"There's a couple lines in our script/I think we should edit": Autofiction and the moment of "consciousness" in black-British conscious rap
Lead Research Organisation:
University of Bristol
Department Name: School of Arts
Abstract
Omar Shahid defines 'conscious' rap as "a new generation of homegrown artists who aren't
scared to deal in the explicitly political"1
. Within politically charged albums, black-British
rappers embark on longer narrative projects in which they straddle the boundary between the
'conscious' and the performative, taking time to play with imagery of the capitalist spoils of
celebrity and wealth, whilst also carving out spaces for introspection. These works are not only
being accepted by mainstream audiences, a far cry from the roots of black-British rap and grime
in underground garage collectives, but are also constituting genuine political protest, with the
music leading the "rebellion against what black culture considers to be a hostile government"2
.
However, it remains unclear as to when the materialistic, single-producing black-British rapper
exchanges boastfulness for didacticism. Michael Owuo Jr. (Stormzy), for example, gestures to the
completion of his self-development upon reaching his third album, "This ain't the same man who
said his head was heavy"3
. And yet, one album prior, he remained uncomfortably between the
"commercialized" and the "conscious": "They sayin' I'm the voice of the young black youth/And
then I say "Yeah, cool" and then I bun my zoot"4
. This gestures to a process of transition
traversing his discography, with a definitive end in the site of his third work, but ambiguity
surrounding the point of origin. In order to understand the work itself better, as well as how this
evolution of conscious rap contributes to and diverges from the existing genre of black-British
rap, it is critical to ask and answer: when does rap become 'conscious'?
scared to deal in the explicitly political"1
. Within politically charged albums, black-British
rappers embark on longer narrative projects in which they straddle the boundary between the
'conscious' and the performative, taking time to play with imagery of the capitalist spoils of
celebrity and wealth, whilst also carving out spaces for introspection. These works are not only
being accepted by mainstream audiences, a far cry from the roots of black-British rap and grime
in underground garage collectives, but are also constituting genuine political protest, with the
music leading the "rebellion against what black culture considers to be a hostile government"2
.
However, it remains unclear as to when the materialistic, single-producing black-British rapper
exchanges boastfulness for didacticism. Michael Owuo Jr. (Stormzy), for example, gestures to the
completion of his self-development upon reaching his third album, "This ain't the same man who
said his head was heavy"3
. And yet, one album prior, he remained uncomfortably between the
"commercialized" and the "conscious": "They sayin' I'm the voice of the young black youth/And
then I say "Yeah, cool" and then I bun my zoot"4
. This gestures to a process of transition
traversing his discography, with a definitive end in the site of his third work, but ambiguity
surrounding the point of origin. In order to understand the work itself better, as well as how this
evolution of conscious rap contributes to and diverges from the existing genre of black-British
rap, it is critical to ask and answer: when does rap become 'conscious'?
