Dont Blame Hip-Hop (The New York Times)

Hip-hop has been making enemies for as long as it has been winning fans. It has been dismissed as noise, blamed for concert riots, accused of glorifying crime and sexism and greed and Ebonics. From Run-D.M.C. to Sister Souljah to Tupac Shakur to Young Jeezy, the story of hip-hop is partly the story of those who have been irritated, even horrified, by it.

Even so, the anti-hip-hop fervor of the last few weeks has been extraordinary, if not quite unprecedented. SomehowDon Imus’s ill-considered characterization of the Rutgers women’s basketball team — “some nappy-headed hos” — led not only to his firing but also to a discussion of the crude language some rappers use. Mr. Imus and the Rev.Al Sharpton traded words on Mr. Sharpton’s radio show and on “Today,” and soon the hip-hop industry had been pulled into the fray.

Unlike previous hip-hop controversies, this one doesn’t have a villain, or even a villainous song. The current state of hip-hop seems almost irrelevant to the current discussion. The genre has already acquired (and it’s fair to say earned) a reputation for bad language and bad behavior. Soon after Mr. Imus’s firing, The Daily News had Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton, Democrat of New York, splashed on its cover alongside the hip-hop producer Timbaland, whose oeuvre includes some Imusian language. He had helped arrange a fund-raiser for her and apparently was now a liability. Oprah Winfrey organized a two-show “town meeting” on what’s wrong with hip-hop — starting with the ubiquity of the word “ho” and its slipperier cousin, “bitch” — and how to fix it. The hip-hop impresario Russell Simmons, who appeared on the show, promised to take action, but last Thursday a planned press conference with hip-hop record label executives was canceled at the last minute, with scant explanation.

On Monday, Mr. Simmons and Ben Chavis, leaders of the Hip-Hop Summit Action Network, released a statement that said, in part, “We recommend that the recording and broadcast industries voluntarily remove/bleep/delete the misogynistic words ‘bitch’ and ‘ho’ ” and a third term, a common racial epithet. (That already happens on the radio; it seemed the two were suggesting that all albums be censored too.) Mr. Simmons helped create the hip-hop industry, and he has always spoken as a rap insider. Monday’s statement was remarkable partly because he was speaking as a hip-hop outsider, unable (so far) to persuade the executives to go along with him.

A different sort of criticism was voiced in this Sunday’s episode of “60 Minutes”: Anderson Cooper was the host of a segment arguing that hip-hop culture had popularized an anti-snitching ethos that was undermining the police and allowing criminals to operate with relative impunity. The rapper Cam’ron, who was shot in 2005, cheerfully told Mr. Cooper that cooperating with police would hurt his professional reputation and run counter to “the way I was raised.” Asked what he would do if he were living next door to a serial killer, Cam’ron merely shrugged and said he would move. The segment said remarkably little about the fear and anger that might help create such an anti-police culture. Even if Cam’ron is just doing what sells, the question remains: Why is this what sells?

None of these complaints are new exactly. Few rappers have used the words “ho” and “bitch” as enthusiastically — or as effectively — as Snoop Dogg, who has spent 15 years transforming himself into cuddly pop star from a menacing rapper, while remaining as foul-mouthed as ever. And rappers’ hostility toward the police has been a flashpoint since the late 1980s, when the members of N.W.A. stated their position more pithily than this newspaper will allow.

Nowadays, as all but the most intemperate foes of hip-hop readily admit, this is not a debate about freedom of speech; most people agree that rappers have the right to say just about anything. This is, rather, a debate about hip-hop’s vexed position in the American mainstream. On “Oprah,” Diane Weathers, the former editor in chief of Essence magazine, said, “I think Snoop should lose his contract — I don’t think he should be on theJay Leno show.”

On “60 Minutes,” Mr. Cooper kept reminding viewers that hip-hop was “promoted by major corporations,” and he mentioned anti-snitching imagery on album covers. What he showed, though, was a picture taken from a mixtape, not a major label release.

