Parenthood is undeniably a blessing. Yet, if I were to speak honestly, I’d note that there are certain drawbacks, not the least of which is ceding control over the soundtrack to your life. My sweet soon-to-be four year old doesn’t want to listen to many of my tunes. I’m fortunate that her choices are usually pretty tolerable. While I dig Dan Zanes or Laurie Berkner in small doses, they get play in our house mostly because the munchkin wants them.
Of course, she’s allowed her own music. I know our tastes will likely diverge through her adolescence, and we’ll have less of a chance during those years to connect over common sounds. That’s part of why I’m so glad that she’s worked the Dino-5 into her rotation recently. This collection of hip-hop heads is organized by Prince Paul, who produced the landmark De La Soul albums 3 Feet High and Rising, De La Soul is Dead, and Buhloone Mind State, and features Ladybug Mecca (formerly of the Digable Planets), Chali 2na (Jurassic Five), Wordsworth (an underground Brooklyn MC who appeared on records by A Tribe Called Quest and Blackstar), and Scratch (the vocal turntable, formerly of the Roots). Their debut album is a storybook, narrated by the poet Ursula Rucker, about 5 dino friends at their dino school. My kid is now walking around, rapping in the deep voice of 2na’s character, T-Rex, “I may be big and scary, but I’m really pretty nice.”
What’s so striking about the Dino 5 for me is the way they capture the essence of hip-hop as it was during its golden era in the late 1980s-mid 1990s, before capital swooped in and co-opted what was once predominantly an alternative and oppositional art form. Popping off about your fly Adidas or your adversary’s nappy head and rotund relatives, rapping about dancing, music, girls, boys, friends, enemies, and the neighborhood. Most of that gave way to Big Pimpin’, bling bling, and baseless braggadacio.
Hip-hop is still a vibrant art form, always will be, but there’s a reason that the areas of the music that challenge listeners aurally, poetically, and politically moved “underground,” out of site from the casual observer who doesn’t have the time or the passion to dig for those sounds. Hip-hop ain’t dead, y’all, far from it; it’s been integrated in interesting ways into other forms, it’s been globalized, and there’s still plenty of innovation happening. Yet hip-hop’s foundational meaning has been clouded over the past generation by its loudest voices.
So I’m happy to share with my daughter a feeling similar to what I got during my adolescence, listening to De La transmit live from Mars. The Dino 5 represent the best of hip-hop: role playing, storytelling, deep danceable beats, learned references and musical quotations, wicked flow, and lyrical playfulness. Their music is both nice enough for a four year-old and “nice” enough for her purist dad. Kid tested, pops approved.
As my daughter takes her first tentative steps towards reading, it heartens me to be able to introduce her to the poetry and artistry of hip-hop with something that’s her speed. Soon enough, she’ll be barraged with beats and words and sounds. The Dino 5’s album gives her hip-hop that’s more sophisticated than the corny rapping on Sesame Street. Hopefully, it will help her sort through the cacophony that she’ll meet as she grows, and find something that’s as meaningful to her as the music of my youth is to me.
Here’s a couple of brief clips to tack sound onto my words.
T-Rex struggles with how other kids see him, and hopes that they can think twice about how nice he may be:
Tracy Triceratops has a tough time keeping her voice down:
Posdnous introduces the “D.A.I.S.Y. Age” on De La Soul’s 3 Feet High and Rising (1989):
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