The people of London walk through the streets, never to look up at the sky which is littered with cranes and clouds and other peoples faces. Why would you look up for that. A solace can be found in the words of hip-hop here though. Maybe it’s something about the clouds, good match for the weather. It is a week where my headphones have rarely been removed, keeping the sounds of the street, the emptiness of peoples phone calls and pub talks kept at bay. A blanket of numbness somehow found its way around my exterior. The frustration I thought I left in America appears to have transmuted and loosened from my core, now creating a blasé sheath on my edges. This appears to be fine as most of the people you walk by seem to have the same fashion sense.
The appeal of hip-hop comes in when you need to feel again. You crave that raw – whatever it is you need. Blocked out. Let it flood back. No longer is it a stigma for a white girl who grew up in middle-class America to have a solid playlist with the likes of hip-hop royalty. One may argue a good artist is one who can create something that a majority of people can interpret, can relate to in a personal way. I never could relate to an Andy Warhol, which I suppose is ironic since I work in marketing. Cheeky guy. But Jackson Pollock? He is hip-hop: a canvas covered in wild paint and mess and sh*t all over it. It feels good. There is something there. It’s rough, exciting. That is what hip-hop feels like to me. It’s a release not a replica. Anthems are created when you have a call to action. Put it on. The haze of the City blankets, the cobblestone alleys and thick accents, which is fine as you will hear me humming this anthem.
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Here is a remix of the 1994 classic, “Put It On.” A tune that is made to say, do what you need to do; a song that can crack shells and backs with its words; a beat that is the perfect walking pace, if you walk like you know where you are going.