“I know it’s bizarre for a young Jewish girl from Connecticut to be so inclined…†That began my application for an internship at an independent New York City hip-hop record label. Most people would consider it a bit out of the ordinary for a white, suburban Jewish girl to be fascinated by the urban music industry. In fact, I could very well have my religion and innocence working against me.
From the outside, hip-hop looked to be an industry that would readily segregate against people of certain backgrounds and ethnicities—just like every other form of art. Dominated by the African-American and Latino cultures, rap music seems to have little place for white people in the front and center, with the notable exceptions of a select few, like Eminem and Asher Roth. Add to that my Judaism, and I felt ostracized already. To my surprise, though, I found that Jews had already played an important role in the founding and development of hip-hop music. The obvious example of Chasidic reggae star Matisyahu comes to mind, but ’80s pioneers The Beastie Boys; famed record producers J.R. Rotem, The Alchemist, and Scott Storch; and Def Jam Records co-founder Rick Rubin are also of Jewish descent.
Regardless, could I fit in to the tales of thug life that greats have illuminated in decades past and present? Sure, I wasn’t planning on being on front of the mic, but maybe becoming a record executive one day, if I got the chance. Rappers now all headed their own labels, though—witness Jay-Z’s promotion to head of Def Jam—and, as a native of a town with only two sidewalks, couldn’t exactly relate to the street life of rap lyrics.
Finally, I began to second-guess myself. The stereotypes of chauvinism and violence were often true. With the murders of stars like Tupac, Biggie, and Jam Master Jay, and Snoop Dogg—whose “family friendly†image I still can’t quite understand—being a former gang member, hip-hop has become synonymous with danger. In addition, there was the constant sexuality displayed in music videos would make even Wilt Chamberlain grimace. In my other profession of choice, archaeology, there was little chance I would be a groupie, at least not in the sense that Egyptology would include getting down and dirty with anything other than actual dirt. Nor would anyone be likely to wave a Colt 45 in my face if I decided to examine a shard of sixth-century B.C.E. pottery. I had to decide whether the music that I loved was enough to trump the risk of guns and slurs, something rather alien to my Connecticut bubble.
I’d let the music decide. Opening up my iTunes, I cranked up the volume on Brooklyn-raised rapper Fabolous’ 2007 album, From Nothin’ to Somethin’. The track “What Should I Do†blasted through my speakers, the twinkling keyboards and soulful rhymes caressing my eardrums. I began to see that, yes, this profession came with risks, racism, and violence. But how would it ever change if no one took a chance on it, if the dirty dirty forever remained that way? If everyone was resigned to dismissing rap as something that just demeaned women and promoted violence, how could it be anything but that? In no way did I espouse the guns or often sexist behavior exhibited by rappers, but I loved the music, the hypnotic beats and lyrical flow. Maybe, in some small way, I could help hip-hop become what it should be. Smiling, I pressed send.