That’s a small quibble, perhaps, but a telling one. In the wake of Mr. Imus’s firing, some commentators talked about a double standard in the media, though “double” seemed like an understatement. Like MySpace users and politicians and reality-television stars and, yes, talk-radio hosts, rappers are trying to negotiate a culture in which the boundaries of public and private space keep changing, along with the multiplying standards that govern them. This means that mainstream culture is becoming less prim (or more crude, if you prefer), and it’s getting harder to keep the sordid stuff on the margins.

This also means that just about nothing flies under the radar: a tossed-off comment on the radio can get you fired, just as a fairly obscure mixtape can find its way onto “60 Minutes” as an exemplar of mainstream hip-hop culture.

You can scoff at Mr. Simmons’s modest proposal, but at the very least, he deserves credit for advancing a workable one, and for endorsing the kind of soft censorship that many of hip-hop’s detractors are too squeamish to mention. Consumers have learned to live with all sorts of semi-voluntary censorship, including the film rating system, the F.C.C.’s regulation of broadcast media and the self-regulation of basic cable networks. Hip-hop fans, in particular, have come to expect that many of their favorite songs will reach radio in expurgated form with curses, epithets, drug references and mentions of violence deleted. Those major corporations that Mr. Cooper mentioned aren’t very good at promoting so-called positivity or wholesome community-mindedness. But give them some words to snip and they’ll diligently (if grudgingly) snip away.

It’s not hard to figure out why some people are upset about the way Mr. Simmons’s three least-favorite words have edged into the mainstream. One of hip-hop’s many antecedents is the venerable African-American oral tradition known as toasting; those toasts are full of those three words. Hip-hop took those rhymes from the street corner to the radio, and those old-fashioned dirty jokes are surely meant to shock people like Ms. Winfrey. Once upon a time, such lyrics (if they had been disseminated) might have been denounced for their moral turpitude, but now they’re more likely to be denounced for their sexism. Both verdicts are probably correct, and each says something about mainstream society’s shifting priorities and taboos. Maybe dirty jokes never change, only the soap does.

Mr. Imus has one thing in common with rappers, after all. Like him, many rappers have negotiated an uneasy relationship with the mainstream: they are corporate entertainers who portray themselves as outspoken mavericks; they are paid to say private things (sometimes offensive things) in public. It’s an inherently volatile arrangement, bound to create blow-ups small and big. Mr. Simmons’s proposal could buy some rappers a few years’ reprieve. But it wouldn’t be surprising if the big record companies eventually decided that brash — and brilliant — rappers like Cam’ron were more trouble than they were worth. (Cam’ron’s last two albums haven’t sold well.) Why not spend that extra money on a clean-cut R&B singer, or a kid-friendly pop group?

The strangest thing about the last few weeks was the fact that hardly any current hip-hop artists were discussed. (All these years later, we’re still talking about Snoop Dogg?) Maybe that’s because hip-hop isn’t in an especially filthy mood right now. It sounds more light-hearted and clean-cut than it has in years. Hip-hop radio is full of cheerful dance tracks like Huey’s “Pop, Lock & Drop It,” Crime Mob’s “Rock Yo Hips,” Mims’s “This Is Why I’m Hot” and Swizz Beatz’s “It’s Me, Snitches.” (The title and song were censored to exclude one of the three inflammatory words — proof that this snipping business can be tricky.)

On BET’s “106 & Park,” one of hip-hop’s definitive television shows, you can watch a fresh-faced audience applaud these songs, cheered on by relentlessly positive hosts. For all the panicky talk about hip-hop lyrics, the current situation suggests a scarier possibility, both for hip-hop’s fans and its detractors. What if hip-hop’s lyrics shifted from tough talk and crude jokes to playful club exhortations — and it didn’t much matter? What if the controversial lyrics quieted down, but the problems didn’t? What if hip-hop didn’t matter that much, after all?

