Can artists struggle against the systems they serve?
Dope Saint Jude: A case-study of hip hop’s activist potential in queer Africa.

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[Introduction]

As a global youth movement, rap music is a powerful tool for social/political engagement. Since its emergence, rap and its discourses (counter-hegemonic or otherwise) reference a panoply of identity politics: race, gender, sexuality, class, religion, etc. Inevitably, the dissemination of rap music as a commodity necessitates that artists negotiate the ideological hegemony of the marketplace: neoliberal capitalism. Hip hop artists who create subversive art must negotiate between two extremities of inaudibility: either de-radicalize in order to successfully circulate within the markets (dialogue is silenced within the commodity), or radicalize and forgo market exposure (dialogue is silenced within the markets). In this way, the marketplace resists radical change. In order to assess the activist potential of rap, one of the strongest forms of musical protest, it is necessary to confront the sanitizing effects of capitalist ideologies on rap and its potential as musical protest.

In this paper, I will explore how hip hop artists negotiate their selves (bodies, identities) within the regime of values of neoliberal capitalism (Appadurai 1988). I take a specific counter-movement within a globalized, translocal hip hop movement, focusing on the queer rap activist community of South Africa and its relationship to American rap activism. South Africa is one of a few African nations which features both the protection and strong social acceptance of queer citizens (Pichon 2019), fostering a strong queer rap community. Queer hip hop, both in the USA and South Africa, reveals how issues of race, gender, sexuality, and class are concurrent and mutually interdependent. Through a consideration of queer rappers in South Africa, I consider how emotions and meanings elicited within specific rap performances negotiate both the ideological hegemonies of neoliberal capitalism and the revolutionary goals of the queer community. My goal is to understand how South African rap activists repurpose a globalized, capitalist hip hop movement to promote local dialogue.

“One common theme throughout Africa has been the question of how to adapt hip-hop so that it represents local and national issues without incurring violence.“ (Morgan & Bennett 2011, 189)

South African (queer) hip hop intersects heavily with American (queer) rap. For this reason, I begin by summarizing the historical contexts of both nations. I describe a brief history queer hip hop in the United States, and its relationship to globalized gangsta rap. Next, I trace the same history within South Africa, its relationship to the United States, and the recent wave of queer rap activism in South Africa. Through a musical case-study, I consider three songs from the South African rapper, Dope Saint Jude, and the relationship between activist rhetoric and commercial success. Finally, I reflect on strategies for artist activism at large.

[Hip Hop in the United States]

The integration of black American culture within capitalism necessitated the adoption of the white capitalist value regime — a struggle between black revolutionary discourses and white hegemonic values. In the first half of the 20th century, the civil rights movement sought equal access to financial capital for black Americans. White capitalists excluded black America from economic activity, citing “unheteronormative” behaviors (matriarchical structures and the historical oversexualization of black men): “the state continued to deny African Americans equal status … by holding black women responsible for black men’s economic devastation.“(Xinling 2018, 19). Mid-20th century, the civil rights movement adopted a strategy to heteronormatize black men “focused on desexualizing the black male body and preserving the sexual purity of black women” (ibid., 21). To achieve the White puritan masculine ideal, weak/effeminate behaviors would be suppressed (producing homophobia) and male dominance should be asserted (producing misogyny). It is thus that homophobia and misogyny were born simultaneously with the new black masculinity.

