Ayo, Ice Cube!

When you’re 12, that strange twilight year before the teenage puzzlement really sets in, priorities other than how many marshmallows you can cram in your mouth or how late you can stay up into night begin to matter more. Sneaking a Mountain Dew – or Bud Light – from your neighbor’s garage becomes more nerve-racking, and members of the opposite sex (and for some, the same sex), well, they’re suddenly terrifying – but in the best way. For me, the first real shock came with the images of the Los Angeles Riots I saw in 1992, literally burning and bleeding from the nine-inch junker television in my room. It all happened far away in an only slightly different world than the one I knew firsthand, but it changed so much for me. Everything I’d heard about racial tension and oppression swelled to reality; the history I’d been taught didn’t seem right anymore. I was only 12 when I first realized that, unimaginably at that time, I might have to start thinking for myself. Back then I was exploring my dad’s classic rock music while also learning about hip-hop and the then-current grunge movement that quickly gave way to my dearly beloved indie-rock genre. I had a lot of favorites back then, but it was my hip-hop collection that I wore thin. A Tribe Called Quest had just released The Low End Theory, one of the best albums I’d ever heard, and I thought Too $hort was funny and Black Sheep were bound to be the best group ever off the strength of their debut, A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing. Yeah, sure, I remember liking Cypress Hill, The Pharcyde and even Kris Kross, but there were two entities who blew my mind completely: N.W.A. and Ice Cube. Many, I imagine, will agree. Cube, both with his first few solo albums and his N.W.A. stuff, showed me the alleys of a world I didn’t know existed. Soon enough Snoop Doggy Dogg was offering a watered down – but still very good – version of Cube’s aural paintings, but it was Cube’s The Predator album that opened my young squinty eyes.

Needless to say, my spine tickled when I heard that Piere’s had booked Ice Cube – who has been focusing on his acting career for over a decade now – for a Fort Wayne show. “Could it really be a concert?” was my immediate reaction, thinking it might be one of those meet-and-greet events actors sometimes do. Nope, sure enough, it’s a concert, set to take place on Friday, September 12.

A founding member of N.W.A., O’Shea “Ice Cube” Jackson’s recent career (spent mostly, again, as a Hollywood actor and NBA commentator) has been, in contrast to his initial stance as a social-minded radical, so conventional and vanilla that he may have just as well faked his own death after wrapping his scenes on John Singleton’s Higher Education, a classic 1995 film that palatably explored modern racial tensions of the time. “Faking your death.” Hmpf. Sounds harsh. Keep reading.

Many won’t remember, but years ago – probably only a few weeks before he started appearing in malt liquor commercials for St. Ides – Ice Cube was a widely recognized revolutionary whose every move was both feared and scrutinized. Cube was – or at least came close to being – the next great advocate for racial equality and, in general, socioeconomic decorum. (Listen to the interview snippets that string together some of his albums for proof; the guy was a brilliant radical thinker.) He was a big deal even back then, long before he was in children’s films with huge opening weekends. Amongst other things of social relevance, he was – even more so than the victim himself – the face of the nation’s reaction to the Rodney King beating. He was the most outspoken commentator of the Los Angeles Riots, even predicting such an upheaval in the months prior.

Getting back to that “faked his death” statement, leading up to 1995, Cube, then a 26-year-old young man who accepted acting roles based on the content of the scripts offered, was lucky to be alive. For the six years prior to his star-turning role in F. Gary Gray’s 1995 cult classic, Friday, Cube had been under close government surveillance. Sometimes defined as “the only free man in American” by the most liberal social analysts of the time, Cube had released a number of controversial albums that, to some at least, were frighteningly true and widely finger-pointing. Usually dressed in all-black garb, he was often found shouting with stern eyes. He was a true radical, writing and speaking things of social weight that no one else was publicly courageous enough to say at the time. He was labeled a “threat” by conservative media, but by 1995 he’d become an unanticipated movie star – all but leaving the message of his music behind. (Some have even speculated that special interest groups had much to do with his career change; no political commoner knows for sure why Cube, as they say, “sold out.” )

At the height of the controversy surrounding his post-N.W.A. career Cube released his best-selling album to date, his abovementioned The Predator album, just months after the L.A. Riots. The lyrics to the opening track on Cube’s triple Platinum-selling album effectively resolve all the hullabaloo (the media labeled Cube a misogynist, racist, terrorist and anti-Semite, amongst other erroneous titles, including what they called a “gangster rapper,” which he was not) surrounding his first two proper solo albums, Amerikka’s Most Wanted and Death Certificate (an album whose cover art featured a photo of Uncle Sam wearing nothing but a toe tag).

“Will they do me like Malcolm?” Cube asked on said opening cut, later adding “They killed JFK in ‘63 / So what the f*** you think they’ll do to me?” This hyperbole sounds ridiculous nearly two decades later and out of context, but every word in said song, aptly titled “When Will they Shoot?” (likely a reference to rumors of a U.S. government assassination attempt on Cube’s life) made sense at the time. Cube’s pop culture reach, teamed with his conspiracy themed messages and authoritative aura, was considered to be that dangerous to the people he spoke about. He had listeners, both black and white, who championed his message so much so that he briefly surpassed Louis Farrakhan, Chuck D, Jesse Jackson and other black leaders as the voice of, as he’d say, “his people.” The media, however, insisted on calling Cube a “gangster rapper,” a then-new idiom created by the media, because he carried a gun (an ironic fact, considering that he openly declared that he carried a gun to protect himself against the government). He was, however, a reactionary, a street-level leader who was well informed, well spoken and, most importantly, intimidating.

But, again, he became a full-time actor. Cheesy action films. Comedies. Children’s movies. Cube is now a different man than he was in 1992. He’s rich. He’s famous. He’s successful. He’s alive. He’s loved. He has a family, and, really, he has every reason now not to stand up to oppressors and corruption. Why fight the hard fight when you’re rich and loved, as opposed to controversial and struggling? Why Cube moved out of his beloved Compton district to a Beverly Hills mansion is obvious (he was no longer safe and was becoming a family-minded man), but the change of artistic drive from stoned reactionary to box office tough guy is both perplexing and unfortunate.

I eventually found my way back to Cube’s first four albums (as well as N.W.A.’s Straight Outta Compton), but only after losing all hope in the man’s future output. With fingers crossed, I’m surprisingly anticipating Cube’s upcoming album, Raw Footage (set to be released on August 19 and said to be his return to political writing) and tour. I know he’ll never be able to reach my subversive side the way that he once did, but, for what it’s worth, I consider him to be one of the most important Americans of the 90s. And for that, I love the man and can’t wait to finally see his undying scowl in the flesh.

Written by G. William Locke