Not For Men Only

By David E. Thigpen

From its start in the cauldron of New York City's underclass, rap music's jolting energy and angry messages have been hostile to many outsiders, but to none more so than women. In too many rap lyrics, women are cast as pliant toys or conniving Delilahs. The male rappers who weave this image -- among them Ice Cube, Ice-T, Too Short and the Geto Boys -- spin exaggerated tales of salaciousness and violence, portraying themselves as potent, swashbuckling urban heroes. Since a macho image is a proven formula for success, rap producers were reluctant to sign female rappers. The music moguls were also fearful of challenging the form's rigid orthodoxies: in rap, as in heavy metal, feminine voices do not always supply the requisite loudness and abrasiveness.

Then came the surprise success of the New York City female rap trio Salt-N- Pepa, whose 1986 debut album, Hot, Cool & Vicious, sold more than 1 million copies. Spurred by visions of a new way to capitalize on rap's mainstream acceptance, record labels have been hurrying to develop other promising female rappers. Now a wave of female performers is giving male rappers a run for their platinum. Says Russell Simmons, the rap impresario whose Def Jam label recently signed a sharp young rapper named Nikki D: "There are more women buying rap records who would like to relate to women as artists, and there are more guys who want to hear a woman's point of view."

The new female rappers are creating buoyant messages that transcend the inert boasting so common in male rap. Salt-N-Pepa may have found the most satisfying and successful musical formula yet. Salt (Cheryl James), Pepa (Sandy Denton) and Spinderella (Dee Dee Roper), who met while working in a Sears department store in 1985, punctuate soul-tinged R.-and-B. melodies with teasing, street-savvy raps about maturity, independence from men and sexual responsibility. In 1988 Salt-N-Pepa, one of the first rap groups to cross over into pop radio, released a single, Push It, that sold more than 1 million copies, as did their second album, A Salt with a Deadly Pepa; Blacks Magic, their third album, has sold more than 500,000.

One of rap's more precocious stars is newcomer Monie Love (Simone Johnson), 19, a British import whose crisp diction, smart rhyming and clear, light voice have given her a hit single, It's a Shame. Love entered college in London with the intention of becoming a kindergarten teacher, but then began singing poetry she had written over tapes her cousins sent from America. Her debut album, Down to Earth, sends a message to women about trust, reconciliation and relationships -- all with an ease and restraint that might not have been possible in rap just a few years ago. "I don't try to be too heavy in my messages," says Love. "Too many rappers are too serious." In a radical break with rap tradition, Love actually smiles in her album photo.

In a more politically sophisticated manner, Queen Latifah (Dana Owens) has staked out a high ground in rap. "Guys have this macho thing where they always have to be tough -- it's peer pressure, " she says. "I'm trying to show people another point of view." Latifah, an electrifying performer who favors jodhpurs and large hats, delivers a spiritual message that rises above the petty issues in the war of the sexes. In Ladies First she raps about optimism and pride: "We are the ones to give birth/ To the new generation of prophets."

A few rappers are giving voice to a vengeful brand of radical black feminism. In a snarling, hard-core style, BWP (Bytches with Problems) bluster about date rape, male egos and police brutality -- all with a fluent vulgarity. Their leather jackets and cold stares add to their image. In Comin' Back Strapped, the opener on their debut album, BWP avenge a sexual slur against them by returning with a loaded gun and dispatching the bigmouth. In We Want Money, a bottom-line guide to personal relationships, they exhort their girlfriends to take from their boyfriends all they can get: "Marry you? Don't make me laugh/ Don't you know all I want is half?" Says Lyndah McAskill, who, along with Michelle Morgan, makes up BWP: "We're not men- haters. We're just saying a lot of kids lack self-respect because guys have put them down."

But a whole new crew is coming up fast, including Yo-Yo (Yolanda Whitaker), 19, a sharp Los Angeleno whose You Can't Play with My Yo-Yo may be the most clever and forceful attack on misogyny in rap so far. What these young artists have achieved, beyond commercial recognition, is the broadening of rap's audience and a role in rap's development as an art form. Besides just offering a different attitude, women have shown that rap can be far more significant and flexible than its critics have admitted. And that makes it all the more difficult to categorize, ghettoize or otherwise dismiss.