By the 80’s, black youth in America was still struggling against the shortcomings of a pacifist civil rights movement (Cheny 2005, Ch. 3). Simultaneously, the advent of rap music facilitated a form of masculine musical expression (singing was viewed as feminine) (ibid.); a platform for masculine black men to express revolutionary thought on a diverse range of subjects. The Black Arts Movement championed hip hop as a means to portray a more aggressive portrayal of black masculinity and black nationalism (Gladney 1995). As prominent black leaders were ushered away from the public sphere, rappers became the spokespeople for the black community, and “rap nationalists appropriated and adapted Black Arts movement concepts and strategies” (Cheny 2005, 90). On behalf of the black nationalist/capitalist project, Gangsta rap emerged as a sub-genre within hip hop. Gangsta rap turned themes of sexual banter and policing within black identities (common in hip hop) into the violent eradication of the femininity and homosexuality from the black community (Ross 2000). This new rap aesthetic aligned fully with American capitalist hegemonies, appealing to a large, international consumer pool primarily comprised of white men. By the 90’s, the revolutionary discourse within hip hop became appropriated into hegemonic capitalist discourse: gangsta rap both 1) underscored a brand of patriarchal masculinity central to the black nationalist movement, and 2) homogenized the black identity into an exotic experiential commodity sensationalized through the global markets.

Along with the commodification of hyper-masculine rap, capitalist ideology also contributed to the homogenization of queer discourse into a highly feminine form of rap: homorap. Queer activism, however, was present early in rap history. First-wave “homo hop,” pioneered by black West-coast artists (Deep Dickollective and others; Pick Up the Mic 2005), called for a sexual liberation from suffocating hegemonic masculinity. Against the heteronormative discourse of gangsta rap, however, homo hop did not survive the capitalist marketplace. First-wave homo hop represents one extremity of inaudibility: subversive discourse which does not derive value in the marketplace is ultimately ignored. Meanwhile, on the East coast, an alternative black queer expression had formed. Originating in Harlem in the 1960’s, ball/drag culture was a queer performance practice in which queer identities explicitly attempt to integrate into heteronormative society (Paris is Burning 1990). Ball culture was quickly popularized in mainstream media, both in pop music (Prince, Elton John, etc.) and TV (Ru Paul’s Drag Race, The Ellen DeGeneres Show). This form of “queer conformity” (discussed below) was later reintroduced in rap during the 2010’s. This new, “Second Wave homo-hop” includes heterosexual artists rapping about LGBTQ+ rights (Macklemore, Ryan Lewis) and the successful market penetration of effeminite/transvestite queer rappers (Mykki Blanco, Le1f, Todrick Hall). Alternatively to the liberation rhetoric of first-wave homo hop, this second wave put forth a homogenous, hyper-effeminized queer identity. In doing so, queer identity is repurposed for the reification of heteronormativity — a process called homonormativity (Duggan 2002). Second-wave homo hop represents the other extremity of inaudibility: subversive discourse is sanitized in order to derive value within the marketplace.

Just as the capitalist system sensationalized a form of hip hop (gangsta rap) at the extremity of a masculine ideal, capitalism also rewards black queer homo hop at the extremity of the feminine ideal. In this way, the heteronormative hegemony is preserved via the simultaneous commodification and sanitization of revolutionary discourses.

[Hip Hop in South Africa]

In 1994, the African National Congress (ANC) rose to power in South Africa. In their efforts to rebuild a post-apartheid nation, the ANC’s discourses championed a masculine “cultural ideal which (especially initially) was strongly associated with a set of puritan values” (Morell 2012, 16). Such rhetoric resembles that of the American Civil Rights, and it was already present in the ANC in the first half of the 20th century (Erlank 2003). South African masculinity, like in the United States, is predicated upon female submission and financial success (Swarr 2012). Today, South Africa exhibits some of the highest rates of femicide and sexual violence against women and queerfolk for a non-warring nation (Lilenstein 2017). Through the lens of lesbian activism, Swarr explains how the butch lesbian identity highlights masculine fragility, provoking pronounced sexual violence particularly against queer women (Swarr 2012).

Interactions with black America extend deep into South Africa’s popular music. South Africa’s most popular youth musical form is Kwaito (Sharp 2003). Originating in the 90’s within South Africa’s townships (apartheid-era enclosures for black populations), Kwaito has often been aesthetically and politically related to American hip hop (Schwartz 2003). Zine Magubane describes how, throughout the 20th century, “music has been one of the primary mechanisms through which Black South Africans have accessed African-American culture and used it as a vehicle for formulating … responses to the social forces that structure their lives” (Magubane, 208). Additionally, the hip hop industries in South Africa were entirely constituted upon transnational corporations, whose marketing strategy involved the dissemination of American music and appropriation of local, South African talent (ibid.). South African activist hip hop exhibits the same struggles against neoliberal capitalist ideologies as those described in the United States.

