Kweli was right, and anyone who doubts the legitimacy of his command is either cynical, or in serious need of psychological intervention. The game, now a gimmick, has suffered tremendously for the sins of the last decade. No more do we have the kind of diversity of values that made the ‘80s, and early ‘90s, a memorable period for Hip-Hop listeners. No more are we entertained by the humorous sophistication of great storytellers like Slick Rick and Dana Dane. No more is there the competitive tone that threatened any form of lyrical comfort and linguistic complacency. What he have left is a dust-covered palette, which many newcomers find pleasure in replicating, according to their taste and standard. The ‘snap yo fingers’ generation has been done a great disservice, by the avaricious record labels that control a vast sector of the Hip-Hop landscape. Encouraged to dance and snap their imaginations away, they have been misled, deliberately, into judging Hip-Hop by the sexual arousal and bodily titillation it comforts them with. Soulja Boy’s astronomical rise to stardom, two years ago, confirms this theory speedily.

The teen-rapper, whose claim to fame rests on the backs of his ingenious song, "Crank That (Soulja Boy)," which encouraged that listeners, "Superman" and "Supersoak Dat Hoe," has become the center of many controversies, within the last two years—and for the wrong reasons. Those aware of the meaning of that phrase would rather that I pass the opportunity to explain it graphically. His Grammy-nominated orgy of vulgarism became a chart-topper in no time. Drawing the ire of many older artists, including the Gza and Ice-T, and comedian Steve Harvey, Soulja Boy would proceed to discard his "haters" as nothing but publicity hacks, and out-of-touch old-schoolers. I respectfully disagree. Though Ice-T might have blunted the truth with his claims that Soulja Boy "single handedly killed Hip Hop," he certainly had a point in his analysis that, "we came all the way from Rakim, we came all the way from Das EFX, we came all the way from mother***kers flowing like Big Daddy Kane and Ice Cube, and you come with that Superman sh**? That sh** is garbage."

Who can disagree that the intelligence-ceiling of Hip-Hop took a few hits when the most demanded song, in 2007, was a teen rapper’s call for a lewd act to be performed on a female significant other (that’s as clean as I can present it)? We certainly are entrenched in some steep waters when the same artist focuses his frustration, with Rap music, on a legend, claiming he "killed Hip-Hop," for simply suggesting, back in 2006, that Hip-Hop, as a creative spirit, "is dead." As Soulja Boy saw it, "if Nas would’ve never said hip-hop died then they [artists, listeners and executives] would’ve never had that terminology." This, as he sees it, "messed up everybody’s money." I can’t make this up! The rapper, who revealed, last year, his admiration of slave masters, because "without them we’d still be in Africa," hence, unable to "get this ice and tattoos," now regrets—well, partly— the tone of his stern rebuke of Nas. His words were "taken out of context," he mentions.

The disappointing sales of his latest album have also afforded him some fresh perspective on his career. Because, on his sophomore project, he "went more in-depth, and tried to step my game up, come with the lyrics, go in on deeper topics, talk about life, and what it’s like being a celebrity," he sold comparatively less than his first release. He contends that, "nobody wanted to really hear that." With this hard lesson learned, he’s convinced now, more than ever, that successful artists "gotta rap about what the people wanna hear, per say." And what they want to hear, as he puts it, is, essentially, "nothing." He borrows some inspiration from his first album which, according to him, "went platinum," because "I wasn’t talking about nothing." In the words of Loraine Hansberry, "ain’t this the living gull!"

When a clear thinker observes Hip-Hop today, it’s tempting to believe Ralph Waldo Emerson was reflecting on the culture when he noted, in his essay on "Art," published in 1841, that "the fountains of invention and beauty…are all but dried up." It’s a painful indictment, but the chord of invalidation is broken, with the comments artists like Soulja Boy are fond of making. It seems as though Hip-Hop’s demise lies in its impulse to detach itself from the conditions which birthed it: The groan of the streets, and the moan of defeat. At each interval, where it hopes to disentangle itself from the suffering of the weak, and the pain of the sick, it’s prophetic and pharmaceutical value is lost. Those who could once find refuge and healing in it, now come to despise it, and even, endeavor to destroy it.

Emerson noted that, "until one thing comes out from the connection of things, there can be enjoyment, contemplation, but no thought." No thought! Sound familiar? Emerson continued, insisting that, "the power depends on the depth of the artist’s insight of that object he contemplates." Those artists who have come to "contemplate" the wonders of "ice and tattoos," have, in turn, become dependent on whatever power lies in such objects. Those who "contemplate" album sales are inevitably enslaved to the demands it creates. Emerson concludes this theme, with a sobering caution: "For every object has its roots in central nature, and may of course be so exhibited to us as to represent the world." Cam’ron, the Harlem rapper, once asked the timely question: "What means the world to you?" The inquiry is simple and plain, but the answer, not so. It begs a certain level of honesty, for rappers to admit their obsession with, and glorification of, material acquisitions. It’s a painful task to look in the mirror and be forced to confront the reality that one has submitted a life of possibility and talent to the idol of opulence. It’s hard to confront the truth that most commercial artists have "exhibited" ignorance, sexism, patriarchy, homophobia, violence, and lust, as worthy representatives of their world view.

The mug shot of Hip-Hop today, is a ghastly sight to behold. It’s blood-soaked, eye-cut, nose-fractured, lip-slashed, and jaw-broken face unnerves our comfort zone. We dare not look it in the eye—the content of our creation! Those who have permitted bullshit for ten years, and turned over the key to its creative vault to corporate America, now stand in shock of what the culture has become. Spare me the misappropriated self-righteousness! We are all guilty, and prosecutable! No one’s hand is without the bloodstains, at this point. The only redeemable virtue we possess, currently, is the potential to come to terms with these truths, and begin correcting our wrongs. Any other alternative is a farce worthy of crucifixion.

The road to glory might be a challenging one, but as Emerson informed, "we are immersed in beauty, but our eyes have no clear vision."

Tolu Olorunda is a Columnist for BlackCommentator.com.