Fallen Rappers And The Troubling Reality of America: A Reflective Perspective
As we commemorate 50 years of hip-hop, it’s important to acknowledge the bittersweetness that accompanies this milestone, as many artists don’t even reach the age of 50. I’ve painstakingly rewritten this paragraph numerous times, seeking the perfect words to express the heaviness I feel inside. But perhaps it’s best to be transparent about where I currently stand. At this moment, there’s a knot in my stomach the size of a softball. Tears well up in my eyes as I struggle to find the right words to articulate the profound emptiness I’m experiencing. Life, work, and exhaustion delayed my mourning for deceased rappers, but it’s all pouring out now. It shouldn’t be this difficult. Being a fan of hip-hop, being a part of hip-hop culture should not be this challenging. Yet, it is.
It’s been a long time since I shed tears over the loss of a rapper. The death of Nipsey Hussle in 2019 may have been the most recent occasion, with Left Eye’s passing in 2002 preceding that. Being a hip-hop fan comes with a sobering expectation that your favorite artist may not be with you for long. You treasure their music, blasting it in your car, getting hyped to it at parties, and seeking solace in it during life’s toughest moments. But there’s an intimate familiarity that you’re forced to embrace. It lingers in the recesses of your mind, overstaying its welcome. You try to escape it temporarily, but just as you begin to forget, it returns, reminding you that it will come back again and again. Takeoff. Nipsey. DMX. PnB Rock. Lil Keed. DJ Screw. Shawty Lo. Young Dolph. Pop Smoke. Coolio. Ol’ Dirty Bastard. King Von. Biggie. Tupac. Nate Dogg. Gangsta Boo. Proof. Heavy D. Lil Phat. Bankroll Fresh. Prodigy. Craig Mack. Juice Wrld. Houdini. Huey. MF Doom.
Rapper Nipsey Hussle in 2018 in Atlanta. Credit: Prince Williams via Getty Images
There is no space for mourning. It’s a perpetual pain that one must come to accept. Hip-hop, a genre that the world is captivated by and often seeks to imitate and appropriate, has unfortunately witnessed a disproportionate number of deaths throughout its relatively young history of 50 years. Moreover, the number of deaths seems to have spiked in recent years, with at least one rapper being killed each year from 2018 to 2022. Harlem-born Jim Jones aptly described being a rapper as “the most dangerous job in the world.” From a legal standpoint, he may be right. Whether it’s through senseless violence, diseases or conditions that disproportionately affect Black communities, substance abuse, or suicide, the manner in which their lives come to an end aligns with systems that inhibit the thriving of hip-hop (and by extension, Black people). This isn’t news to the artists themselves, as many deceased and living rappers address these very systems in their rhymes, shedding light on the forces that prevent their longevity.
Trouble. MO3. Black Rob. Biz Markie. Snootie Wild. Pimp C. Soulja Slim. Mac Dre. Big Pun. DJ Scott La Rock. Trugoy the Dove. Phife Dawg. Jam Master Jay. J. Dilla. Mac Daddy. Drakeo the Ruler. Shock G. Big Pokey. Bankroll Fresh.
Considered delinquents, thugs, and criminals, young rappers receive little protection, especially when they are both Black and economically disadvantaged. The deaths of hip-hop artists cannot be divorced from discussions of race in America. This country’s fixation on Black death extends even to the demise of rappers, none of whom listed in this piece made it past the age of 60. DMX, who performed at the Bad Boy Family Reunion Tour in Inglewood, California, in 2016, makes an appearance in 2021 with a posthumous song featuring his AI-generated voice. Credit: Kevin Winter via Getty Images
Their life’s work is commodified and diluted after their passing, as record labels, and now streaming platforms, extract the artistry from past studio sessions to flood the market with posthumous music. Tupac Shakur, who died at the age of 24 in 1996, has six posthumous albums, only one of which truly reflects his creative direction. Pop Smoke, whose life was cut short at 20 in 2020, had two posthumous albums released in 2020 and 2021. Jadakiss spoke an undeniable truth when he proclaimed on “We Gonna Make It” that “You know dead rappers get better promotion.” Streams surge, and albums sell, turning their deaths into profitable ventures. The music industry has long exploited Black grief and struggles to profit from the rap genre. Just recently, a song incorporating AI-generated voices of 2Pac and DMX circulated on the internet. In an insightful essay for The Atlantic, Too $hort and E-40 pleaded with the rap community to unite and combat gun violence-related deaths, particularly in the wake of Migos member Takeoff’s tragic killing.
“Artists need to move more carefully and strategically,” they wrote. “Labels and music executives need to invest more in educational resources to protect the artists they work with. Managers must hire skilled security teams that can efficiently defuse tense situations. Rappers have to minimize their social-media activity and be more vigilant when they’re out of their house.”
Raymond Boyd/Getty ImagesRaymond Boyd/Getty Images
It’s crucial to recognize that hip-hop has saved countless lives. Since its inception in the Bronx in 1973, it has provided refuge, a means of survival, and a platform for self-expression for misunderstood youth. It has instilled hope where there was none. Hip-hop has been instrumental in sparking revolutions, dismantling racist systems, and fostering genuine community solidarity. Most importantly, it has served as a mechanism through which Black youth grapple with the challenges inflicted upon them by America. Mortality has become an ever-present theme in rap, with artists often penning premonitions and ruminating on their own mortality in their music. Juice Wrld, who died at the age of 21, contemplatively rapped on “Legends,” “What’s the 27 Club? We ain’t making it past 21.” Atlanta rapper Dolla poignantly expressed his thoughts on “Georgia Nights,” sharing, “Having dreams of going out with a bang, My papa died by the gun, I’ll die by the gun.” Pac frequently discussed, in interviews and music, his doubts about reaching the age of 25. Biggie’s debut album was aptly titled “Ready to Die.”
Rapper Takeoff from the hip hop group Migos performs in 2019 in Anaheim, California. Credit: Scott Dudelson via Getty Images
I contemplate the artists who dedicated themselves to giving back to their communities, creating programs that instigated real change in the very neighborhoods they rapped about. Dolph. Nipsey. I reflect on the rappers who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, driven solely by their passion for making music. Takeoff. PnB Rock. Trouble. I think about the rappers whose trauma weighed so heavily on them that they turned to substances for solace. DMX. DJ Screw. Soulja Slim. I think about those who didn’t even have the opportunity to reach the age of 25. Pac. Biggie. Lil Keed. Or even escape their teenage years. Lil Phat. Remy4x. C-Hii Wvttz.
I also think of the elder statesmen of hip-hop, for whom this 50th anniversary holds a bittersweet sentiment due to the losses they’ve endured along the way. I consider the rising rappers whose journeys were tragically cut short before they could truly take flight. I empathize with the fans, particularly those within this community, who found solace within hip-hop but were also robbed of fulfilling lives. It’s difficult to reconcile the fact that while hip-hop has spent the past 50 years solidifying its position and transcending global boundaries, many of its contributors and enthusiasts never had the privilege to grow older and reap the rewards of their labor.
Death is an inescapable part of life that we all encounter. However, for hip-hop to constantly confront premature loss feels undeniably cruel. This narrative forms part of HuffPost’s series commemorating the 50th anniversary of hip-hop. Check out our comprehensive coverage here.
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