Ain't No Shame, Ladies, Do Yo' Thang

Everyone knows that hip-hop culture hasn't exactly been a breeding ground for third wave feminists. So, how do we interpret the substantial presence of women hip-hop artists at the top of the charts? Do the women of mainstream hip-hop really represent a step forward for the feminist cause? A lot of people have come up with a cynical answer: they must be selling their bodies, exploiting their sexuality, playing into the stereotypes that have been created for them by the male-dominated industry. In the case against rap, the female rappers are frequently indicted along with the men.

But this portrait of the hip-hop scene is too simplistic, and it ignores a lot of important elements. Primarily, it overlooks the fact that many of these female rappers have cultivated strong, funny, likeable personalities and images based on their voices, their rhymes, and, quite often, on challenging their male counterparts. It also ignores the fact that if these ladies hadn't forced their way into the game--even if it was only to demand their fair share of the mansions, millions and Mercedes--hip-hop would have likely been left to the boys.

I want to look at a few of the female rappers who have made names, incomes, and reputations for themselves in the industry, and have induced polarized responses, ranging from spite to support, from politically-conscious music fans. The obvious musician to start with is Missy Elliot, who many consider to be the reigning queen of female rap. She's probably the least controversial figure, since it's hard to say anything bad about her: feminists, hip-hop snobs, and hard-boiled thugs alike all seem to approve of her. She's overweight, over-the-top, funny, and in-your-face; she's got the cleverest rhymes and the best beats around. And, of no little significance in the rap game, she's amassed the money and power to prove it. Missy sums up the fundamentals of her own feminist philosophy in "Work It": "Ain't no shame ladies, do your thang/Just make sure you ahead of tha game."

Lil' Kim has a different brand of appeal: she's scantily clad and promiscuous, and she demands the same thing of her men. For the most part, Kim avoids clever innuendo and cuts right to the chase, rapping about her sexuality with a self-centered bawdiness that would make Kate Millet proud. And she raps damn well, something that often gets overshadowed by debates over how much plastic surgery she's had. Her voice is especially appealing on the many male-female collaborations she's recorded. If you ask me, every Snoop, Jay-Z, or Eminem track that has given her a verse or two is the better for having done so.

Surprisingly, rap has proven itself to be an ideal medium for this kind of cross-gender cooperation. Remember "Son of a Gun," the Bad Boy Remix of that Carly Simon song? With Missy and P. Diddy? What a strange combination, yet what a good song. Similarly lovable are Missy and Fabolous trading verses on "Sickalicious," or Missy and Ludacris on "Gossip Folks." Seriously, Jungian theorists in search of the ideal union of masculine and feminine opposites need look no further than Lil' Kim and 50 Cent on "Magic Stick."

Khia, rap's self-declared "Thug Misses," is even lewder and cruder than Lil' Kim. In fact, after her massively-popular 2002 single "My Neck, My Back (Lick It)," many would put her into the category of female rappers labeled "gross." Personally, the single got on my nerves, but the weird persona she created made up for it. Her image was entertaining in and of itself, but what made the whole thing even better was that mainstream America was willing to embrace Khia to the startling degree that it did.

One reviewer I came across actually criticized Khia for the way she defies pigeonholing--she cited her "fickle inability to pick an identity." This quotation, in spite of itself, speaks to one of the most praiseworthy aspects of rappers like Khia: their refusal to "pick an identity" and stick to it. She's not going to tell us if we should laugh, gawk, cringe, or take her seriously; we can figure that out for ourselves. And what we do figure out is that Khia is more than just gross. On "When I Meet My King," a strangely, anachronistically appealing mixture of synthesized beats and bells behind a kindergarten-y keyboard riff, she proves she can spit out rhymes with as much virtuosity as any Twista.

If it sounds like I'm reaching for political justifications where there might not be any simply because I like the music, it's probably because I am. I've certainly tried, however, to do as much for my other favorite misogynists: AC/DC, KISS, and like-minded cock-rockers. But it's also because I think the situation is more complicated than many critics have made it out to be. As I asked before, can we consider the rise of female rappers a step in the feminist direction? Maybe not; but I don't think the opposite is true, either. Whatever the case may be, it's hard to argue with the claim that the hip-hop world and Top-40 radio today would be a lot duller if these ladies weren't around.

Even if we haven't "come a long way" since Dre was rapping "Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks," at least Missy is now here to appropriate his hip-hop machismo and declare: "Who is the best? I don't have to ask ya/When I come out, you won't even matt-ah."