Whoever said words can never hurt you wasn’t there when Kendrick dropped his big three diss tracks. As I listen to “Euphoria”, hot car, sweat collecting on my brow, I realize this is the welcoming of summer. The way the California sun bounces off the pavement. How I’ll be able to smell the barbeque lining the streets. The block parties with the watermelon punch and this is a battle of whose song I’m going to hear reaching across Lake Merritt. This is a battle of whose music is going to make it out the house with us. Whose veins are going to be juice filled and henny lifted. When the summer starts, and nobody in the bay area has proper AC, we are begging someone to give us lyrics that feel like a fight. Give us a reason to let some energy out that won’t leave the streets bloody.
I am a big fan of diss tracks. I remember my introduction being (of course) Ice Cube’s “No Vaseline”, and Tupac’s “Hit Em Up”. It is a wonderful sight, groups of people laughing, smiling and rapping (in unison) some of the foulest (foul in the sense of approval, nasty as in nose upturned nodding with respect, shouting because what we’re witnessing is indisputable, if you know you know) lyrics to ever hit the airwaves. There was an unspeakable power in those moments. A type of parasocial voyeurism of showmanship. Coming together over beef that has nothing to do with us but we took a side, and we are proud and we are righteous.
It is worth mentioning that these beefs did not go forth without violence. The history of the diss track has bodies in its pages. Some did not survive those summers but the music lived and is recycled, remembered and replayed for generations present and future. I love that a diss track, when strong enough, never dies.
As I am writing this “Not Like Us” literally started playing in the cafe, i cannot make this shit up.
I am not the person with the credentials to declare anyone a winner of anything. But I have known anger. I have been angry enough to grab my pen. Angry enough to get on a stage. Angry enough to leave it for an audience to interpret. I’ve become familiar with the ritual of words as a weapon. I’ve come to a notebook furious, approached a microphone with indestructible intent, danced foot stomping on enemies, and painted with the color of vitriol. And that shit feels good. Excuse my language (unless you want to be on the other end of a diss poem. Try me). I feel honored to get to see the art form kept alive, to know there is still a place for this energy to go. And I pray, I’ll get down on knees, clasp my hands tight, and hope that this time we’ll make it through the heat.
I come from the era when the dis track was created. I guess it’s nostalgic in the sense that it continues but the vibe is different and I suppose that’s due to social media. We only had word of mouth and a cassette tape cause the songs weren’t even played on the radio.