- RICKY STRIKES

Death of the Best Freestyle MC: BIG PROOF

Proof Positive

The murder last month of Eminem's closest friend, the rapper Proof, has been dismissed as just another hip-hop slaying by the Detroit press. In a special investigation, Anthony Bozza, the only journalist with access to the artist's inner circle, reveals the truth about his life and revisits the events of that fateful night

Pioneer of Detroit Hip-Hop Music

Four thousand fans passed through the Fellowship Chapel on West Outer Drive, Detroit, Michigan, to pay their last respects to Proof on 18 April. Queuing by 8.30am, they were sent home over 12 hours later; throughout the day, the stream of human traffic never stopped. The rapper was laid out in a 24-carat gold-plated casket and had been dressed in a beige suit, his trademark Kangol cap and a pair of brown Seamless Edition Air Force 1 trainers; a Detroit Pistons jersey signed by his fans and friends on the basketball team was also draped over his dead body. Floral tributes were gathered around: one arrangement spelled out the word 'Daddy' while another was fashioned into an orange P; another read '8 Mile' in red roses, and another was in the shape of a white heart with a gold ribbon that read 'Spice of Life'.

The next day, the 2,000-capacity chapel was packed, with its car park holding the overflow, the crowd listening to the four-hour service via loudspeaker. Proof's family - blood and musical - filled the front rows of the chapel. Dr. Dre, Xzibit, Lloyd Banks and Young Buck of G-Unit, and Treach and Vinnie of Naughty by Nature were there, as well as the remaining members of Proof's group D12 and a host of other local luminaries: members of Slum Village, of 5 Ela, Goon Sqwad, Promatic and more.

Eminem sat between his manager, Paul Rosenberg, and 50 Cent in the second row, just behind Proof's mother, wife, aunts, children and cousins. The loss visibly weighed on the hip-hop superstar. Wearing a black suit and a black T-shirt emblazoned with Proof's likeness, he moved slowly, hunched over, a shadow of his usual self. He repeatedly embraced members of Proof's family - his wife Sharonda, mother Sherallene and grandmother Myra - crying with them, hugging them, and rocking back and forth. Eminem had lost the best friend he had ever known, the only person who had stood by him since his teens, his right-hand man both on and off-stage.

DeShaun Dupree Holton, aka P, Big Proof, Proof or Derty Harry [sic], died at 4.30am on 11 April at the age of 32. That night, he had been at the CCC club, an after-hours establishment on a sketchy stretch of East 8 Mile road in Detroit, where he and a few friends were playing pool after a night of party-hopping. He found himself in an argument with Keith Bender Jr, a 35-year-old Desert Storm veteran, allegedly during a game of pool. An altercation ensued, attracting the attention of the club's bouncer, Mario Etheridge, who is Bender's cousin. Within a few minutes, both Bender and Proof were fatally shot: a bullet to Bender's face took his life eight days later (the same morning that Proof was buried), while Proof was killed instantly by two shots to his back and one to the back of his head.

These are the facts, but the events that led to the twin shootings are not nearly as clear-cut as the Detroit police and press have suggested. From the start, the Detroit Free Press and other local news agencies took initial witness accounts at face value, and portrayed the incident as a thug rapper slaying a war veteran in cold blood. According to their accounts, Proof pistol-whipped Bender, then shot him in the face, at which point, while Proof stood over Bender threatening to shoot him again, Etheridge shot Proof three times.

Etheridge drove Bender to the hospital that night and without revealing his identity, phoned the police en route to report a shooting at the club, but he avoided detectives for several days thereafter. As their investigation slowly drew closer to him, Etheridge opted to turn himself in with his lawyer present, and gave testimony identical to the version of events that had been reported in the local papers. By the time he did, well before any substantive ballistics tests were concluded (as we go to press, they are still being processed), the media, had tried and convicted DeShaun Holton as the man who shot first and received his just deserts.

Nowhere was it reported that, as some witnesses claim, the fight that ensued in the club that night involved more men than Keith Bender and Proof, nor was it reported that others at the scene claim to have seen guns fired by several people. The police initially reported that Proof brandished a gun that was licensed to him - and the media ran with this story. Etheridge has not been charged with murder by the authorities but instead faces two counts of possessing and discharging a weapon without a license. In a preliminary hearing, he pleaded not guilty to these charges. In Michigan if an individual fatally shoots someone while coming to the defence of another, it is not considered murder or manslaughter.

On 27 April, 16 days after the incident, the Detroit police announced that Proof did not enter the CCC club with a firearm. They also stated that Etheridge did not arrive with a pistol either, but rather grabbed a gun during the ensuing ruckus.

