Sacred Profanity

I was recently compiling a playlist for a friend’s pre-Thanksgiving party. I love making playlists for other people’s parties. It’s a hobby that many may (rightly) consider not only a colossal waste of time and effort, but also a presumptuous and ultimately self-serving favor. No matter, I was doing my best to cater to the audience of mostly thirty-something couples, the majority of whom have kids in tow, without offending anyone’s delicate sensibilities. Last year, that meant scratching Cee Lo’s big hit, whereas this year I was facing the unwelcome charge of avoiding anything from the great Jay-Z/Kanye West collaboration Watch the Throne. All of the album’s dozen tracks are playlist-worthy (a good indicator of classic status). Limiting my options, however, was the not-so-kid-friendly language that is just as consistent as the record’s topicality, brilliant wordplay, sly humor, and undeniable hooks.

Referencing tear-spattered “mausoleum floors” and fallen empires, the album begins ominously and seldom relents from this tainted atmosphere. Forty-five minutes later, the final track “Why I Love You” drops out abruptly after Jay-Z and Kanye quote JC from the Gospel of Luke. In between, the listener travels through musings on fame, success, power, decadence, racism, media, America, faith, and duty. All this heaviness is leavened with the music – at turns urgent and joyful – and the messengers, who acknowledge that though there’s “nothin’ on the news but the blues” (“Murder to Excellence”) they’re here to “bring you out of the darkness” (“Made in America”).

This mix of resignation and inspiration is a delicate balancing act that largely succeeds because of the two artists’ willingness to not only cast a critical eye on the world, but also on themselves. On “That’s My Bitch,” they evoke (and maybe somewhat perpetuate) the stereotype that hip-hop is misogynistic, but deftly turn the cliché on its head by exposing how venerable institutions perpetuate racism; Jay-Z demands, “put some colored girls in the MOMA!”

Nowhere is the dynamic more touchingly demonstrated than in “New Day,” which finds Jay-Z and Kanye offering apologies and advice to their future sons. While the track largely lampoons the media’s tendencies to generalize and amplify negativity, it does not shy away from self-deprecation. Family also figures into "Made in America" where Jay-Z declares, "I pledge allegiance / to my grandma" before later echoing the line with the autobiographical note, "I got my liberty / choppin' grams up." In these moments of sincere vulnerability, the album makes good of its second track’s promise to “Lift Off.”

Ultimately, I decided to include “New Day” on the playlist. There would be plenty of fathers and sons at the party who could hypothetically appreciate its exploration of that relationship. Also, my concerns about offensiveness struck me as a bit narrow-minded. Realistically, no one would pay much attention to what was playing at the party; it's unlikely that those explicit lyrics would penetrate the din of conversation. My deeming the album as potentially offensive suggested a far more disagreeable notion that unjustly plagues hip-hop (and so many movements in the arts): the idea that as a genre it is merely capable of crudely shocking audiences, rather than challenging assumptions and provoking thought. In the effort to not offend one group, I was temporarily blind to how unintentionally offensive I was being to another. 

As for the pre-Thanksgiving party, the playlist never made it on to the stereo. I was not offended.