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The first weekend of August saw the coronation of a new King of Hip-Hop. Like all transitions of power, it had been years in the making and orchestrated by powers both seen and unseen.


For some, Aubrey Drake Graham, the Canadian former child actor circling around the hip-hop throne for years, had long been the King, and all that was left was the inauguration ceremony. For others, it was a moment of acquiescence — that after all of the hits, the sales, the hits, the record-breaking chart appearances, the hits, the ubiquity, the popularity and the hits, 

 had become undeniable by not only his sheer undeniability, but by the sheer undeniability of his swift and total dominance over friend-turned-rival Meek Mill, over the course of a week and a half, for no king is King with only power reserved; power must be actualized and demonstrated. For others still, it was moment of sad resolution, a hip-hop version of the 2000 or 2004 presidential election — something they'll forever believe was won under the most questionable of circumstances, but will not speak on in mixed company, for fear of being labeled a loon, a conspiracy theorist, a hater or simply out of touch with the times. 

 In late July, Meek Mill was reaching only dreamed-of heights — his sophomore album, 

released at the end of June, had spent two weeks atop the 

 200 charts; he was in a relationship with 

, undoubtedly the most powerful and desired female artist in hip-hop and one of the most powerful contemporary pop icons on the planet. Yet, apparently apropos of nothing, Meek took to Twitter to launch accusations against Drake, who has a close, sometimes tense relationship with Minaj. (He's been publicly lusting after her for years; she's kept him in both the friend zone and the no flex zone.) But Meek's jabs against Drake were not, on their face, about jealousy. Instead he accused Drake, currently one of the most popular and adored artists in the music's commercial nucleus, of not writing all of his own raps. It's the kind of accusation that doesn't mean much to casual listeners on the outskirts of rap, but holds a lot of weight in the core.

 Unlike other art forms, the idea of authorship is tied into hip-hop's DNA. At the birth of rapping, rappers didn't quite own the music, which was stitched and spliced together by a DJ from breaks. But they did own their lyrics, which were a form of currency. The four elements of hip-hop — MCing, DJing, dancing and graffiti — are all tied into things one can create for oneself. One doesn't have to follow a fundamentalist's or purist's line to accept that — despite the mutations of vocalization, production, movement and art in the genre — the idea of making something from nothing, of authenticity, of 

 is tied into hip-hop in a way that is absent in other musical spheres. Pop stars who can't sing become career superstars and EDM DJs who don't mix records regularly make millions, but the ethos of hip-hop has always been against such bait-and-switches, even as it's grown into a billion-dollar industry.

 Rappers who write their own material are seen as more serious and more worthy, much like an auteur or singer-songwriter, as opposed to a director or chanteuse. There are those who say these distinctions don't matter, yet, no rapper has ever come out as the mouthpiece for mouthpieces. 

 once boasted on record, "Don't worry if I write rhymes, I write checks," but that's not a platform he's ever campaigned on. 

 admits to occasionally collaborating with stronger writers than himself — but is likely to spazz on anyone who accuses him of not writing his own rhymes. It's widely accepted that 

 — and hip-hop allows both because their contributions to the form in terms of music and voice outweigh any allegiance to ideals. It's basically a dynamic of selective scrutiny and denial. 

 Labels, publications and radio platforms all know that ghostwriting exists. Rappers like 

 hint at providing the service for others; artists like 

, presumably making more money from ghostwriting than their own records. The major rappers who have come out as proudly employing ghostwriters can be counted on no hands. Even Minaj, who is many ways selling her body as much as her music, takes the time to regularly stress that she writes her own rhymes — the unsaid being that most other female rappers rely on outside penmanship. Why? Because everyone knows it's antithetical to be a "real" rapper who relies on ghostwriters. Rappers who don't write their own material aren't held to the same standards as those who do. 

 There are (and should be) continuing arguments in hip-hop over stylistic leanings such as lyrics vs. melody and debates about message. But all sides acknowledge that cadences and melodies are important, which is why instrumentals do not a rap song make. Delivery matters. And, delivery — or "flow" — is perhaps the most difficult aspect of songwriting. Whether the song be a television jingle, a pop ditty or a rap tune, melody is ultimate, and the rest, for some artists, may as well be the product of monkeys with typewriters. Still the idea of authorship remains a basic given in hip-hop:

 It may have been written by a monkey with a typewriter, but I'm the monkey and it's my typewriter.

