Hip Hop. Underground.
Apparently the man is selling Underground Hip Hop. He’s waving a cd with that black and white jacket photo-copy.
He’s taking it to the streets with Hip Hop that is Underground. Not a sell-out here!
I pass by, not saying a word. Another man walks by him. And the sales pitch is repeated. “Hip Hop! Underground!” I don’t see anyone buying.
I was once on a bus, barely aware of a black man in his mid to late 20s selling his cds — and by his cds I mean it was pretty clear that he was the performer — in the seat ahead of me. The guy he’s talking to gets off the bus and wishes him good luck. He then turns to me and says “Hey! I have some hip hop you’d like.”
“No thank you. I’m not really a fan of hip hop.”
He pauses. “Oh. I see. You don’t like the message that we talk about. The 200 years of Repression, slavery, and…”
Bizarre. He has played the race card to get me to buy “Underground Hip Hop”. (He’s taking it to the streets?), or since I can’t imagine how such a thing would change my mind, for the theatrics of it all. I hope to Gawd he has his tongue firmly in cheek.
“Politics? I figured that you for the type that rapped about bling!”
When I said this, he gave me a glare and changed seats.