French popular music is notable for its tradition of countercultural balladeers, like Aristide Bruant in Toulouse-Lautrec’s day, or Léo Ferré in the 1960’s. Today, this mantle has been inherited by French rap performers, who are vastly superior to the (mostly execrable) American variety.
Instead of being obsessed with bling or women, French rap stars, mostly of African origin, are highly literate and even intellectual, with a sense of social responsibility. In 2002, Mohamed Bourokba, known as Hamé, of the French rap group La Rumeur (Rumor) published an article to accompany a CD release, asserting that the French “Ministry of Interior’s reports will never take into account the hundreds of our brothers who are slaughtered by the police force.” Nicolas Sarkozy, France’s then-Minister of the Interior, prosecuted Hamé for “public defamation of the nation’s police.” (By contrast, our American rapper Ice-T, who co-wrote the infamous 1992 song “Cop Killer,” has been given a high-paying role on TV’s stultifying Law & Order: Special Victims Unit.)
Over the past few years in France, the case against Hamé was repeatedly dismissed by lower courts on the grounds of freedom of speech, supported by testimony from defense witnesses like Maurice Rajsfus, a Holocaust historian who testified that the article in question merely reflected a “general feeling” among French youth. Yet on July 11, the Cour de Cassation, France’s highest court, reversed previous judgments by deciding that Hamé should be tried after all, at the beginning of 2008.
Despite this uniquely persistent prosecution, Sarkozy may not actually hate rap. Among his most publicized supporters during the past presidential election was Bruno Beausir, who performs under the suggestive name of Doc Gynéco (Doctor Gynecologist). Not only did Doc Gynéco support Sarkozy, he even expressed a desire (as yet unrealized) to record with him.
President Sarkozy may never follow in the footsteps of Karl Rove. Yet it would be unfortunate if the trial which he instigated tarnishes the image of French rap, redeemed by its current superstar Claude M’Barali, born in Dakar, Sénégal in 1969 and an audience favorite since 1990 under the stage name of MC Solaar. Seductively listenable, Solaar’s songs feature witty and poetic wordplay. In “Obsolete,” he laments mechanization with the nostalgic regret of a latter-day François Villon: “Once concierges were in vogue; nowadays they are replaced by digicodes.” Or take the euphonic “An Angel in Danger,” the title of which sums up the condition of modern man for Solaar. In “Baby Love,” Solaar spoofs pop culture by declaring: “Women are from Venus. Men munch on Mars Bars.” In “To Ten of My Disciples,” Solaar expresses his musical debt to past influences: “If rap music is a lark, then jazz provided its spark.” Sarkozy might do well to sing along with performers of this quality, instead of dragging them through the courts.
