On the Charts, Facing Charges
In Hollywood and in the media, 2017 was a year of reckoning — powerful men brought down under the weight of their own misdeeds. But the opposite happened in hip-hop: Many of the genre’s most promising talent arrived with troubling back stories, speeding onto the Billboard charts while operating under the cloud of criminal accusations or convictions.
XXXTentacion has been charged with the assault of a pregnant woman and with witness tampering; he pleaded not guilty to all charges. Tay-K is facing a pair of murder charges, for which he maintains his innocence. Kodak Black has had a string of arrests and is facing trial for criminal sexual conduct; his lawyers say he is innocent. And 6ix9ine pleaded guilty in 2015 to the use of a child in a sexual performance.
XXXTentacion’s first album, “17,” debuted at Number 2 on the Billboard album chart, and his breakthrough single “Look at Me,” which began as a SoundCloud loosie, made it to Number 34 on the Hot 100. Tay-K’s “The Race” went to Number 44 on the Hot 100. 6ix9ine has two songs on the Hot 100, “Gummo” at Number 14 and “Kooda” at Number 54. Kodak Black’s first album, “Painting Pictures,” debuted at Number 3 on the charts, and was certified gold. “Tunnel Vision,” a single from that album, went to Number 6 on the Hot 100.
Those are metrics of popularity, not ethics. But they tell us something about how artists with pockmarked personal histories are received in the current climate. And they indicate that a chasm persists between moral and aesthetic calculus.
These artists are thriving, and their renown is growing for inventive and compelling music. But knowing the accusations against them makes listening a charged act.
Outlaw appeal has long been integral to hip-hop — think Tupac Shakur, 50 Cent, Chief Keef and many more — and rappers from this new generation with difficult back stories are in the early stages of their careers, in a genre in which tolerance of complicated histories tends to be high, and in which skepticism about institutions like law enforcement can reframe someone accused of a crime as an anti-authoritarian folk hero.
Kodak Black’s story is familiar. He sometimes raps about the heavy weight of morality in an amoral world. “I was already sentenced, before I came up out the womb/Streets done already sentenced me, before no cracker could,” he raps on “Day for Day.”
In the past two years, Kodak has been in and out of jail on a variety of charges, including first- degree criminal sexual conduct. On “Versatile,” from his “Project Baby 2: All Grown Up” mixtape, he insists he’s leaving his demons in the past: “When I took rapping serious I threw the towel in/But Lord you say you gonna forgive me so forgive me then.”
There is a similar tension underscoring the work of XXXTentacion, whose music began to seep out from the SoundCloud rap underground this year when he was in jail on harrowing charges of assaulting a preg- nant woman, reported to be his girlfriend. (He has yet to stand trial.) He named a song on “17” after the woman he is accused of assaulting.
The literalism of “17” is both its most attractive quality and also its most worrisome — any attempt to separate the art from the artist is impossible. That’s similar to Tay-K’s “The Race,” a song about being on the run recorded while the rapper was in fact on the run.
This wave of artists has been buttressed by a range of institutions, many of which benefit from asking few questions. These artists have received placement on key playlists on streaming services like Spotify, and in some cases, they play on major radio stations.
And that’s saying nothing of companies like Atlantic Records, Empire Distribution and RCA Records that support these artists financially.
Other artists have attempted to capitalize on the viral notoriety of these rappers by working with them. XXXTentacion’s first high-profile mainstream collaboration was with Noah Cyrus, Miley’s 17-year- old younger sister.
A final part of the pattern that emerged with last year’s high-pro-
Rap artists find tolerance in spite of criminal cases.
file abusers was contrition, ostensibly as a table setting for rehabilitation. But that hasn’t happened with this crop of rappers. Instead, the accused artists are finding listeners long before they find resolution, legal or moral.
In other industries, conversations are just now beginning about whether those who have been accused of terrible acts can someday be welcomed back, first as people and later as contributing members of the creative community. But hip-hop isn’t waiting.