Hip Hop Flashback

This is for my real hip hop heads. Tell me if you remember this...

Tell me if you remember this...


Hip Hop Flashback

Let me take you back to when you could be a King of Rock
Now everything on the radio’s about being king of rocks
Whether it’s crack or pressured carbon, it’s become a major problem
That’s sapping the very essence of hip-hop, making MCs commercial artists.

Let’s take it back like Kweli said, when it was trying to get by
And you needed metaphors and similes not gimmicks and a posse to get signed
When being behind the bars for your hooks meant more than being behind bars for being crooks
And it was Tim Hardaway, not AI, with the crossover that had defenders shook.

Back when it only took a dub to fill up your gas tank
And you sat in your room thinking heavy like Chevy, trying to Chase Bank.
Take you back to when Common still had his full name
But I still love her, that’s why I need real lyricists to resurrect the game.

When OJ fooled everybody when he tried on the glove
And Pac was Digitally Underground, before he became a thug.
When Jordan had only retired once
And in order to speed burst on Madden, you had to keep tapping the C button.

Back when Jerry Rice caught passes by the Golden Gate
And Sprewell choked his racist coach in Golden State.
When Deion’s Prime Time was back at Flo State
And offensive linemen were the only ones worried about holding weight.

Take you back to when Deebo got knocked the hell out
And Cuba Gooding was a Boy in the Hood and not what some would consider a sell-out.
Back when the girls were Bonita Applebum and Ms. Fatbooty
And you came to the conclusion that touching them didn’t give you cooties.

Back when J-Lo used her government name
And she had no time to date around ‘cause she still had to catch the Money Train.
When Wesley brought dark-skinned brothers in style to stay.
As Nino Brown and stabbed homeboy with his cane; saying “I never liked you anyway...pretty motherfucker.”

When you wanted pump-up sneakers ‘cause of Dee Brown
And Dennis Rodman was only known for grabbing rebounds.
To the time after Brand Nubian made Slow Down
And Barry Sanders was running wild in Motown.

When the mighty Mos Def dropped Black on Both Sides
And Q-Tip’s Vivrant Thing was still part of the Tribe.
There is still some things that have stayed through the times.
You still can’t go through July and August without hearing Summertime.

And a Bush is still pussy, President is what it’s nicknamed for.
Screwing the country for money, nicknamed the war.
I’m not saying we shouldn’t fight terrorism, just don’t use deceit.
After all, the reason he knew Saddam had weapons of mass destruction ‘cause he has the receipt.

But that’s a totally different poem, I’m here to talk about hip hop’s distress.
It’s starting to lose touch with its roots, pretty soon it’ll be senseless.
To even listen to a rapper; to buy a record
Soon rap will be so bad, bootleggers won’t sell it.

We need flow like Lauryn Hill’s 32 bars in Fu-Gee-La
Not some of this 14-day crap, meaning too weak rhymes.
Something never heard before, like Big L’s “Ebonics” that’s deadly when spit.
Like a busy street, you can’t come across it without getting hit.

Now, I have no idea what’s happened.
Now you can scream your name 50 times and go double platinum.
And a catch phrase and guest producers are all you need to sell millions.
Crativity used to be Sky’s the Limit, now it has a low ceiling.