Although it dates me, I don’t mind recalling the first time I heard Ice-T’s O.G. release. It was 1992, and I was in college. My work-study job placed me down in the library mailroom, where few humans ventured, leaving us mailroom workers free to do unspeakable things. One of those was to listen to the contraband "Cop Killer" single, along with a copy of O.G. imported into what was then still a dry county in Ohio. Yeah, we were pretty cool... The early '90s were just filled with hip hop revelations. Fear of a Black Planet had also just made its way to campus, A Tribe Called Quest played live shows on the college circuit, and we were dancing to hip house in the school disco. All this wasn’t happening in the context of popular music, a point that The Art of Rap makes early and often. Mos Def states it clearly enough when he says that people do hip hop a disservice by calling it Pop, rather than what he sees it as: Folk music. The New York contingent, made up mostly of the early stars of rap and hip hop, didn’t achieve quite the same prominence as artists like Snoop Dogg and Eminem, who arrived as hip hop was becoming a huge commercial success, and when rappers were exerting more control over their product.
The Art of Rap starts in New York, then travels to the opposite coast, with a stop along the way in Detroit. Famous MCs in New York who appear on camera include Grandmaster Caz, Doug E. Fresh, Q-Tip, and Melle Mel. Detroit is obviously all about Eminem, and California interviews range from classic acts like Dr. Dre and Ice Cube to newer artists like Kanye West and Snoop Dogg. At every point, the artists being interviewed appear supremely comfortable telling their stories about the music, and many of them seem humbled relating this stuff to Ice-T. The Art of Rap just wouldn’t be the same with even the most respected documentary filmmaker behind the camera. Ice-T shares enough common ground to make the conversations down-to-earth and free of the ego or quirkiness that conveys when musicians are preening for the camera, or appearing on reality TV shows. During each interview, Ice-T asks his subject to quote favorite lyrics from another MC, and to talk about their creative process. This approach flushes out how much mutual respect exists between many of these musicians.
If you’re looking for full-length performances, The Art of Rap doesn’t have any. It’s not a film interested in showcasing big houses, fancy cars, or drama in the lives of these rappers. What The Art of Rap does well is flush out the creative and cultural center of hip hop and rap, in the words of the men who created it. Only Salt and MC Lyte are included to speak for women rappers, which feels like an oversight. There have to be at least half a dozen other ladies we wanted to hear from, but it’s not like The Art of Rap was trying to be a catalog of famous rap personalities. Even without trying, it does work out to be a "Who’s Who" for musicians of the last few decades, which is an impressive feat. Producers, DJs, and others who supported the movement aren’t as much of a focus here as the MC. Various interviews explore the difference between a DJ or rapper and an MC, concluding that the showmanship required to claim MC status was just a notch above the guy who could rhyme against a rhythm track. Even though many younger folks don’t know Ice-T as more than "that guy from TV," he closes the film with a mean freestyle that took me right back to 1992, in that dank library mailroom. The Art of Rap is yet another great Ice-T production, a gift to fans of hip hop everywhere.