Queer culture also occupies an important part of South Africa’s recent history. In his book, Queer Visibilities, Andrew Tucker describes ‘moffie’ culture in Capetown’s colored neighborhoods. In the 1960’s, groups of cross-dressing colored men were fully integrated within their heteronormative communities. With strong parallels to Harlem’s ball scene, these queer South African men swapped their gender in an attempt at heteronormative conformity. On the other side of town, however, a white queer identity formed based on the creation of non-transvestite homosexual communities (ibid., chapter 2). The difference between white and black queer identities, along with black nationalist masculinity, demonstrate how queer culture in South Africa emerge simultaneously with racial and gender divides.

South Africa appears today as paradoxically gay-friendly and homophobic. This renders the work of queer activism dramatically visible, especially in the context of rap activism. South Africa has a strong queer hip hop community engaging in a variety of discourses. Communities of queer artists collaborate on a range of activist musical projects (see artists: Faka, Dope Saint Jude, Umlilo, Gyre, Angel-Ho, Mx Blouse, Mr Allofit). What’s more, virtually all queer rappers have been able to build a community without signing to major labels (Allo Fit, Gyre, etc.). In the next section, I consider one specific case of rap activism by an independent artist.

[Dope Saint Jude]

In this section, I consider the activist potential of South Africa’s most famous queer artist today (2021): Dope Saint Jude. Originally from Cape Town, Catherine Saint Jude Pretorious (DSJ) is both the founder of South Africa’s first drag-king group, a political science graduate, and a successful rapper (Volle 2018). These are the stream-counts for three songs of her 2018 EP, Resilient:

• Grrrl Like : 1,942,526 (Appendix 1)

• Didn’t Come to Play : 274,647 (Appendix 2)

• Inside : 36,883 (Appendix 3)

Judging from the number of streams, the first two represent the EP’s most successful tracks, while the last is the least successful (as per Spotify and Youtube statistics, April 2021). These songs demonstrate a range of strategies for engaging in queer rap activism. By looking at the meanings each song elicits, I attempt to draw parallels between the song’s discourse and the success of the song.

The first song, Grrrl Like (Appendix 1), immediately references the Riot Grrrl feminist movement originating in the Pacific West Coast. The Riot Grrrl movement is credited with kicking-off third wave feminism, instantly recognizable by its punk-rock influence, aggressive demeanor, and feminist [maga]zines. Speaking directly to her Riot Grrrl reference, Jude explains: “I couldn’t bring it into my life because they were young White women in [North] America. […] I wanted to bring it to an intersectional context of queer, Black and African people…” (Volle 2018). In the first stanza of Grrrl Likei, DSJ locates herself between Madonna (line 5) and Michelle Obama (line 7), tying all three together in the refrain: “I’m a grrrl just like…” (line 9). Here, DSJ positions herself as both a queer pop icon (drag/voguing) and a powerful pantsuit-sporting black political activist on the other.

Grrrl Like also makes reference to stereotypical hip-hop themes such as distrust of the police (“Red lights flash so we run and we hide”), the artist hustle (“Cash money for the game on the streets // The only way to hustle is to spit on the beats”), and references to white label owners (“And the hacks in the bis wanna box up my flow”). In all, Grrrl Like is strikingly un-subversive. References to gangsta rap thematics are completely in-line with neoliberal capitalist regimes of value. Moreover, it is not possible to gather from the song alone that SJD is queer, let alone promoting feminism. The term “riot grrrl” is never used in the song, and the moniker for third-wave feminism is itself not widely-known. Furthermore, Kristen Schilt (2003) offers a critique of the musical appropriation of Riot Grrrl — namely, its tendency to start and stop with the bedroom (Frith 1981). Grrrl Like is so clean that it was actually used as a cue for a Universal Studios children’s cartoon. Does Grrrl Like represent the sanitized extremity of commodified inaudibility?

