, “My Neck, My Back (Lick It),” also endorses anilingus. Missy Elliott’s “Work It,” a chart-topping single, touches on the same topic. Iggy Azalea’s breakthrough track, “Pu$$y,” focuses entirely on her private parts. And “Ooouuu,” a 2016 rap hit and Young M.A.’s best-known track, hints at oral sex in a lesbian context. By the late 2010s, Cardi B began forging her reputation as a rapper with a mixtape cover showing a man pleasuring her. Queen Key, without shame, titled her first official release Eat My Pussy. These are just a few examples among many.
These rappers go beyond simply demanding sexual gratification: they aggressively call out men who fail to satisfy them. Another classic theme of women’s rap—right after the cunnilingus anthem—is the track slamming “one-minute men,” the premature ejaculators who climax in under a minute and leave their partners hanging. One of the earliest pioneers of X-rated rap, Texas native Choice, devoted a song to these boors in 1990 (“Minute Man”), as did BWP a year later with “Two Minute Brother.” A decade later, Missy Elliott released another big hit on the subject, “One Minute Man.”
LIBERATION THROUGH SEX
In these songs, female rappers defy men. With their explicit lyrics, they adapt the lascivious rap style of 2 Live Crew and Akinyele for themselves. By showing off their bodies, they replicate what some male rappers do—who often appear shirtless, posing seductively. This leveling of the playing field, this quest for equality, also manifests in another key track from Lil’ Kim’s debut album: “We Don’t Need It,” where each member of the Junior M.A.F.I.A. (male or female) asserts the same right to oral sex.
In keeping with rap’s combative nature—akin to a verbal spar—women compete with men, proclaiming the supremacy of their sexual prowess. Rap is rife with duets like Trina and Trick Daddy’s “I Don’t Need U,” where both men and women hurl insults with the same scorn, staking the same claim to sexual pleasure and scorning partners who fail to meet their needs.
Just as misogyny among male rappers is largely a performative stance, the hyper-provocative style of their female counterparts often plays out like a game. It traces back to the long tradition of insult battles in African-American culture, from slavery to “the dozens.” Notably, many Southern rap circles—like those in New Orleans and Memphis, including labels like No Limit and groups like Three 6 Mafia—are filled with extremely sexist male rappers who come close to glorifying sexual violence. Yet they also make room for strong, aggressive women, like Mia X or Gangsta Boo, who dish out just as much brutality in return.
We see a similar pattern with female rappers as occurred with gangsta rap: instead of denying stereotypes about themselves, some Black Americans choose to capitalize on them. They fully embrace and reclaim these clichés, turning them into a paradoxical means of emancipation. Gangsta rappers realized that playing the victim is counterproductive, that it keeps them forever in a subordinate role, so they opted to invert the script. Similarly, these female rappers take ownership of sexual clichés about them in order to subvert and control them. They co-opt the derogatory terms hurled at them (“bitch,” “ho,” or “thot,” rather than “nigga”) to make those slurs symbols of pride.
In 2017, in an interview with Le Monde, French hip-hop pioneer Sophie Bramly—by then active in the feminist collective 52—praised this paradoxical form of feminism expressed in rap, citing two renowned R&B singers close to the hip-hop scene: “What rappers achieved in thirty years is phenomenal; they won a cultural battle and conquered the world, even infiltrating the luxury industry. Down the line, female rappers have turned forced nudity around and used their bodies to seize power. Beyoncé and Rihanna have done more for the third wave of feminism than many intellectuals. Showing women their power, in the long run, will have an impact.”¹
BAD BITCHES: FEMINISTS?
This new kind of feminism is not confined to rap. It is part of a generational wave heralded in music by the early-nineties Riot Grrrl punk movement. Much like female rappers, these women reclaimed the slurs used against them to neutralize that language and openly discuss sexuality.
Even if women’s empowerment is not their principal concern, other rock singers of the same era spoke of sexuality from a distinctly female viewpoint, such as PJ Harvey on her raw yet classic first album, Dry, where she goes so far as to reference personal subjects like her menstrual cycle. With artists like these, a fresh brand of feminism arrived in the nineties—both in the U.S. and in places like France, with writers like Virginie Despentes and former adult-film actress Ovidie—one that accepted and even championed pornography, refusing to let men alone shape depictions of sex.