That may well be true, but according to H. Mack - a very close childhood friend of Proof's who was near enough to the action that night to have been shot in the hand by a stray bullet and treated at the same hospital where Proof was pronounced dead - even the revamped police version of events isn't quite right. 'It was fucked up,' he says. 'The fight wasn't just the two of them, everyone in the club was involved. Guns started goin' off. P hit the guy, and then his cousin Etheridge fired shots into the ceiling. . I do not believe P shot the man - he'd never shoot nobody unless they fired first. That's who he was. Yeah, they were fighting over some bullshit but he would never, ever shoot someone over some bullshit. It was all just fucked up. 'The CCC club is a stout red building with a grey roof, a thick grey steel door and no windows. It is on a barren corner of 8 Mile across from a giant yellow Mega Pawn store. 8 Mile marks the border between the city and its suburbs, between the haves and have-nots, between black and white. The CCC is on the black city side, and has been a hotbed of illegality and violence since 1996. 'Since that year, there have been 18 incidents at the club that have resulted in police reports,' says deputy chief James Tate, spokesman for the Detroit Police Department. 'These incidents range from a fight to a stolen vehicle, and one raid.' In 2005 alone, a total of 337 violations were issued at the club, resulting in 12 felony arrests, 68 towed vehicles and 24 confiscated firearms. In February of this year, a bouncer at the club was shot twice in the torso. 'We've been trying to get the place shut down as of late,' Tate says. 'All we can do is issue tickets. The courts decide the rest. When you have a location that is a magnet for trouble, we do what we can to see the situation resolved. When you have owners operating illegally, they're setting the tone for whatever occurs from that point on.'

It might seem surprising that Proof, a founding member of the million-earning Shady family - the music collective that, second only to Motown, has put Detroit music on the map - was even in such a club. Buoyed by Eminem's success, he had enjoyed huge hits with the D12 albums Devil's Night and last year's D12 World, a number one in both Britain and America. But he wasn't at the CCC to bolster his street credibility - he was there because as countless friends testify, he was Detroit to the core.

Proof was a man who rarely slept: he was either at clubs, in the studio or napping between the two. Long after he didn't need to care for others, he did, helping, guiding and influencing everyone around him and apprenticing local rappers: Hand 2 Hand: Official Mixtape Instruction Manual, the first mixtape release on his Iron Fist label, stars MCs who would never have been heard outside of Detroit if it weren't for Proof. He also used his fame to work for local musicians' benefits, encouraging them to join the Musicians Union, which provides them with healthcare and pensions.

He did not brag about these efforts, nor boast of his guidance of Eminem and Obie Trice's careers. Proof was key in selecting the instrumental tracks that best suited their skills, and inspired Eminem at all times of day and night by text messaging him couplets and rhymed phrases. Proof was a nimble, witty freestyle MC, with a ferociously curious mind. He loved everything from Miles Davis to Jimi Hendrix. He was a gifted and giving anomaly, a rapper who cared for art over materialism, but did all he could to bring wealth to others.

The easiest way to understand Proof is to ask this simple question: what other rapper with the rhyme skills and smarts to pen chart hits, and on the heels of multi-platinum success and the worldwide attention brought through his association with Eminem, would choose to release as his debut solo album an introspective record inspired by the philosophy of the Grateful Dead's Jerry Garcia - last year's Searching for Jerry Garcia
Proof was represented in two ways in 8 Mile, the 2002 biopic based on Eminem's life. He played the MC that causes 'Rabbit' (Eminem) to choke in the first battle-rap scene of the film. But his true spirit inspired the dreadlocked character 'Future' (played by Mekhi Phifer), the MC who organized and refereed the rap battles. He encourages Rabbit to find his voice as a rapper, just as Proof did for Marshall Mathers. Swift of D12 said it best shortly after hearing that his friend had died, when gathered with Proof's closest friends - a hundred or so strong - at St. Andrew's Hall, the club where he had hosted so many rap battles. 'That nigga P,' Swift announced to everyone, 'he came out of hip hop's pussy.'

