December 18, 1997

Show Me the Money

“I don’t [understand] the language of people with short money.” Is this the voice of a laissez-faire-Republican-Libertarian-“self-made”-billionaire-moron touting a new linguistics rooted in the socialDarwinistic eugenics of yesteryear? Is he deftly illustrating by means of a personal anecdote, sure to touch the hearts of authenticity-seekers of all races, the link, in his humble opinion, between Ebonics and that darned culture of poverty? No, you know better than that. This is the alienated voice of a “real” Ebonics-spouter: “Mase,” one of the mindless members of Sean “Puff Daddy” Combs’ everexpanding family.

If the family were biological, and “Puffy” were a mother, the First-World-financed Third-World sterilization movement would have long ago found its way into Justin’s Restaurant. Forget about it, if “Puffy” were an unmarried mother on public assistance.

But the family’s fecundity is beside the point, no matter how insistently inbreeding suggests itself as a possible explanation. I am not about to dis this rap (or the video) for mere participation in materialism; after all, none of us can escape it. But I would like to see some semblance of a memory.

As Puff and Mase prance through the Las Vegas streets, through aisles of well-bedecked, lightskinned video-hos, and brag about being on the receiving end of semianonymous, semiautomatic fellatio, I am also not about to dis this rap (or the video) for a misogyny sublime, the likes of which are rarely seen. I leave that to C. Tucker. Not the clown on the silverscreen, but the one in the Congressional hearings hall.

Back to the point. Mase, ocassionally joined by the omnipresent Father, prances (under puppetry of Puff) and prattles, but meanwhile, the greenbacked signifier of all late-20th-century social interaction overshadows him: is he showing us the money, or is the money showing us him? Who really has top billing here? Mase is oblivious to the question and dances on, believing that the money is the source of his self. That ain’t Ebonics neither: he does not know how correct he is, because money, like rap “stars,” is everfungible, infinitely interchangeable. But to Mase, it is the source of his pride, his distinction, the mark of his specialness, and even his realness. Don’t forget how he describes his form of being: the old word for “actor,” back when only alcoholics and prostitutes were “players.” (Well, that is not entirely true: prostitutes are still called players in pornos. And we all wannabe players. Never haters.)

But I seem to keep losing my point. Mase’s cashflash prosperity-dance has a message: “You call yourself a player? Then show me the money.” It wouldn’t even sound right if the message was “You call yourself a player? Then show me your money.” Jerry Maguire got it right-even under duress and economic stress -- and it’s a good thing too: so much is hidden as it is (not only the poverty of the people with short money), that a possessive pronoun would have been, well, actually, only a little bit worse. The most important hidden thing is the long trip the money made to join Mase’s hit parade. The stupidest (in the bad sense) person can see that it is the money music buyers give him.

Don’t get me wrong! No capitalist exploitation here. We all wannabe junior-music-biz-bigshots, or at the very least, a street soldier in The Family. We pay to see “Mase” (or any other member of the Family-it’s all good) in lights, and we imagine it is us.

But after we have illuminated this obvious path the bread has to tread, the language Mase speaks seems unreal, radically disconnected-no death-defying attempt to portray oneself as an organic-man-of-the-people here-not the slightest bit of the usual realness, but some type of qualitative break with reality, a lil’ bit more than movin’ own up: Mase has sprung fullgrown from the head of the Father, and not only is he somehow flush with cash, dancing up the Strip, but he also speaks in foreign and inspired tongues!

I hate to be nostalgic for last year’s music when it wasn’t all that good to begin with, but now that B.I.G. has been killed, now that Puff and Mase have taken his place as the putative patriarchs of the Family, they have completely forgotten the Big Man’s legacy (if such a term is applicable). They have forgotten the “Juicy” tales of family-strife, of strive-and-fight, of too-late-success, and the tragedy of Horatio-Alger life. They have forgotten. No matter how many times Puff pulls our still-too-naïve heartstrings with misty renditions of old tunes, no matter how many times he appears on camera looking longingly toward Heaven (or down, in that shuffling, sappy, sleepyeyed-dog way) no matter how many times times he insists that he does it all for Biggie, he and all the rest of them have forgotten the best thing about Biggie: he not only showed us the money, but he showed us where it came from.

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