Female rappers and this new feminist wave have often stood on common ground, sharing similar struggles and attitudes. Still, they are not identical. Unlike many feminists, X-rated rap rarely objects to sexual commodification. And while it promotes its own erotic standards, championing certain types of beauty, it often remains tied to those traditionally imposed by men. Its African-American roots fundamentally differ from leftist feminist intellectuals—largely white women.
Puritan feminism that criticizes rap’s “scandalous” portrayal of women and the more sympathetic variety that views rap as a platform for empowerment both stem from a flawed reading of the African-American context. As Tricia Rose notes, part of the U.S. Black community is indeed conservative and paternalistic, but this is not universal. In many Northern cities, a matriarchal structure is common: single-mother households that inspire visions of strong, independent women.
These “Black goddesses” are often celebrated by male rappers, from A Tribe Called Quest’s “Bonita Applebum” to Kendrick Lamar’s “Complexion” and Black Star’s “Brown Skin Lady.” All pay homage to them, promoting beauty standards distinct from those of white culture. Even rap’s misogynistic outbursts hint at the central role women occupy in this community. As Christian Béthune points out, “Within African-American culture, symbolic denigration of women is the flip side of the authority they often hold in the family and the expectation placed on Black men [...] to renounce displays of their own virility.”
For many male rappers, their aggressive, degrading language toward women reflects feelings of inferiority. Unable to provide for women’s needs and isolated in male-only spaces by gangs and prisons, they reduce women to reassuring sexual objects. Whether it comes from male or female rappers, rap’s hypersexualization of women is, paradoxically, the product of both a deep-seated hostility to female independence and the ultimate celebration of that independence.
A FIRST GOLDEN AGE
The emergence of these new female rappers also signaled, more broadly, a first golden age for women in hip-hop. During the nineties in the U.S., rap became the new mainstream—America’s dominant pop music. Since it was unthinkable to exclude women from this wave, record labels (as noted in Ava DuVernay’s documentary My Mic Sounds Nice) began to welcome them more widely. By the late nineties, three solo female rap albums topped sales charts: The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill by Ms. Lauryn Hill (1998), Chyna Doll by Foxy Brown (early 1999), and Let There Be Eve… by Eve (later that year).
LAURYN, EVE, TRINA, AND THE OTHERS
The most striking aspect of these three successes is that each proposes a markedly different model of female rap. While Foxy Brown adopts the overtly risqué stance we know, Eve takes on a style that is both aggressive and sexy. Calling herself the “pitbull in a skirt,” she represents the female side of the tough, streetwise rap championed by DMX’s Ruff Ryders collective. Ms. Lauryn Hill, the only female rapper to have a solo single reach #1 on the U.S. charts for twenty years (“Doo Wop (That Thing)”), operates on a wholly different level, far beyond the hip-hop framework.
Indeed, her group the Fugees achieved huge commercial success—worldwide—by adapting classic pop hits by Roberta Flack and Bob Marley into rap form. On her first (and only true) solo album, Lauryn Hill stands squarely in the lineage of jazz and soul icons. Like them, she sings about heartbreak and romantic bliss rather than indulging in rap’s usual braggadocio. She also draws on all the Black music that preceded her, including reggae (her partner at the time was Bob Marley’s son Rohan).
The Fugees’ leading lady helped rap gain legitimacy and appreciation far beyond its core audience. In 1999, beating out heavyweights like Madonna and Sheryl Crow, her solo record became the first hip-hop album to receive a Grammy Award outside the rap categories. She is more than just a rapper; Ms. Lauryn Hill is a grand diva of African-American music for her artistry, famously mercurial personality, and private life. Indeed, following her triumphant rise, she receded into an almost chaotic retirement, marked by sporadic appearances, spiritual and emotional wanderings, multiple pregnancies, polarizing public statements, tax problems, and a prison stint.
Alongside Foxy Brown, Eve, and Ms. Lauryn Hill, the year 2000 also saw many other women emerge. Trina, in Florida—a traditionally fertile ground for raunchy rap—perfected Lil’ Kim’s formula of lewd lyrics. Others followed in MC Lyte’s footsteps, representing a style of rap that does not fundamentally differ from men’s but instead aims to surpass them in lyrical skill. That path was taken on the East Coast by Rah Digga and Bahamadia, two great rappers from the Lyricist Lounge, a legendary series of open-mic events in New York.
