To its credit, though, the Star soon gave the turntable trailblazer a proper editorial burial. Features reporter Jenee Osterheldt eulogized Jay with an informative piece that read as though she'd volunteered for it instead of taking an assignment. Randolph Heaster followed with a preview of the Hip-Hop Youth Empowerment Summit, a November 2 event focused on the positive power of beats and rhymes. Russell Simmons, CEO of the Run D.M.C.-bolstered label Def Jam, had canceled his scheduled appearance at the event after Jay's death, but other featured speakers, including Summit President Benjamin F. Muhammad, urged cautious coverage of Mizell's murder.
And even though the Star's coverage might have been a little dim at first, at least Kansas Citians didn't have to read a piece like the one that ran in the Philadelphia Metro. In an inane assault headlined "Rappers often killed by their own lifestyle" (archived at phillyhiphop.com/_features/snowstorm/110602-metro.html), writer Lloyd Williams opines that "to most law-abiding citizens, talking about a good or bad rapper is like talking about good and bad rapists."
Jay, of course, wasn't a rapper -- he was the record spinner who popularized the use of guitar riffs and rock-ready drums in hip-hop tunes. He was also the beatsmith behind "Peter Piper," the booms-and-bells behemoth that ranks among rap's best-ever backdrops. But Williams doesn't let ignorance slow him down. Ignoring Run D.M.C.'s anti-violent stance, he hypothesizes that Jay's "gangland-style execution" was connected to "the much-ballyhooed East Coast/West Coast rivalry which blew out Biggie's and Tupac's brains." Finally, finding fault even with the Jam Master's reputation for being a family man, Williams questions why Jay, who was married with three children, "didn't retire or move on to a less risky line of work after starting a family."
It's likely that few publications other than Ku Klux Klan's The Flame share Williams' viewpoint, but the tone of hip-hop coverage still often borders on hysterical. When Chuck D, the voice of Public Enemy and a former Run D.M.C. labelmate, warned "Don't Believe the Hype" back in 1988, he was referring to rampant variations on this Williams generalization: "People are afraid to let their children go to concerts or movies featuring hip-hop for fear of murder and mayhem."
Despite ample evidence to the contrary (Smokin' Grooves, Jay-Z's Hard Knock Tour, Eminem's August stop at Verizon Amphitheater and Tech N9ne's Absolute Power party are just a few of the well-attended large-scale rap events to have taken place in Kansas City without incident), venues continue to shy away from hosting hip-hop shows, thanks in part to fears instilled by panic-stricken stories in national media outlets.
Despite living on the outskirts of a medium-size metropolitan area, Grandview-based rapper Profit must look for shows in Hastings, St. Joseph, Joplin and Warrensburg. Far from thugged-out, Profit started his hip-hop career by controlling the open mic at anti-drug rallies. If venue owners would let him get past "I'm a rapper, and -- ," he could tell them he works with gospel artists, presents a positive message and works with the youth in his community. But "they're just not hearing it," he says. "I always get the brush-off."
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