The power of a letter

Rap paved the way before us: it transformed street corners into stages, gatherings into culture, and identity into expression. You won't find nostalgia in these words. We speak of rap because we follow the story of those who understood that art, music, lyrics... are tools for stirring consciences. And here we both meet: in the craft, in the word.

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“Rap music is society's homage to itself.” —Chuck D.

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Bronx, 1973

It was never just music. It was born in the 1960s and 70s as a collective cry, an urgent poetry that turned the street into a stage and words into revolution. It was born out of necessity. In those years, African American communities already carried in their collective memory forms of protest: blues, jazz, spirituals, oral poetry. Rap ​​drew from the African griot (or jeli), from prophetic chant, from the voice that demands to be seen.

But it was in '73, in a Bronx devastated by deindustrialization, state neglect, and institutional racism, that a DJ named Kool Herc, at a block party organized by his brother, Cindy Campbell, played the first breakbeats, the fundamental basis of rap. He did it simply to lengthen the songs so people could dance longer. There was no intention behind it, but there was a need.

This spark allowed young people to find a way to channel their creativity. They found a form and a space for artistic expression and an escape from the harsh realities of daily life. And then the MCs appeared: the masters of ceremonies who spoke between the music and the audience. It wasn't explicit political discourse yet; it was space, gathering, visibility. But the seeds had been sown.

The leap to the manifesto: “The Message”

Until 1982, rap was about ego, partying, and escaping the reality of the time. But with Grandmaster Flash & the Furious Five and their anthem "The Message" (released on July 1, 1982), something radical happened: rap became chronic.

Don't push me 'cause I'm close to the edge

I'm trying not to lose my head

It's like a jungle sometimes

It makes me wonder how I keep from going under.

His verses starkly depict poverty, violence, inequality, and social alienation in cities. He speaks of crumbling buildings, drugs, crime, constant tension with the police, and how all of this pushes people "to the edge."

Instead of glorifying power or ego, the song became a social commentary . It was the first time a rap track reached the mainstream with a direct political message, and for that reason, many consider it the true birth of rap as a social manifesto . It wasn't rap for the dance floor: it was rap to awaken. That shift digitized the MC from backing vocalist to protagonist.

The years of political struggle

Throughout the 80s and 90s, rap took a stand. Public Enemy emerged, with Chuck D as their cultural ideologue, and “Fight the Power” (1989) as their anthem. The song is an explicit anthem of rebellion against structural racism and hegemonic power in the United States.

“The power to govern people’s behavior, that is the power of the author.” — Chuck D

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KRS-One also emerged with Boogie Down Productions , addressing topics like education, community organizing, and police violence on his albums "Criminal Minded" and later "By All Means Necessary." Conscious rap and political hip hop were now established labels.

But it wasn't all balance. On the West Coast, NWA took that tension to the extreme with their incendiary song "Fuck tha Police" (1988), which denounced police brutality without disguise. This radicalism placed them at the center of cultural debates, censorship, and controversies.

Wu-Tang Clan opened an unexpected portal: they blended the raw energy of the streets with Eastern philosophy. Their universe—forged from martial arts, sharp samples , and the spiritual vision of the Tao Te Ching —transformed rap into an inner journey. RZA, the collective's mastermind, understood that the chaos of Staten Island could resonate with Taoist calm: the idea of ​​flowing, of adapting, of finding balance within disorder. Wu-Tang Clan didn't just introduce an aesthetic; they introduced a way of thinking. Their music taught that power can also be introspection, that the microphone is a weapon, but also a temple, and that ancestral wisdom can coexist with the urgency of the urban landscape.

Within that same lineage rise female voices that not only accompanied the movement but redefined it. Lauryn Hill, with The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, opened up new territory between spirituality, social critique, and vulnerability. Her singing and rapping style dismantled the idea that strength is expressed only through harshness: hers lay in truth. Alongside her, pioneers like Queen Latifah, MC Lyte, and Missy Elliott expanded the boundaries of the genre, reclaimed women's space in hip-hop culture, and demonstrated that the microphone knows no hierarchies, only authenticity.

You can't talk about that era without mentioning 2Pac and Biggie, the two titans who defined rap's golden age with an almost mythical intensity. 2Pac turned his life into a political manifesto: he spoke of police brutality, poverty, abandonment, racial rage; he was a poet, activist, and chronicler of a broken America. Biggie, for his part, transformed narrative into cinema: he depicted hustling , ambition, and survival with surgical precision. Their styles clashed, as did their worlds. Tragically, their deaths symbolized the tension between the American coasts taken to the extreme.

What didn't make the headlines was recorded on mixtapes. What didn't get on the radio was painted on walls and shouted at concerts. Rap ​​is a newspaper written by those without a printing press.

Beyond the US, it becomes a universal cry

The curious thing is this: when a movement is born out of desperation, it rarely stays in the place where it originated. It expands. It crosses borders because the wound is shared. Rap ​​has shown that rage has an accent, but also a translation.

And what's unsettling is that history repeats itself: human beings make the same mistakes in different contexts. Inequality, violence, oppression. So predictable? So unoriginal? Perhaps. But then rap comes along to remind us that injustice isn't a local anecdote, but a global disease.

• In Puerto Rico, Vico C, back in the 80s and 90s, turned denunciation into verse, founding Spanish rap.

• In Latin America, if there's one figure who transformed pain into words and words into a legacy, it's Canserbero. From Venezuela, Tyron González made rap a brutal mirror: he spoke of systemic violence, inequality, mental health, death, corruption, and human contradictions with disarming honesty. He didn't seek glamour: he sought truth. With albums like Vida y Muerte ( Life and Death), his work became an instant classic and an ethical touchstone for thousands of young people who understood that rap could also be philosophy, catharsis, and political awareness. Canserbero didn't just influence Latin rap; he elevated it.

• In Spain, figures like Frank T solidified a unique language within Spanish-language rap. With his critical vision and surgical technique, Frank T was an absolute pioneer: he professionalized the genre, paved the way, and demonstrated that rap could be discourse, not just rhythm.

• In Palestine, the group DAM*** has been rapping and hip-hoping against the occupation since 1999, reminding everyone that simply existing is also a form of resistance. Today, they've added rapper Maysa Daw to their ranks, who champions the rights of Arab women. Quite something...

Where there is oppression, verse is born. And when that verse travels, it ceases to be an echo: it becomes a universal manifesto.

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Today: Between Resistance and Market

Rap lives in contradiction: it's a global phenomenon and, at the same time, a product packaged by the industry. But that tension doesn't diminish it; it multiplies it.

Kendrick Lamar turned "Alright" into a protest anthem that resonated through the streets with Black Lives Matter. In "The Blacker the Berry," he spoke of racism as an open wound. It's not entertainment: it's testimony.

Run the Jewels and Killer Mike uphold the lineage of denunciation, beats like hammers against injustice.

In 2024, Macklemore released Hind's Hall , an explicit protest against the Israeli occupation and the complicity of silence. Rap ​​continues to unsettle those in power when it chooses to confront them head-on.

But the question remains: how much of what we hear is genuine resistance and how much is a domesticated echo chamber? Censorship, commodification, and the loss of authenticity loom large. And yet, amidst algorithms and playlists, an uncomfortable truth emerges: rap didn't die in the mainstream; it lives on in every corner where someone picks up a microphone to say what cannot be silenced.

“Keep in mind when brothas start flexing the verbal skillz, it always reflects what's going on politically, socially, and economically.” — Davey D.

By the way, listen to all of this on this playlist. Warning: It's not going to be relaxing: [ LINK to PLAYLIST ]