All these women, unlike the pioneers of the seventies, did not dramatically reinvent rap’s codes and forms. More often than not, they merely infused a female perspective into musical styles created by men. Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown revolutionized how women were depicted in rap, but not the genre itself. Formally, their hip-hop was identical to that of their male colleagues: dark, street-oriented New York rap from the nineties—a style on the brink of becoming more ostentatious, glammed up by the bling-bling era, and laced with sugary R&B choruses. One rapper (and singer and producer), however, soon distinguished herself by moving to the music’s cutting edge and demonstrating genuine innovation.
MISSY “MISDEMEANOR” ELLIOTT
Emerging at the same time as Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown in the mid-to-late nineties, Missy “Misdemeanor” Elliott adopted some of the erotic codes they popularized. Yet her situation was different: her face was seen as less conventionally pretty, her figure less “perfect.” In 1993, she experienced humiliation when the video for Raven-Symoné’s “That’s What Little Girls Are Made Of”—a track Missy herself wrote and produced—featured a more telegenic young woman lip-syncing her lyrics. “Damn, do I look that ugly?” she fumed. Fueling her determination, she showcased other qualities instead, particularly an unbridled creativity.
First, Missy Elliott merged multiple musical trends. Her work brought together street rap, dance music, and mainstream African-American pop—R&B—effectively completing its union with hip-hop. Likewise, she played every role in female rap: tomboy hip-hop kid, sweet R&B vocalist, and man-eating bad bitch. Yet she also pioneered new forms.
She was far from alone. Melissa Arnette Elliott was part of a Virginia-based scene represented by Timbaland, as well as producers Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo (The Neptunes). They transformed early-2000s American pop music with their strange brand of electronic funk, open to experimentation and Eastern sounds, effortlessly crossing rap, R&B, and pop boundaries, creating a string of hits.
Missy Elliott was fully involved in this exhilarating movement, demonstrating a creativity that went beyond music. Her imagination was also visual, shown in her unusual choreography and offbeat videos—most famously “The Rain,” her first hit, where she dances in what looks like a trash bag, a self-deprecating nod to criticisms of her appearance. That exuberance flourished in a memorable run of early-2000s hit singles: “Get Ur Freak On,” with its addictive bhangra beat; “One Minute Man,” already discussed; “Gossip Folks,” denouncing the rumors swirling around her; and the wildly inventive “Work It,” a humorous ode to women’s sexual freedom that blends reversed lyrics with elephant trumpeting.
THE AWAKENING OF HIP-HOP FEMINISM
At the turn of the millennium, women’s influence in hip-hop was not limited to the rise of star rappers. It also took the form of various social, cultural, and political initiatives supporting women. Alarmed by the sexist surge in rap throughout the preceding decade, some sought to reconcile their love of this music with their feminist commitments. One example is Essence, a magazine for African-American women that launched the “Take Back the Music” campaign in 2005, aiming to remove degrading depictions of women from rap. That same year, the University of Chicago held a major conference titled “Hip Hop and Feminism,” while in Minneapolis, the B-Girl Be festival was created to celebrate women’s contributions to all hip-hop disciplines, far beyond just music. Meanwhile, debates on women’s roles in rap spilled into numerous books and articles.
These discussions were part of a broader clash between old-school and new-school hip-hop. As the U.S. embraced gangsta rap and its most shocking variants as the new norm rather than an offshoot, the music’s earliest fans sought to sanitize and dignify the hip-hop they’d grown up with. A myth arose of an original, idealized hip-hop that was pure and progressive. To some, the priority was to revive this foundational culture—multidisciplinary, focused on social emancipation and art, welcoming to women—and to distinguish it from commercial, unethical rap that indulged in the basest instincts.
This romanticization of a wholesome, tolerant golden-age hip-hop found expression in various ways, such as producer Jason Nevins’s 1997 remix of Run-D.M.C.’s “It’s Like That.” Topping charts in multiple countries, it effectively tapped into nostalgia. Its video, for instance, features a playful dance battle between a multiracial male crew and a multiracial female crew, culminating in the women appearing to win. Naturally, this is an entirely reinvented, idealized past, since—let’s remember—women were in fact a minority in early hip-hop dance.
