Makeshift poet

Being an English graduate, I thought it was high time I offered some textual analysis to the untold millions who read this blog every day. My liberal arts degree, however, makes me a pretentious bastard almost by default, so instead of talking about Chaucer or Blake, I've decided to bang on about a little-known hip hop artist.

The little-known hip hop artist in question goes by the name of Sage Francis. Originating in Rhode Island, he belongs to the sub-genre known as slam poetry. From what I can tell, slam is a form of hip hop that shares common ground with beat poetry, although it could also just be another name for quality American rap.

Francis alternates between introspection and political commentary; sometimes on the same record, at other times devoting an entire album to one or the other. Album titles tend to reflect this; for example, A Healthy Distrust is his most politicised offering to date, while Personal Journals is almost entirely a work of self-analysis.

An example from the latter album is Runaways, a hymn for children who are lost in any sense of the word. It evokes the image of a faceless drifter, always looking for home, but being unable to find it: " I kind of look familiar, my name is on the tip of your tongue / The lost look on my face makes you play dumb / Say something colloquial, / I need to get my bearings and a feel for where I'm at". The album leaks painful emotion, although there's always a cynical undercurrent: "Yeah, if these walls could talk, they wouldn't shut the fuck up."

Over on the political side, we have Makeshift Patriot, an almost unheard-of song that is perhaps Francis's greates single achievement. Released in October 2001 (note the date), it assumes the voice of a reporter covering 9/11 to expose how the media abuses tragedy. The lyrics are almost a half-and-half mix of historical reconstruction and political insight. Lines like "The hospitals are overwhelmed. / Volunteers need to go the hell home. / Moment of silence for firefighters were interrupted by cell phones" mingle with observations such as "We'll tell you who to pump your fist at / And whose boot is right to kiss. / We don't know who the enemy is yet... but he looks like this."

Francis can be whimsical too. Check out Bridle, a song about a serious subject that nonetheless revels in word-painting: "He's pullin' on the rains, the bridle, the shower, the storm, / The maze, the high tower, clouds are at war…" He's also capable of pushing the boundaries of bad taste: "All for the sake of military recruitment / It felt like Kent State the way they targeted the students."

Perhaps the man's greatest single talent is for mixed metaphors - a device that's normally both accidental and annoying, but manages to be neither in Francis's lyrics. This should become apparent in the excerpt below, but here's a couple of examples: "He sold his own shirt off his back for cheap exposure"; "My pedestal was too tall to climb off / In fact, that's the reason for the high horse." Wordplay in general is a constant pleasure when listening to his records: "I freedom-kiss the French for their political dissent."

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: listen to Sage Francis's music. Even those who dislike rap should at least give it a try - the man single-handedly got me back into hip hop after years of being disillusioned by Dr Dre and pissed off with Fifty Cent. You can look him up on YouTube, or here: http://www.strangefamousrecords.com/index.php?main_page=page&id=16 .

I'm going to finish this with an excerpt from Slow Down Ghandi, a song that is very much a liberal call-to-arms. I've chosen the middle section because it's possibly the longest moment of sustained lyrical brilliance I've ever come across - and also one of the best arguments for lyrics being a form of poetry. I'm having to ad-lib the punctuation, and I'm quoting more or less from memory, so please forgive any mistakes. Anyway: ladies and gentlemen, for your delectation... Mr Sage Francis.


Slow Down Ghandi (exerpt) - Sage Francis

...Now it's whistle-blowers versus the pistol-holders.
Case dismissed.
They'll lock you up and throw away the key witness.
Justice is the will of a judge - check his chest density;
It leaves much room for error, and the rest left to destiny.
The West Memphis Three lost paradise,
Now it's death penalty vs suicidal tendencies.
All I wanted was a fucking Pepsi.
Institution. Making you think you're crazy is a billion-dollar industry.

If they could see sanity in a bottle they'd be charging for compressed air.
They're marketing healthcare.
They demonised welfare. Middle class eliminated.
Rich get richer till the poor get educated.
But some of y'all haven't grown into your face yet,
And your face doesn't quite match your head.
And I'm waiting for a brain to fill the dead space that's left -
You're all "Give me ethnicity or give me dreads."

Trustafundian rebel, without a cause for alarm,
Because when push comes to shove
You'll jump into your forefather's arms.
He's a banker: you're part of the system.
Off come the dreadlocks, in comes the income
The briefcase - the freebase.
The sickness - the sympton.
When the cameras start rolling, stay the fuck out of the picture, pilgrim!
The briefcase - the freebase.
The sickness - the sympton.
When the cameras start rolling...
Slow down, Ghandi. You're killing 'em.