The Politics of Macklemore

I walked up into the store like I got a big—well, a big thrift shop party to prepare for. And it was when milling through the Salvation Army store east of campus that I first heard the news of Senator Rob Portman (R-OH) endorsing same-sex marriage. It might have been the first time the Republican Party’s stance on a divisive social issue was predicated on that of an American hip-hop icon (save, of course, the Baha Men). I’m referring specifically to Macklemore’s “Same Love.”

It has me wondering: Is Macklemore a political rapper? He’s not exactly dropping rhymes about the ramifications of a flat tax (although, let’s face it, that would be awesome). But Macklemore’s music is political, in the sense that he raps against the rituals of mainstream rap culture—consumerism, drug use, homophobia—that have obvious political repercussions, and counterpart debates in the political arena.

For those who haven’t walked through Jo’s this semester, Macklemore and his sidekick Ryan Lewis are a white hip-hop duo from the Northwest rap scene in Seattle. Their single “Thrift Shop” topped the charts this year, which, if you haven’t heard by now, legally means you have been dead for the last three months (part of Obamacare). I first met Macklemore three years ago in a tiny club in West Philadelphia, where he played a show for about thirty people and joined fans with Ryan Lewis for shots after the show.

Macklemore’s diehard fans, myself among them, love the artist for his indie appeal. But an existential crisis has emerged in the Mackle-sphere, largely surrounding the archetypal question of fame and selling out, especially after the duo appeared in a TV spot for the NBA All-Star game clipping the anti-consumerism from their anti-consumerist anthem “Wings.”

But I’m also uneasy about some of the other political implications in Macklemore’s work, especially the criticism that the premise of “Thrift Shop” operates on a cultural assumption that its listeners would only hit up the Salvation Army for novelty—overlooking, for instance, the huge swath of Americans who actually need to shop there because they can’t afford to elsewhere.

It’s easy to dismiss a critique of your favorite artist. But it was much harder to actually look around the aisles of the Salvation Army that day. As our group of undergraduates loudly roamed through the store, an unshaven man in a sanitation uniform pushed his daughter on a stroller through the aisles; another woman, plainly bone tired, searched listlessly for pajamas. Meanwhile, a clan of Brown students photographed their romp through the hangers, deliberately searching for the most obnoxious outfits as if to painfully remind the others—one wants to say, maybe, the regulars—of where they were. I got the sense that the employees were trying not to stare.

The human disconnect in that warehouse was palpable. And I have to wonder to what extent, if any, Mackelmore is responsible. “Thrift Shop” is a college anthem, and Brown students mostly adore it. But similar to the way mainstream rap gave American whites yet another medium through which to co-opt African American cultural idioms in America, could it now be that Mackelmore has given upper class yuppies a self-issued license to appropriate “thrift shop” culture? The disjuncture is inherent in the question: when you think about it, there’s nothing there to “appropriate” at all. Thrift shop regulars are not searching for parachute pants, and the ragged man pushing his daughter down the aisle is not at the Salvation Army because of the Billboard Hot 100. Unless I’m missing something, it seems as though Macklemore’s anthem is, at least indirectly, cheerleading for the appropriation of others’ misfortune (and having a great time while we do it).

Other facets of Macklemore’s political stances—especially his bold appraisal of hip-hop’s homophobia in “Same Love”—I find admirable, even noble. But the political demographics of “Same Love” only recapitulate the socioeconomic “Thrift Shop” divide: supporters of gay-marriage are skewed toward the well-educated (which translates to higher incomes), the same sect of Brunonians descending on the Salvation Army not for the discount but the Instagram photo. This is to say nothing of the stigma of homosexuality in hip-hop, and in “Same Love,” Macklemore just barely skirts the 800-pound gorilla, that national support for gay marriage among African-American continues to lag. I’m left to wonder: could Macklemore really say the things he does in his music, without jeopardizing his career, if he weren’t white? Being able to say and do something others can’t because you’re white has a term (rhymes with “shmite shmivelege”).

I love Macklemore, and I hope to see him perform this summer. Not only was his latest album his best, but also self-produced, an incredible achievement. Some of these feelings are still raw after my thrift shop encounter, but they point toward a final, alienating possibility. Over a decade after Eminem shook the music world by declaring “Y’all act like you never seen a white person before,” it might be time to wonder: is it easier, sometimes, to get ahead in the rap industry if you’re white?