What is it about Nicki Minaj?
I’m a huge fan of female artists in rap and hip-hop. In this male-dominated environment, however, it is the rare woman who can break out amongst all the testosterone into true commercial or critical success. A short list of exceptions would include Missy Elliot, who is both a rapper and a producer. Until very recently, Missy was the last female emcee to top the Billboard charts as a solo performer, with her ubiquitous hit “Work It.” That was more than seven years ago. This is today, and today has a new female rap superstar. Her name is Nicki Minaj, and she’s doing things that no female rapper—and in some cases no male rapper—has ever done before.
Late last fall, Nicki Minaj broke the record for having the most singles listed in the Billboard top 100 at the same time (seven). Her debut album, released in November, has gone platinum, a striking achievement in the present music industry. She has appeared on new records by some of the most famous and talented musicians in rap, and often shown up the boys with her rhymes. What is it about Nicki that has allowed her to achieve this incredible rise where so many other talented female emcees (see: Jean Grae and RapSody, among others) continue to struggle in the shadow of often less gifted, less creative male peers?
Generally, though not exclusively, female rappers have found space in the hip-hop world by focusing heavily on their sexuality (yes, Lil’ Kim, I’m talking about you). Nicki, on the other hand, has embraced a rather broader range of rap braggadocio, crowing on various tracks about expensive cars and clothing, pop culture, and stacks of hundred-dollar bills—in other words, the standard fare of mainstream rap. Where it gets even more interesting, however, is in Nicki’s tendency to comment on hip-hop’s gender imbalance. Sometimes rather explicitly, she makes a point to acknowledge her identity as a female emcee while refusing to let it corner her into rapping primarily about fellatio.
She is talented, attractive, and has undoubtedly benefited from working closely with Lil’ Wayne. But Nicki Minaj is also extremely smart, and uniquely creative. Following Lady Gaga, she has cultivated a passionate body of fans, who call themselves “barbies.” The moniker comes from one of Nicki’s distinct internal “characters” or personalities, another factor that I believe has contributed to her success. “Barbie,” her main alter-ego, is super-feminine and raps in a high-pitched squeal, while “Roman,” a second character, is actually male and is the side of Nicki that appears one of her most aggressive and engaging tracks, titled “Roman’s Revenge.” It’s a fascinating way of permitting herself many different styles, and the emcee’s candor in discussing the alter-egos is extremely entertaining, permitting a glimpse inside her learned cultural mind. To me, it is unfortunate that it is “Barbie” who dominates Nicki’s debut album, titled “Pink Friday.” The album has a rather pop-tinged sound, and it is the exceptions to that trend, “Roman’s Revenge” as well as “Blazin,’” which features Kanye West, that stand out to me as its strongest. Fortunately, her talent, visibility, and huge fan following suggest that Nicki will be around, with room to improve and develop the various facets of her music, for a long while. It’s a safe bet that “Roman” be too.
2
highway
In the quiet
of four o’clock light
worn socks,
and bitter coffee,
a lone yellow mirror ages
a face unfamiliar.
Dust crept through cracks
in the trailer’s shell,
a permeable second skin,
again a child in a box
blanketed
in less familiar sand.
Heavy lashes fall—
his father’s embrace—
jerk awake under yellowed light,
another cramped restroom
and cracked reflection,
token black sticker stains.
The sand fades to fields,
across states and hours
striped and endless,
yellow and dry,
like morning,
again, into day.
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undertow
salt in his mouth sand in his toes. the rose of her mouth streaked the falling sky
he watched—in glances—the rise and fall of her eyelashes, the surf
a crashing receding fast slow soundtrack always in his mind
sweat spotted grey t-shirt. damp ocean pruned fingers press her easy spine
he touched—a spreading ache—her salt-streaked petals, a slow swell
like the waves close enough to hear, replay.
painted in white midnight, framed by navy sky. the smoke, her halo
he watched—unblinking—red glow white paper pink lips,
her nocturnal emergence, her known unknown form
cool morning shiver bumps, alone. whisper of roses on cold cotton, bare
he faced away—the window the waves—an absent thought,
a moon-white lily, swept out with the first wave’s breeze
a eulogy to fishco
[this was published in brown university’s post- magazine, 2011]
Telling people who didn’t know about FishCo about FishCo is always a trip. The stories were told in the bruises, stains, and fuzzy-edged hours that were our Thursday morning bedmates, always sticking around longer than the human ones. They were legendary nights; despite the fact that we could anticipate the increasingly hazy chapters of the night practically by rote—we knew who would be there and what bass-track-backed pop songs would be played—we always went back on Wednesdays. What other venue could promise the debauched bacchanalia of a Halloween FishCo, all glitter and fishnets and guys in giant fruit costumes spilling most of their shots of tequila down the front of their bananas? Or survive the ordeals that were the First FishCos, those crowded and sweaty initiatory rites of passage ushering in each new semester? Perhaps Brian Alexander ’11, no stranger to the Fish Company’s delights, put it best: “Sloppiness was not only tolerated, it was expected as a prerequisite for attendance.”