This divide between the old guard and the new, between nostalgic types and contemporary fans, underlies the contradictory forces driving American rap around the early 2000s. On the one hand, a cluster of regional scenes with predominantly Black audiences, centered in the Southern U.S., each reworking the scandalous genres of prior years—gangsta rap or dirty rap. On the other, a global underground scene united across ethnicities, still devoted to all hip-hop disciplines and proudly asserting its artistry and intellect.
Naturally, the female rappers who are most politically active and openly feminist often belong to or orbit this “backpacker” and independent rap movement, such as Jean Grae, Invincible, Tiye Phoenix, or Ava DuVernay. All began their careers in collectives back in the nineties. They belong to rap’s rearguard, and their messages seldom extend beyond die-hard underground purists.
A LOST DECADE
Overall, in the early 2000s, female rappers struggled to be heard. The late nineties may have been the first golden age for women in rap, but in the following decade, the big names—Lil’ Kim, Foxy Brown, Eve, Ms. Lauryn Hill, and Missy Elliott—failed to find worthy successors. When the internet triggered a crisis in CD sales, record labels carried out sweeping cuts that hit female rappers first. They seemed unprofitable, particularly given the new generation’s obsession with luxury and flamboyant wardrobes, which drove up costs.
For American female rappers, the 2000s felt like a series of missed opportunities. Charli Baltimore and Vita never managed to release albums on Murder Inc. (pirate versions eventually circulated online). Shawnna—daughter of Chicago bluesman Buddy Guy—reached #1 on the U.S. charts with Ludacris on “Stand Up,” and her two solo albums garnered positive reviews, but they had no lasting follow-up. Amil, JAY-Z’s protégé, didn’t make much of a splash. Ms. Jade, supported by Missy Elliott and Timbaland, struggled after her debut album. Remy Ma, a promising ally of Fat Joe, saw her career derailed by a lengthy prison sentence.
Meanwhile, women were still at the forefront of “urban music”—a euphemism often used instead of “Black music.” Ashanti was one of three women signed to Irv Gotti’s Murder Inc., whose male star was rapper Ja Rule. Aaliyah was another major figure surrounded by rap luminaries (including Timbaland and Missy Elliott) until her tragic plane crash death in 2001. Beyoncé Knowles, formerly of Destiny’s Child (who would marry JAY-Z, the era’s rap heavyweight, in 2008), became an icon. Yet these massive successes—bigger than any female rapper—were achieved by R&B singers, not rappers.
By the late 2000s, women were again, if not more than ever, a minority in rap. In the United States, perhaps three female rappers (Nicki Minaj, Trina, Diamond) remained signed to major labels. Unless supported by male colleagues, no female rapper topped the Billboard singles or albums charts from the late nineties until Nicki Minaj’s Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded in 2012, which is only partially a rap album. The drought was so severe that the Grammy Award for female rappers was discontinued in 2005, lasting a mere two years. It was given out just twice—to the same person: Missy Elliott.
Such was the reality in the United States, hip-hop’s birthplace and epicenter, and it was no more favorable elsewhere. True, in the mid-2000s, France celebrated its one genuine female rap star, Diam’s. However, after withdrawing in the late 2000s due to severe depression, she left a huge void. Perhaps only England offered an exception: although Ms. Dynamite and Lady Sovereign’s global careers fizzled, no one can deny the influence of the eclectic, politically active M.I.A., even if she was never limited to pure rap.
Another downside for female rappers was that, even more than men in those turbulent times for the music industry, women had to soften their image and make pop-friendly music to succeed. Eve followed this route. Tough and uncompromising when she debuted with the Ruff Ryders, she mellowed out after 2000, leaning into a pop sound. Collaborations with No Doubt’s Gwen Stefani and Alicia Keys kept her on American radio. Perhaps more revealingly, at the end of the 2000s, the most visible woman in rap wasn’t a rapper at all: Fergie, the vocalist for the Black Eyed Peas, whose success derived from morphing from alternative hip-hop to pop.
Female rap and American pop music became intertwined, almost incestuously. Though not a rapper and leaning more toward electro-pop, the era’s biggest female star, Lady Gaga, had a fleeting contract with Def Jam's iconic hip-hop label. She also employed a brand of provocation and nudity reminiscent of old-school bad bitches. Meanwhile, newer artists like Lil Mama attempted to promote a family-friendly rap (soon dubbed “hip-pop”). The most glaring example of these rap/pop crossovers was the single female artist who rose to pop stardom in the late 2000s: Nicki Minaj, a Caribbean-American from New York.