Uh-oh! Here Comes the Hammer Apologia
Essay by Matthew Webber
Best. Album. Ever. (The 1990 Version)
Although I had crushes on several cute classmates, in 1990, I loved three people: MC Hammer, Vanilla Ice, and Paula Abdul. (Sure, I loved my family, too, but what kid in middle school listens to his family?) I only regret this last obsession. The Hammer and the Iceman, they’re still at least listenable, as they never dueted with a scatting cartoon cat. They also had nothing to do with Clay Aiken. Admittedly, however, to the Idol judge’s credit, she never shaved designs in her sideburns or eyebrows. (What boy in middle school didn’t want that hairstyle?) But I definitely don’t want to marry her anymore. I’m also over Elizabeth Berkley.
Of the three, the Hammer was probably my favorite. Not only was Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em one of the first albums I ever bought with my own money, but a poster of MC Hammer was one of the first non-baseball posters I ever hung in my room. Keep in mind, at the time, I was only eleven, and I had to ask permission first. (Also keep in mind, I still have that poster.)
But MC Hammer was worth the risk. Of what? I’m not sure, but I feared my mom’s response, since any rap at all back then was rumored to be dangerous. Even a clean rap like “U Can’t Touch This” – which could’ve been a reference to his penis, I suppose – was thought to incite bad behavior in the youth, behavior like dancing and thinking of London.
I was still naive enough to hope for such corruption, for anything badder than skipping my homework, for something as illicit as playing music loudly. Thus, I admired my tape and my poster, taking tiptoed baby steps towards juvenile delinquency, or at least towards a life filled with music that was mine, music my parents simply didn’t get.
MC Hammer spoke to me, and what he said was, “We got to pray.” Clearly, this was a dangerous message. You better believe I followed it nightly. After all, what would he want me to do?
Today, I know the gospel truth: The guy’s about as scary as Neil Patrick Harris, especially in contrast to the rappers who eclipsed him, rappers who rapped about killing each other, rappers who (allegedly) lived out their lyrics. I learned this fact about two years later. Snoop and Dre – now those guys were scary!
All throughout high school, I mocked my former favorite – now known as “Hammer,” without the “MC” – for rapping like a dude in parachute pants, instead of like a dude in pajama pants and shackles. Basically, I thought his music was wack, mostly because of his lyrical content. Plus, he danced, which made him not worth listening to. Why was he dancing – to distract us from his lameness? You didn’t see Tupac doing the Running Man! (Not that I liked Tupac either yet, but still.)
To Hammer’s credit, you didn’t see him dying. I guess that makes them even.
The Hammer Apologia
The time for a Hammer reappraisal is due. Actually, I feel it’s long overdue. Thus, here comes the Hammer apologia. Sure, nostalgia plays a part, as well as the cachet I’ll earn for being a contrarian – for going against the critical grain, for swimming against the critical tide, for spitting into the critical wind, etc., etc, etc. – but no, I’m serious: He’s worth another listen.
Has anyone taken him seriously recently? If they did it in print, I can’t recall. Again, he danced. His raps were clean. His beats seem quaint, if not outdated. Basically, the man’s a joke. The same things I said back in 1993, when I was a freshman who thought he knew everything, are still being said by people who should know better.
This critical consensus belittles MC Hammer, which frankly, I think he doesn’t deserve, and I think this more strongly than simple nostalgia (which, I admit, afflicts me quite acutely).
Now, I’m not saying the man’s a genius. I’m just saying he’s not that bad.
Compare him to his peers from the era, for starters. The great Sir Mix-A-Lot? Wreckx-N-Effect? It’s not that I’ve forgotten the words to their hits, or that I won’t dance when I hear them at a wedding, it’s just that, come on, they’re all about ass!
Mix-A-Lot claims that his song is empowering, and true, there’s some merit in his praise of black women, especially in contrast to the bimbos on Cosmo. It’s worth an exploration in a cultural studies thesis. And true, good ol’ “Rump Shaker” can teach the kids geography, at least it terms of body parts that roughly equal Delaware.
But no one would dare to proclaim these songs as timeless, on par with other wedding songs like “At Last” and “Unchained Melody,” and every other wedding song that you don't mind hearing elsewhere.
Hammer’s positivity remains slightly corny, but twenty years later, it isn’t so embarrassing. (His deep album cut “She’s Soft and Wet,” however, is.) When I hear him at a wedding, he doesn’t make me cringe, beneath my ironic, guilty-pleasure mask.
His two biggest hits, “U Can’t Touch This” and “Pray,” remain more respectable, if not more danceable, than anything out of the Kris Kross katalog.
He doesn’t bear the stigma of misappropriation, of putting on a culture like a star-spangled suit, of faking a background of inner-city poverty. In other words, he’s more credible than my boy Vanilla Ice.
He makes me dance, without the baggage. Without the uncomfortable glances towards grandma.
This was the start of the nineties, people. This was what he was competing against, at least in the realm of top-forty radio. You’ve got to keep these things in context.
Further, if rappers are supposed to keep it real, then Hammer seems as real to me as hip-hop ever gets. The man, after all, was not a gangster; to rap like a gangster would’ve been disingenuous. (Not that this stops other rappers from trying. Not that this stopped him from doing it later.)
The man was a churchgoing, suit-wearing gentleman; thus, he rapped about legal pursuits: praying, dancing, the kids, etc. When he did mention crime, it was always to condemn it, as well as to encourage us to do our best to stop it.
Except for the one time I stole a pack of gum, I tried to follow the Hammer’s advice. “Help the Children.” Sure. Why not? I thought I was helping by rapping along.
So did millions of other kids. And that’s the real problem, the reason he’s a joke: Most of his fans weren’t old enough to drive. He shared a target audience with Paula Abdul.
And even though he gave us all that first sweet taste of rap, long before Biggie and other rap giants, he never got credit for blowing our minds. Sure, we’d hear hip-hop eventually, inevitably, but the simple fact remains that we discovered it through him, we dumb, suburban, mall-shopping kids, me and my friends and gazillions of others.
He might not have inspired the rappers who came after him – I’ve never heard him cited as an influence anyway – but I know he inspired at least one little kid. He inspired me to open my ears, to give his genre, hip-hop, a chance – and maybe even just to give music a chance. I bought his album, I bought his poster, and I’ve identified myself as a music fan ever since.
He did what his rapping peers didn’t do (at least not until I discovered them much later): He let me relate to him. He made me care. He became an artist I could idolize – and love.
My musical obsession started with him.
But even if yours began with someone else, the Hammer, I believe, remains too legit to quit.
My first favorite album deserves another chance. It’s soulful, introspective, and danceable at weddings. It has that rare mix of intelligence and fun. (The fact that it reminds me of my youth doesn’t hurt.) Listening to it again bears this out. If you’ve got a copy lying around, you really ought to try it.
MC Hammer is a true pioneer, and that is a beat, uh, you can’t touch.
Bonus Track: The Song Title Sentence Game
In a bit of serendipity that’s amazed me for two decades, the following three consecutive song titles on Please Hammer Don’t Hurt ‘Em form a complete sentence:
Yo!! Sweetness
Help the Children
On Your Face
It doesn’t get any better than that. It just doesn’t.
