US spoken word/hip-hop MC and poet Saul Williams had a lot to say at a discussion in Sydney last week. Held between gigs on a thursday lunch-time at the Mint, Williams discussed his music, poetry, hip-hop and why 50 Cent isn’t the devil.
I was converted to his mix of articulate lyricism, the Brooklyn/Wordsound breakbeats worked up from Thavius Beck‘s (aka Adlib) MPC and intensely engaging performance last time I saw at Oya festival in Norway. This time was just as good, though with another guy, DJ CX Kidtronik on the MPC playing a much more industrial electro, and I have to say seeing a performer introduce each song with the same spiel they used five months ago across the other side of the world is somewhat disenchanting. Williams was supported by Urthboy, Ozi Batla (on crutches and a seat after dislocating his knee at a gig on NYE) and DJ Elgusto who were on fire.
Next day was the discussion, chaired by Dale Harrison (The Herd/Elefant Traks, Cyclic Defrost) and listened avidly by a packed room spilling out the doors.
On hip-hop and poetry. It was T La Rock’s It’s Yours that sold Williams on hip-hop. Rakim who convinced him, and his parents, that hip-hop could be poetry. Though he says the fundamental difference between hip-hop and poetry is: Hip-hop is a competitive artform, with every MC claiming to be the best and ‘Act like you know’ is the aim on stage – don’t let anyone see your vulnerabilities. This gives it a comic book appeal, makes it a gladitorial game. But the difference between hip-hop and poetry is that “The poet recognises they find strength by exposing their vulnerabilities.” He also said the real power of a poet (and I think this could be defined to any artist, but especially writers of all kinds) is “In being able to shift perspective.”
He says his poetry forbears are black power activists from the ’30s right through, being son of activist parents who also worked as .a kindergarten teacher and preacher. But he also claims Jim Morrison as an influence.
Hip-hop is a big family, from the introspection of De La Soul and KRS-One to the commercial bling bling mentality of 50. It’s easy to discredit the latter, but Williams argued against that. He said that it’s not a great leap to see the bling as a credible part of the black power movement – kids rising from nowhere and making a life for themselves, why not show that off to the world. And really, wasn’t KRS-One’s Criminal Minded the most gangster record of all?
A woman in the audience asked why there weren’t more women involved in hip-hop and why it wasn’t a “more accepting space” for women, as though it was a community workshop. Williams said it just reflects reality for many of the MCs involved, and the denigration of women is really no different from the pages of Vogue, the lyrics of rock’n'roll or the treatment of women by the Federal Government. It’s just that for some reason people feel comfortable targeting hip-hop.
He came across as hyper-articulate and refreshingly self-deprecating, self-aware, happy to maintain opposing points of view at one time, for example complaining about the mainstream media and public’s criticism of hip hop’s denigration of women, but simultaneously happy to complain about it himself and comment on the dichotomy.
Or, also on mainstream hip-hop, he could say all the above about 50 Cent and co and their diamonds, and then go on to critique them by asking “Where are the diamonds from: Sierra Leonne, Congo?” and whether the bling flashers understand that Africans are dying and wars being fought to get those diamonds.
Asked about whether poetry/music is a cerebral or emotional hit, he said: “Poetry has a much longer spoken history than written. Socrates, Shakespeare (who most people say you need to read aloud to understand).” He said western countries are selling out their understanding of their own culture by ignoring the oral traditions. He also mentioned that his ideal space for writing isn’t a physical place, it’s more a state of mind, which is what I find too.
But he could switch topics in an instant. Across to talking about Ted Hughes, poet and husband of Sylvia Plath, and his book of poems about Plath, which Williams said he understood implicitly for their themes of angst of solitude, and the dynamics of a relationship where two artists are involved. “Is that the heart or brain responding? When I see a woman and become erect, is that the heart or brain?” Lots of laughs.
Harrison asked what happens when he adds music to his poems. Williams said his music is something quite different, when it’s music his “goal is to write songs.” The first album, Amethyst Rockstar, “sounded more like poetry accompanied by banging beats,” but with the second he’s worked towards more songwriting – instead of the pained writing and rewriting of his poetry, he “let’s it go if it syncs with the beat right and sounds good.”
Why hip-hop? It’s dance music, but after Public Enemy introduced activism to the mix it became that much more interesting. “It makes it that much more exhilarating, dancing and nodding your head to something you completely agree with.” But he doesn’t want to over-intellectualise his music. In fact, he sees the music as a balancing influence on the dry academic world of his poetry and philosophy work, which he’s very self-effacing about.
Asked about philosophical reasons for the different musical sound of the new album, and whether the changed music had introduced political undertones, Williams laughed and said: “I could make one up!”
The first album was recorded with a band, but written by Williams. The new one was entirely programmed by Williams. He says he now has two children, a daughter, nine, and a son, five. They like fast music! And Williams says he likes his “soft music soft and his hard music hard,” clenches fist, “I loved Run DMC.”
Harrison got a lot of awkward laughs when he asked about the first line in Williams’ song Black Stacey, which goes ‘I used to hump my pillow at night’. Harrison said he’d feel uncomfortable getting up on stage every night and admitting to that. Williams said it was just a good opening line, a hook. But the reality of the song is that as a kid Williams experienced most racism from within the African American community, his friends. People would say ‘You’re kind of cute to be so dark.” He said his complexion was a defining moment of his youth and it was his friends not whites who defined it.
Talk to me