Renegades

For many of us who grew up during rap’s nascent age, there’s a tendency to automatically dismiss much of modern hip-hop. The litany of contemptuous comments can range from complaining that the music isn’t danceable enough – or too danceable for the rhythmically challenged – to a lack of, well, pick one, spiritual, political, social or topical context. In many ways, we of hip-hop’s first generation – the true Generation X – have mirrored the advances in musical technology. As rap’s delivery system transitioned from black wax to cassette tape to encoded shiny silver discs to digital downloads, we evolved from acolytes to record buyers to occasional concertgoers to unofficial music historians.

(The latter’s duties usually include identifying samples for barely patient teenagers, complaining that today’s rappers lack the flow of fill-in-the-blank and occasionally tossing out a slang term like “dope” and “da joint” while opining about life back-in-da-day. Speaking of which, I recently stopped in my tracks while overhearing two gray-haired brothers discussing on a Manhattan street corner how one of them ‘cold rocked a party.’)

But as bombastic as our hip-hop proclamations may seem to the younger set, we come by these edicts honestly. See, our love for this musical form was a tactile one. We knew we were a part of a movement we felt as deeply as the stacks of ebony vinyl we carried in our knapsacks or in the plastic milk crates we’d liberated from the local supermarket to house basement parties. The heat generated from our fellow denim-clad revelers was only matched by the rhythms emanating from the two Technics turntables carefully set in the center of a corrugated steel picnic table. Much as the jazz generation prior to ours had heard in bebop the sounds of intellectual and emotional liberation, so too did we hear a similar rush of freedom in hip-hop. (The major difference being, of course, unlike the jagged arrangements of bop, you could still dance to rap.)

It was that sense of exhilaration and discovery – of being part of something - that comforted us as we made our way home through darkened streets, deserted subway platforms – always preferable during late hours to the alternative – and on local trains which offered nightly seminars on the art of the ice grill. While the journeys may have been somewhat sketchy, it was the power of music that always made the trip a worthwhile one.

As we aged and made the transition from token buyers to SUV and hybrid owners with EZ-passes, so to did some of our heroes. We watched with equal parts bemusement and horror as the firebrands we once admired for their rebellious nature become slowly acclimated into American mainstream culture: Flavor Flav as a VH1 reality show star. Snoop Dogg flinging zingers at a Comedy Central roast of Donald Trump. LL Cool J defending our country’s liberty on NCIS: Los Angeles. Ice Cube hawking a sitcom on TBS with a smile and the tagline: “Very funny.”

For some of us, this made feel older than our whitening or thinning hair, thickening bellies and liver spots. For some of us, this pandering parade reminded us more of what hip-hop’s lost than what it still possessed. For some of us, the power of the music seemed to be muted if not forever lost.

See, as Yoda-like – or should I say Gandalf-ish? – as we might appear to our younger brethren, that doesn’t mean our passion for the musical form has diminished. Much as a seasoned NBA fan who grew up on Dr. J, Bird, Magic and Jordan – and heard from his elders about the wonders of Oscar Robertson and Elgin Baylor – can get excited at the exploits of LeBron James, Derrick Rose and Kevin Durant, an elder hip-hop head who grew up debating about Public Enemy and NWA or Tupac and Biggie can still exult upon first listen of a Reasonable Doubt or a College Dropout. We still possess that sense of exhilaration and discovery when we hear something special, something real.

Such a work is Pharoahe Monch’s latest disc: W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). A visionary – in the truest sense of the word – album, W.A.R. begins with Idris Elba – yes, ladies, that Idris Elba – as a soldier in Afghanistan who on the date July 27, 2023 has unearthed classified information which ‘changes everything.’ Uploading said info to the military satellite Horace, Elba cautions his listeners that ‘what you are hearing is a warning.’

Actually, it’s more than that. What we are hearing is Monch’s manifesto, the platform of a verbally dexterous veteran of over a decade and a half in the rap game who from his mid-‘90s debut as part of Organized Konfusion has maintained and mollycoddled a fiercely idiosyncratic vision. On W.A.R. Monch lays out our present and near-future with the perceptive, confident voiceover of a dystopian Raymond Chandler. This is neo-noir of the highest order.

“Get used to wisdom,” Monch implores on “Evolve.” Part of that sagacity includes raising ‘a middle finger to mass media,” he states on “W.A.R.” which ‘mutes the news’ to maintain a ‘psychological dictatorship.’ The insurgency of intellect is a pervasive theme throughout W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). Monch regularly reminds his listeners that he is on the battle front lines with each successive track being a plea to join him.

What keeps W.A.R. from being a straight-up polemic – besides Monch’s humanistic wit - are the exquisite instrumentation and production by such gifted folk as M-Phazes, Mike Loe, Samiyam, Diamond D and Marco Polo among others. Each track provides a perfect musical backdrop to Monch’s skillfully incisive lyrics. On “Calculated Amalgamation,” there’s the use of the drum cymbal as a symbol for a call if not to arms to awakening. The vibe loop – and Mela Machinko’s anguished vocal – propels a confidently laconic Monch through “Shine.” There are the choral voices on “Evolve” and the swirling strings on the R & B infused “Black Hand Side.” (The latter track invigorated by the contributions of Styles P and Phonte.) The propulsive bass of “Hit Man” perfectly echoing Monch’s corrosive view of the music biz. (A jaundiced view replete with artists releasing sex tapes for publicity and the greatest Radiohead pun ever.) There’s the anthemic rock of “The Grand Illusion (circa 1973)” - with promises of a ‘lyrical revolution’ – the gospel call & response juxtaposed with Monch’s fire & brimstone sermon on “Let My People Go” and Vernon Reid’s searing fretwork on “W.A.R.” All outstanding, all unforgettable.

Reid, Machinko, Styles P and Phonte are some of Monch’s many gifted collaborators on W.A.R. “Assassins” features Royce da 5’9” and a fierce Jean Grae – who, along with Monch are the last three freethinkers left in his Shangri-Nah - while the joyous “Clap” contains terrific contributions by Showtyme and D.J. Boogie Blind. Best of all is the album closer “Still Standing” with an impassioned Jill Scott - singing with a wounded world weariness - ferociously testifying while Monch at his most convivial raps about overcoming a ‘lung disease’ and refusing to leading a life destined to becoming just another statistic. “I have no dead bodies to claim,” he asserts while reminding his listeners to celebrate – if only momentarily - their survival as strangers in this strange land.

And, in turn, his listeners should celebrate Monch for a true musical tour-de-force. With a wide ranging fusion of soul, gospel, rock and jazz mixed into his rhythmic brew, Monch and company have practically provided a mini-treatise on the history of Black music in this country. Not to mention his ever dazzling dexterous verbosity. (My fave – for far too many reasons to list here - is his rhyming of “Steve Rifkin” with “Snake Plissen”) By casting a prophetic glance into the near-future and combining it with a loving respect for his musical past, Pharoahe Monch has provided us with the present-day’s best album. With W.A.R., he touches the renegade - and revitalizes the hip-hop rebel - in all of us.