In the music video for Grrrl Like, queer imagery is much more overt. The all-black punk vintage outfits strongly reference the Grrrl Riot movement. SDJ is filmed rapping on a motorcycle, caressed by another woman sitting behind. Interspersed are vignettes of exclusively black women, several of whom are also dressed as drag kings. It is interesting to wonder at the rhetorical gap between the audio and visuals of Grrrl Like, and whether the easing-in of queer activism (from song to music video) is what enables SDJ to be simultaneously commercial and socially engaged.

Briefly, SDJ’s #2 most-popular track, Didn’t Come to Play (Appendix 2), is even more devoid of activist lyrical content. In this song, SDJ reiterates rhetorical hip hop tropes similar to Grrrl Like: lauding personal artistic skills (line 16/17), claims to authenticity (line, etc. 9/12), and shedding (working hard; line 19). The line, “I’m the motherfucking king” is closest the song comes to gender subversion. Overall, SDJ’s aggressive masculinity feels empowering, but it also resembles the moffie culture and second-wave homo hop practice of gender inversion as a tool for heteronormative conformity. Unlike Grrrl Like, however, there is no complementary music video. This appears to fall at the sanitized extremity of commodified inaudibility.

I now turn to DSJ’s least successful song: Inside (Appendix 3). Opposite to the two songs above, this song is the most rhetorically subversive. The song confronts racial mockery (line 5), white ideals of beauty (line 11), racial subordination (13), homosexual abjection in schools (16), and the absurdity of social categories (18). The message throughout the song is a reiteration of queer, black authenticity, validated by SDJ’s commercial success (line 2: “who is the fool now?”). It is important to recognize the musical aesthetic of Inside is very different from that of the previously discussed songs. The cheerful 2000’s vibe, with its excessively repetitive refrain, is understandably less appealing to those who prefer commercial rap music. However, it is striking that Inside belongs to the same 5-track EP as Grrrl Like and Didn’t Come to Play while receiving nearly 100 times less streams than the other two. Perhaps Inside represents the other extreme of inaudibility: anti-hegemonic rhetoric that is ultimately market-averse.

[Conclusion]

I conclude by reiterating a question posed by South African queer scholar, Adam Haupt, in relation to Dope Saint Jude:

“Was [Dope Saint Jude] snared by neoliberal economics? Perhaps, but one response is that the seeds of any subculture’s commercial co-option lie in the fact it speaks through commodities” (Haupt 2016, page 6).

Queer theory posits that queer identities arose due to the social independence afforded by capitalism (d’Emilio 1983). It is the very commodification of expression that enabled queer-behaving individuals to assume queer identities and form communities. As I reiterate throughout the paper, it is the act of commodification that renders dialogue visible.

At the end of Haupt’s analysis, Haupt locates the activist potential of DSJ within a fleeting window before discourse becomes sanitized: “DSJ utilises her H&M work, social media, the hip-hop genre, and international networks to exploit that window period [before commodification] to help mainstream black queer identity politics.” (ibid., page 6, emphasis mine). This interpretation frames activism as an “opportunistic feeder” that is inevitably subsumed by market interests. Indirectly, Haupt erroneously denies the presence of capitalist hegemonies during production and the possibility for the evolution of regimes of value. As exemplified by Dope Saint Jude’s recent EP, however, queer artists can make use of platform specificity to create a self-referential discursive web: a digital brand. This digital presence is capable of 1) catering to the requirements of sterilized neoliberal market values, and 2) directs audiences to socially activist discourses. DSJ’s Grrrl Like demonstrates how artists can leverage the digital platform ecosystem, the pillar of today’s neoliberal economies (Cunninham 2008), to combine both extremes of inaudibility in the successful articulation of counter-hegemonic ideology. In sum, branding via digital platforms is a tool for successfully mobilizing activism within today’s capitalist marketplaces.

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Happy Pride Month!