How Hip-Hop Saved My Life

Up until I was eleven, my musical taste was a tribute to blandness — The Beach Boys, Wilson Philips, Michael Bolton. Technotronic’s “Pump Up the Jam” was the edgiest thing in my collection. One evening, my older cousin decided it was time to rescue me. She told me to pick something to listen to from her collection of albums by Metal and hair bands. Much to her surprise, I chose the one rap album in her collection, Ice-T’s O.G. Original Gangster, mainly because of the mammoth sticker on the front of the cassette tape that said “Parental Advisory: Explicit Lyrics.” (Thanks, Tipper Gore.) She cued up the song “Midnight” and put earphones on my head. Hearing that song was like riding a roller coaster for the first time. The pounding rhythm, the sirens blaring, the F-bombs flying — I was so scared I almost peed myself. But as soon as the song was over, I was absolutely certain that I had to own everything Ice-T had ever made.