 Meek's accusations against Drake — which were later backed by reference tracks made by little-known Atlanta rapper Quentin Miller that were played on air by Hot 97 DJ Funkmaster Flex — mark the first time a generation is dealing with the question of ownership of lyrical composition in rap. A few years ago, similar allegations were made against 

, but, with twenty years behind him as a professional rapper, Nas belongs to another era — to many of Drake's fans, he's actually dad rap. Drake, on the other hand, is of the now. His incredibly self-referential blend of emotional narcissism and confessional pornography resonates with a generation in which oversharing of mundane observations has become performance art. His ability to present middle class ennui in thug verbiage has a universal adapter quality to it. The words that have come out of his mouth are mantras, memes and retorts fit for just about any and all occasion — 

 Following Meek Mill's allegations, Drake's producer Noah "40" Shebib came out in defense of Drake, ignoring the existence of the reference tracks. Likewise, Quentin Miller denied ever being a ghostwriter for Drake — which counts for nothing as it's what he would be contractually obligated to say, were he actually a ghostwriter. Pro-Drake forces and Miller have downplayed Miller's involvement in Drake's recording, noting that he's listed in the credits for multiple songs on 

 — which could mean that he simply suggested a word or two to Drake. (It should be noted that 

 a Drake-assisted song that appears on Meek's 

, but also has a Miller reference track.) But much of Drake's allure is the idea that he is personally penning his deepest thoughts; he's not supposed to be a committee of feelings. The reality that Drake may be getting whole songs' worth of help from outside sources takes away from some of the magic and fantasy that makes him such a profitable entity. If it didn't, Drake's camp would have owned up to the level of assistance he's gotten — which is almost certainly more than they've admitted to — and simply turned Drake into a reality TV version of a rapper, where people watch knowing that it's fake, but get a perverse joy from trying to figure out where the line between authenticity and script is crossed. The obviously staged dramatizations of 

 are commercially viable, but using ghostwriters is as much about ego as it is about money. Drake isn't trying to be a reunion show fight highlight reel. He hasn't explicitly claimed to write his rhymes in years, but he obviously aspires to be categorized with Jay Z, Nas and 

 — not Dr. Dre or P. Diddy. If he didn't, he would not have taken such huge offense to Meek's accusations. 

 In many ways, the conflict between Drake and Meek Mill is a class struggle. Unlike Drake, Meek is a ravenous MC who's been battle-tested and approved. He speaks for the downtrodden, the forgotten and is viciously socially aware, while not being above the ills of fiscal irresponsibility, crime, violence and misogyny. He once remixed Drake's "

," a song about the mo' money mo problems trappings of fame, into "

," a musical middle finger to a personal rebuke from his district attorney. On "Lord Knows," the opening number of his most recent album, 

, he proudly raps, "Difference between me and most of these rappers — I'm talking about work that I really put in."
Meek is also known to feel all the feels all at the same time. He's sensitive, but not Drake-sensitive. Sensitive in the ways that growing with little to nothing and seeing systemic inequality at play raises the importance of loyalty and words as bonds. Meek once beefed with his labelmate Wale over not promoting his album, which is something he also mentioned as one of his gripes against Drake. It seems silly, but to Mill, not tweeting his album is akin to not showing up to his baby shower, and providing him a verse written by someone else is like having a third party pick out his birthday present. 

 What ultimately set Meek Mill off is a mystery that may never be solved. It's likely something acutely related to the dirty laundry he aired online, but it would take more than a personal slight for him to risk f****** up the money and bringng down the whole house of cards. When Funkmaster Flex promised to not only premiere Mill's response to Drake, but to also play more incriminating material on the radio, it felt like the threat of a man ready to burn everything, consequences be damned. But none of it happened as advertised. And Flex's weird silence and the 

station's defensive and omissive response

 in the aftermath reek of a corporate shutdown. Drake is, after all, worth a lot of money to a lot of people. It's not insane to imagine some of the shareholders in Drake, Inc., worrying about the health of their investment's reputation.

 And the lack of interest in the truth of the story spreads to — 

 — the media and other artists, who have remained largely silent on the subject in specific, opting to talk about ghostwriting as a whole, get in on the memes while they can, or ignore the story altogether. A story involving the biggest commercial rapper of the moment that has spiraled to include the beef between rival N.Y. radio stations Hot 97 and Power 105 and involved a Toronto Councillor Norm Kelley, is being largely dictated by Drake's internet minions, the #DrizzyHive. To date there's been no published investigative journalism into the origin, presence or authenticity of the purported reference tracks by any outlets of note.

 What we have gotten is a pair of diss tracks from Drake — "Charged Up" which champions perception over facts, goes for dignified low blows and plays to the crowd like a good politician; and "Back 2 Back," featuring all sorts of 

 as well as pointed barbs. By contrast, Meek's response song, "

," fell flat on many levels — he took too long to join a fight he started, and moreover, he tried to act as his own lawyer in the court of public opinion without taking the jury's make up into account. Meek attempted to reframe the argument, but the discussion had moved past what it was once about — the notion of authorship — and onto memes and jokes, 

which is what Drake's early-August assault capitalized on

. It's been widely considered a loss for Meek Mill and the most devastating, almost surgical, dismantling of a viable contender that hip-hop has ever seen. Any response made by Meek at this point is about cauterizing a wound and figuring out how to move forward. 

Kris Ex

Author

With the notion of authorship dispatched as silly and inconsequential, the way has been paved for even greater corporate influence over hip-hop.

Stakes is high: Drake ghostwriting accusations matter more than you think

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