DeShaun Holton's father was once involved in the music industry and produced records by acts including Tower of Power. In an interview, however, Proof once referred to his father as a 'crackhead' and it has been alleged that his mother was also involved in drugs. He attended Gesu private school in his youth before enrolling at Osborn High on Detroit's east side. He formed his first rap group, the 5 Ela, with his friends Thyme and Mudd, then the influential Goon Sqwad, which featured Stylz, Trick Trick and DJ OC. He truly left his mark, however, at designer Maurice Malone's Hip Hop Shop, where he MC'd freestyle sessions on Saturday afternoons. Local and national talent, from the Notorious BIG to Redman and Method Man passed through the shop, eager to battle with Detroit's finest.

Proof was the consummate diplomat, charming everyone. He was also the only kid in the neighbourhood to see the potential in a smart-ass white boy named Marshall Mathers. Proof taught Mathers how to hone his wit, and sneaked him into the Osborn High cafeteria to battle rap at lunch hour.

As Mudd of 5 Ela recalled warmly, Proof was always a loyal friend. 'He was my big brother, he taught me how to rap, how to talk to the ladies, he taught me to kick game,' he said. 'This is who he was: when my first child was about to be born, I was telling him one day how worried I was about providing for my family. The very next day, without a word, he dropped off a huge bag full of all his family's old baby clothes.'
As Eminem declared at Proof's funeral, 'Without Proof, there would be a Marshall Mathers, but there would not be an Eminem, there would not be a D12 and there would not be a Slim Shady.' He made it clear that Proof looked out for Marshall when no one else did. 'This is the man I knew,' Eminem said. 'He came to me one day when I was living in my house on the east side and threw a pair of shoes at me and said, "Put 'em on." I said, "Why?" He said, "Put 'em on your feet." I said "Why?" 'Because I'm tired of you wearing those same dirty-ass shoes.'"

It is an understatement to say that Eminem was hit hard by the loss - it was the latest in a string of hardships that has befallen him. Following a six-week spell in rehab for addiction to the sleeping pill Ambien, in the first five months of 2006 he has re-married his ex-wife Kim and then divorced her for a second time after only 82 days together, while his mother's health has also drastically degenerated. Before Proof's killing, Eminem's friend Obie Trice also came close to death; on New Year's Eve, the Shady Records artist most-likely-to-break-out-big-this-year, was shot in the head, while driving himself and his girlfriend home from a party. Trice steered his car safely off the highway, let his girlfriend take the wheel and two days later was found doing push-ups in his hospital room.

At Proof's funeral, Trice echoed a theme that ran throughout the proceedings - that violence in Detroit, and every black community in America is needlessly ending lives. 'I want to talk to the black men in here,' he said, choking back tears. 'We been comin' up in this struggle and we killin' each other. Yeah, I know - you 'hood, you gangsta. We all from the 'hood. Detroit is the 'hood. We are killin' each other, dawg, and it's about nothin'. We are leaving our kids, our mamas, our grandmamas over nothin'.'

Proof's casket was led by a white horse-drawn carriage to Woodlawn Cemetery, a two-hour trip that tied up traffic across town. His final resting place is beautiful - more a park than a collection of gravestones, complete with lush, manicured foliage, a pond, ducks and geese. The coffin was opened for his nearest and dearest to see him once more. They kissed his cheek or forehead and said their last goodbyes, as a flock of white doves was released in his honour. Afterwards, they gathered at the Good Life Lounge, to do what more than a few felt would be his wish for them that day - to have a party. A huge D-town soul-food spread was laid out: barbeque, mashed potatoes, greens, mac and cheese, biscuits. Old school hip hop was in the house, everything from Eric B and Rakim to NWA boomed from the system. The occasion was grim, but Proof's legacy prevailed - he had brought everyone together once more, and the lust for living that informed his life was tangible. As the night wore on and the dance floor filled, songs like D12's 'Purple Pills' (later re-titled 'Purple Hills') and Proof's solo work inspired hoots, hollers, and the joyous spraying of beer.

'He gave me my name,' Obie Trice said of his friend and mentor. 'When I met him at the Hip Hop Shop, my name was Obie 1. Proof was about to introduce me and he looked at me for a while and said, "What's your name? Your real name, no gimmicks." He introduced me as Obie Trice. He gave me my name. He did all that shit, man. He was the pioneer of Detroit hip-hop music.'

