Just like Usher does not care about gay people (or Burt Bacharach for that matter), my boy does not care about Hip-Hop, even though his dad writes, drinks, eats, and sleeps Hip-Hop, and capitalizes both H’s when spelling Hip-Hop. Maybe it’s too early to tell whether my 2-week old would grow to love the music that brought so much fun, friendship (and fame?) to his old man. (Being a dad makes you feel old, folks…really).
What Henry jr. does care about is Jazz. My ‘Cannonball and Coltrane’ playlist Itunes puts him to sleep faster than a bedrock(whatever that is). Miles Davis’ Tutu and Mazzy Star’s So Tonight That I Might See also have the same charming effect on Lil’ Riz, after hours of rocking him in aching arms, lullabying(beware: this has a counteractive effect if your singing voice is more Macy Gray than Enya!), and other baby-soothing rituals. You know the drill.
I’m inclined to point out that he also cares about some other genres which I wouldn’t dare categorize (to keep the politically incorrect boogey in me from jumping out of this screen).
I don’t intend to follow in the footsteps of GZA and Peter Gunz, by handing him a rhymebook way before he can lift his head on his own, but I hope that one day he’ll grow to learn and appreciate the ubiquitous Hip-Hop culture that is damn near inevitable in every Black man’s lifestyle nowadays. Presto, KRS-One!
