Hip-hop’s taken over the world

I’d like to question whether we need an expensive white elephant of a stadium at all in Christchurch; to question whether a city that can’t seem to manage its spending needs to invest in another loser. But I think we are past that point now, aren’t we.

So I’ll say this: if we are going to build a shiny new stadium for the people of Christchurch, let’s just get on and build the damn thing.

Come on, these buckets-full of cash aren’t gonna tip themselves down the drain now, are they?

Speaking of stadiums that hang around a city’s neck, I went to see the Kendrick Lamar show at the Forsyth Barr Stadium in Dunedin this week.

And dig this: 16,000 adventurous souls showed up for a hip-hop gig on a Tuesday night. And Lamar didn’t disappoint. Fireworks and big-screen theatrics were just a distraction from a guy who is so damn hot right now.

A guy who understands the zeitgeist that’s quietly defining this moment in history. An artist in command of his craft. This is a guy with 12 Grammys and a Pulitzer, for god’s sake.

Hip-hop is front and centre of the consciousness of modern America – and so too with young New Zealand, if the crowd was anything to go by.

Now I’ve been worried about the sobriety of today’s youth, worried that with all that yoga and veganism they don’t have time for hedonism and regrettable sex. And maybe it was the Dunedin factor, but the fresh-faced crowd was wasted as. Wasted like the 1980s. And they partied like it was the end of days.

I came to hip-hop in the 1990s when it was called rap.

Rap music was just what the doctor ordered for a kid whose liberal parents were hard to rebel against. I suppose I could have followed metal or joined ACT, but gangsta rap served the purpose just fine.

I had Snoop Dogg’s Doggystyle on tape and I played it so many times that I wore the damn thing out.

Back then, we’d sing along with every ‘‘bitch’’ and n-bomb in the lyrics, revelling in the way it pissed our parents off, and blissfully unaware of the misogyny that soaked the music.

‘‘You can’t use those words,’’ they’d cry. ‘‘Calm down old man,’’ we’d reply. ‘‘This is a revolution and you’re not invited.’’

We wore hoodies and jeans so baggy that you had to fold them like a tent when you did the washing. And we wore them so damn low that half the day was spent hitching up our pants.

We said ‘‘wassup’’ like we’d seen on Martin and shook hands like gang members.

‘‘Pull your pants up. We can see your undies,’’ the oldies shouted.

But we didn’t care. We were our own gang and being part of the hip-hop world was to be part of a cliquey wee club.

Then we grew up and got on with life. Rap music rebranded as hip-hop and went on to become the most significant American art form since jazz. It became to my generation what rock’n’roll was for my parents’.

My mates are all older now. Hairlines have receded. Barbers now shave our earlobes. We mortgaged. We bred. We started careers.

And hip-hop took over the world. Midweek stadium shows, if you’d believe it.

Look how far hip-hop done came.

All the way from listening to rappers from Compton spewing misogyny in our cars to a stadium in Dunners to hear a rapper from Compton spew misogyny.

How far we’ve travelled to stay in the same place.