It's been almost 10 years since the violent deaths of hip-hop idols Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls. Shakur died in Las Vegas, Nev., six days after being shot four times, once in the arm, once in the leg and twice in the chest. Smalls was shot down less than a year later in LA, also a victim of a drive-by.
Biggie and Tupac's intertwining story has been floating around in my mind for two reasons: the upcoming Dec. 20 release of
The Notorious BIG Duets: The Final Chapter
, which will feature a posthumous appearance by Tupac, and this weekend's Hip-hop Convergence Festival (2 pm-2 am, Saturday, Dec. 10. No cover. Wise Fool/Bikanda Studios, 2778 Agua Fria St., 986-9866), the first of what its producers hope to be an annual event.
The saga of Biggie and Tupac sums up the contradictions-and their sad consequences-of hip-hop. It's such a confused genre, equal parts genius and depravity, healing and wounding, and those confusions weave their way through our own local interactions with hip-hop as well.
Many thought Smalls, or at least the crew he ran with, was responsible for Shakur's murder, and that Smalls was assassinated in retaliation. Shakur and Smalls had been friends for years but, as in a Shakespearean tragedy, had turned into bitter rivals. Both grew up on the East Coat, but Tupac went West Coast, choosing LA and its specific type of hip-hop as his home base, while Biggie stuck around on the East Coast. In the hip-hop world, these choices were more than just geography; the vitriolic feud between the West and East Coast rap worlds had already turned fierce and bloody by the time Shakur and Smalls parted ways. Shakur ultimately associated himself with Suge Knight's Death Row records, a company known for its thuggish history, close connections with crime, gangs and corrupt LA policemen and proclivity toward serious violence. For a time Knight's company proved extremely successful, due in good part to the talent on the roster-Shakur, Dr. Dre, Snoop Doggy Dogg-but also due to Knight's knack for getting what he wanted through sheer intimidation. Meantime, Smalls signed with P Diddy's Bad Boy Records, known less for hardcore tactics (though that element existed) and more for Diddy's business acumen. Bad Boy and Death Row were rivalrous too, and their artists traded insults in the press and via their lyrics. Death Row often employed members of the Bloods, one of the most well known and violent gangs in LA, for security and to do general dirty work, while Bad Boy hired the rival gang Crips for West Coast security. Scuffles, drive-bys and deaths were common. It was all pretty ugly. And yet some of the best music of the 20th century came from these two companies, especially from their stars, Tupac and Biggie.
The thing is, Tupac and Biggie died because they were caught up in a world where artificial, invented differences led to unnecessary violence. And yet they also produced such amazing work, Biggie's laconic flow creating whole new worlds, and Tupac's lyrical genius creating a resonant portrayal of the paradoxes of the hip-hop lifestyle. Shakur was a momma's boy who wrote almost-embarrassingly heartfelt songs about his love for his mother, yet at the same time he was booked for sexual abuse of a woman in his hotel room, he wrote misogynist lyrics, he called women "bitches." More confusing: One minute he'd plead for the end of street violence, the next he'd glorify it. One minute he'd play the softie, the next he'd pose shirtless, muscles flexed, sporting a pair of Glocks.
Santa Fe, meanwhile, has a definite relationship with hip-hop. For several years, Chicanobuilt's Friday night party at the Paramount was the ultimate place to be. Hip-hop DJs abound. You hear hip-hop pouring out of cars and in the background at clubs. Hip-hop clothing styles are everywhere. One gets the feeling that hip-hop is Santa Fe's favorite music.
While hip-hop in the world at large remains stuck in its divisive cycle, the Convergence will focus on the positive aspects. The festival will spread across two joined spaces, with cypher circles (a friendly freestyle battle), slam poetry, spontaneous graffiti and numerous local DJs spinning hip-hop of all kinds, plus a little drum 'n' bass. It sounds, in a word, badass. And in a second word, positive: The festival's slogan is "Elevating hip-hop to a higher level of consciousness," and this is made apparent in the choice of headliner, Cincinnati's MC Divine, who goes beyond the label of conscious hip-hop and into the level of something like New Age hip-hop. Conscious hip-hop concentrates on the healing side of hip-hop, or at least the non-violent side, and is associated most with someone like Common, who preaches positive, awareness and pride rather than divisiveness. MC Divine not only preaches positive, he wears hemp pants and "practices wholistic health." Is this true hip-hop? It's tough to say. Maybe it's best to say it's a Santa Fe-style of hip-hop-an inner-city flow and rhyme scheme infused with whitebread peace and love.
In that, MC Divine-and by extension the Hip-hop Convergence itself-is a far cry from the world of Tupac and Biggie. But in a larger scheme it fits perfectly. Santa Fe may not be the marginalized ghettos of LA or the inner cities of the East Coast but there are some connections: This is a poor state, one that struggles with violence and anger while simultaneously trying to heal itself, just as the rap world does. Similarly, there is tension and power struggle, though between social classes, races and backgrounds rather than between equally powerless factions. And there is as much self-defeating behavior here as there was in Tupac's world-think of our horrid DWI problem, the heroin situation in Chimayó. But there also are equal amounts of love and thus equal amounts of contradiction surrounding our aesthetic expression of it all. That forms the core of Santa Fe's relationship with hip-hop, and that is why the Hip-hop Convergence is so essential. I hope it makes it to year two.