Mike D, manager of St. Andrew's Hall, knew Proof for years and saw money and fame have little effect on him. He recalled the night not long ago when Proof drove up to the club in a new BMW 750 - a gift from Eminem. 'It was not the kind of car he'd roll in,' Mike says. 'I was like, "Nice car." He threw me the keys and said, "Take it for a ride. You know I don't care about material shit." He didn't - he'd drive anything.' Proof cared far more for people - by the end of an average night, going from place to place, he'd accumulate a posse of 20 or more, hosting a roving party rooted by his magnetic spirit. 'I've never met anyone like him,' Mike D says. 'He'd be at our club nearly every night that he went out. He didn't care what kind of band was on, he just wanted to see the music. He used to take my entire staff at St. Andrew's out to breakfast when he'd be there at closing time. I'm talking 30, 50 people - all of the employees, the DJs, everyone.'

Over the course of the night of the wake, within many circles of conversation, talk inevitably turned to the circumstances of Proof's death. Those who knew Proof were quick to point out how he rolled: he liked to drink and when necessary, had no problem throwing a punch. But he was no gun-toting killer. Proof's police record best tells the tale: it reveals several tickets for public drunkenness and disorderly conduct, including an incident in which he swung at a police officer. None of his run-ins with the law involved weapons. Proof was a man with many sides - warm and charming, mischievous and sly, sometimes a brawler, but never a gang-banging braggart.

A close friend who was at the CCC but asked to remain anonymous has his own version of what went down that night. 'Once Etheridge started shooting in the air, we all got down on the floor behind the pool table,' he alleges. 'We were just trying to get out of there, but Proof and Bender started fighting again.' According to this witness, the club was cleared while Proof's lifeless body lay on the floor. A few minutes later, he was deposited outside the club's back door, his jewellery and money gone.

There is much left unanswered about the circumstances surrounding Proof's death. This incident is a senseless tragedy that should inspire change, not blame. In the end, ballistic science will reveal whether the bullet that killed Keith Bender was shot from the same gun that killed DeShaun Holton. If that is the case, perhaps the city of Detroit and the rest of America will search beyond the knee-jerk headlines that portrayed Proof as the gun-slinging thug who killed the war hero. If the initial reports are true, perhaps, in time, how he died will not obscure how he lived. When the dust settles, Proof should be seen truthfully, as the authentic voice of Detroit that he was: complex, angry, sarcastic, earnest, loyal, and proud of his roots. He should be remembered as the artist that he was - a man consumed with supporting the place that weaned him; a man, who was, ultimately, consumed by the very same.

A history of violence

Steve Yates

When KRS-One penned 'Stop The Violence' in response to the 1987 shooting of his partner Scott La Rock he ushered in what, in retrospect, looks like hip hop's age of chivalry, with gunplay largely confined to the records rappers made. A decade later Black Star re-worked the song as 'Definition', with the chorus 'one, two, three, it's kinda dangerous to be an MC', in response to the murders of Biggie Smalls and Tupac Shakur. What should have been an epitaph for an era now looks like prophecy, with names like Big L, Soulja Slim and Run DMC's producer Jam Master Jay among the fallen.

Some label owners (Death Row's Suge Knight the most notorious) have been forced to deny murdering their own artists, while some stars are becoming victims of their own entourage: Lil' Kim was jailed for perjury last year after claiming her 'magic sunglasses' prevented her seeing her friends exchange shots with a rival rap crew outside New York radio station Hot 97. The days when KRS could claim 'real bad boys move in silence' seem like a quaint relic of a bygone time.

- RICKY STRIKES

RAP GOD: Fastest by EMIN3M

RAP GOD

"Rap God" is a song by American rapper Eminem. The song premiered via YouTube, on October 14, 2013 and was released in the US on October 15, as the third single from Eminem's eighth studio album, The Marshall Mathers LP 2 (2013). It contains references to previous conflicts in Eminem's career, as well as to other rappers' conduct. The song received positive reviews, with critics praising Eminem's lyrical ability and rapping speed.