In the fall of 2010, to the dismay of its fun-loving faithful, the Fish was hooked and grilled by the Providence Police’s Underage Drinking and Nightclub Safety Task Force. The music died, the Chamber of Secrets closed forever. It was the end of an era, and for those of us who came of college age in the era of FishCo, the question lingers—what will the Wednesday nights of the future hold? “FishCo cannot be replaced,” says Jeremy Harper ’11, and he’s probably right. So now that our Wednesdays have shed their sticky, fishy skin, what new creature will emerge?
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“exit through the gift shop”
Released in limited showings in the spring of last year, and since garnering praise at all levels, “Exit Through the Gift Shop” is a documentary directed by Banksy, a widely celebrated and mysterious artist who creates stencil-based, pop-art-tinged graffiti, which he drapes over public walls and street signs.
what is the british recluse trying to say, do, document, reveal?
Most infamous for his fierce secrecy (he appears in the film but with his face obscured and his voice digitally manipulated), Banksy claims that he was persu aded to participate in the initial project that inspired “Exit” because of the fact that street art “was starting to disappear” only days after its creation. “It needed to be documented,” he asserts in introducing the film. What the film also documents, however, is Banksy’s process of, and role in, watching his art be shallowly imitated and wildly accepted in mainstream culture.
Essentially, the documentary centers on an eccentric Frenchman called Thierry Guetta who, when we first meet him, has become obsessed with filming the counterculture of street art. When Guetta hunts down Banksy, the artist is attracted by Guetta’s unprecedented footage of his peers’ work. Banksy ultimately takes over the project, dismissing Guetta with the offhand suggestion that the Frenchman try to make some art of his own. Guetta’s entrance into the world of street art is rapid, facilitated by the extensive time he spent observing the “formula” of image-making and repetition that most of the artists spend years cultivating. Banksy’s film records Guetta fast rise to fame and with a massive, self-promoted art show in Los Angeles, through which Guetta makes nearly a million dollars.
Such is the expected fate of a counterculture—it seems always to have an expiration date, after which the label no longer fits. It is the philistine Guetta’s too-fast, soulless success—and not necessarily the daring, powerful culture of street art itself—which sparks the true conversation of “Exit,” and shapes the trajectory of the film. Initially, in its introduction to the world of street art, the film is engaging and beautiful, the interviews inspired and exciting. As Guetta’s rise unfolds, the film becomes almost irritating to watch in its focus on the Frenchman and his ignorant self-promotion. Rich colors and deep blacks disappear from the film’s palette, and the artists turn against Guetta and his whole project, including Banksy. “I don’t know what it means,” the director admits thoughtfully towards the end of the film. “Maybe it means art is a joke.” Quite a punchline.
1
have/hold
I remember the way we fit together like spoons sleeping in the drawer in your kitchen where your sister caught us kissing, slowly, the first time you lit candles played soft music when I was eager grabbing running sneaking my lips on yours on the phone with your mom who never really liked me, I was over too often not sober too often I’d spoon misdirection thick and heavy on your tongue she knew I’d bite to hold you back but you’d just laugh eyes wide, surprise your hand cupped mine your chest my spine stayed nested inside your caved embrace. My lips those first months were tangled, I remember.
I remember my reflection in your eyes—so close to mine—like the prism in your window throwing color on your walls, I broke into scattered pieces among your greens and browns, cast down while I worked your shoulders with my hands—clench unclench, work rework—the knots the cords twist tighter towards a summer refracted, distorted by intimate distance. Too close, I see blurred memories of your face, sandpaper cheeks soft beneath my lips, smoothing the creases connecting the pieces of our fractured prism rainbows on the wall. Your eyes closed against the light, I untied all the knots, I remember.
I bent
in the heat, your frustration cracked
a mirror
I held backwards
to see
I remember your hands like thick heavy blooms, fingers curled near my wrist like affectionate vines. I’d bite soft on your skin—cheeks and earlobes browned and sweetened in the sun—leisurely fingers you vine in my hair. Soft light slow peel the cotton from your back, kiss taste your August color, another reminder that seasons shift reasons change—we find hard forbidden places where conviction bruises on contact, spills over into the cracks in our commitment. You did not speak or worry, just stretched slowly under my lips, sweat and warm kitchens, I remember.
the past
evades my grasp
leaves seeds
in my teeth