Composition

The song references a line from the first Marshall Mathers LP, on the song "I'm Back", where he talks about the Columbine High School massacre, rapping "Seven kids from Columbine; Put 'em all in a line, add an AK-47, a revolver, a nine." The verse was censored when originally released, and is included in "Rap God" to test public reaction. Eminem references the Lewinsky scandal in order to demonstrate his longevity as a dominant force in the rap industry, thus establishing himself as an "immortal god".

Additional references include a conflict between Fabolous and Ray J, Heavy D & the Boyz, planking, The Walking Dead, J. J. Fad's 1988 song "Supersonic", Tupac Shakur, Pharaohe Monch, Rakim, N.W.A, Eazy-E, Dr. Dre, DJ Yella, Ice Cube, MC Ren, Lakim Shabazz and the 2007 Hotstylz song "Lookin Boy"

In the verse that begins at 4:26, Eminem raps 97 words in 15 seconds — an average of 6.5 words per second — which he describes as "supersonic speed"

Uh, sama lamaa duma lamaa you assuming I'm a human,
What I gotta do to get it through to you I'm superhuman,
Innovative and I'm made of rubber,
So that anything you say is ricocheting off of me and it'll glue to you,
I'm devastating, more than ever demonstrating,
How to give a motherfuckin' audience a feeling like it's levitating,
Never fading, and I know the haters are forever waiting,
For the day that they can say I fell off, they'd be celebrating,
Cause I know the way to get 'em motivated,
I make elevating music, you make elevator music...
—Eminem, "Rap God"

The song's production was handled by American hip hop producer Bigram Zayas, professionally known as Develop or DVLP; he has produced songs for rappers such as The Diplomats, Rick Ross and most notably Lil Wayne. The song was co-produced with Matthew "Filthy" Delgiorno. The song's recording session took place at Effigy Studios in Michigan, with brothers Mike and Joe Strange working with Eminem on mixing and engineering the record. Joe Strange also contributed additional keyboarding and programming. On October 14, 2013, DVLP tweeted that the beat was two years old, made in November 2011, and that Eminem recorded the song in 2012.

Music Video

On November 21, 2013, Eminem tweeted the trailer for the music video and announced it would be released on November 27, 2013. On November 27, 2013 as scheduled, the music video was released on Vevo at 12:00pm ET. Eminem parodied Max Headroom in the music video. There are also references to The Matrix in the video.

Critical Reception

"Rap God" was met with generally positive reviews from music critics. Critics praised the song's lyrical content and rapping speed. Per Lijas of Time gave the song a positive review, stating that "the world can expect an immortal recording" based on "Rap God" and the album's lead single, "Berzerk". Jim Farber of the Daily News compared the song to The Marshall Mathers LP, stating that the song "revives the super-sick humor of that era, which comes as a relief after all the internalizations and ruminating of Em’s more recent work". Kory Grow of Rolling Stone also gave the song a positive review, praising that instead of "giving his chorus to an R&B crooner like Rihanna or the New Royales' Liz Rodrigues", "he instead delivers a straight rap refrain about feeling like a rap deity. His verses recall hip-hop history ... as much as his own history". Nick Hill of Contact Music praised the song's rhyming and lyrical content. He exclaimed that the verse beginning at 4:20 best displays Eminem's rapping abilities.

Conversely, Consequence of Sound stated that, although the flow of the verses are impressive, the lyricism "falls victim to dated references [...] and the tired technique of using other rapper’s monikers to complete rhymes." They also noted that beat is "pedestrian at best", and that altogether the song "[lacks] the commercial appeal" of "Berzerk". Complex ranked the song number 14 on their list of the 50 best songs of 2013.

Rolling Stone ranked the song at number 15 on their list of the 100 Best Songs of 2013.

Commercial Performance

The song debuted at number five on the UK Singles Chart and at number one on the UK R&B Chart, despite its late release. It replaced "Berzerk", his first single from the album at that position. In the United States, it debuted at number seven on the Billboard Hot 100 and number two on the Hot R&B/Hip-Hop Songs chart. When the R&B component is removed is debuted at number one on the Rap Songs chart. It also debuted at number one on the Digital Songs chart, with over 270,000 downloads sold. "Rap God" is Eminem's seventh top 10 start on the Hot 100, pushing him past Lil Wayne (six) for the most among men in the chart's 55-year history.

Source: Wikipedia

-Ricky Strikes