Chief Keef: Chicago's homegrown bad-boy

Only in America would a teenager be allowed to release an album with him smoking pot on the cover and the album housing a song called "Hate Bein' Sober" sung by an artist who isn't even allowed to drink legally. But that's Keith "Chief Keef" Cozart, the rap scene's latest bad-boy. They originally called iconic country musician Hank Williams music's "original bad-boy," but why? For smoking some cigarettes and drinking here and there? Keef has gone on to father a child, be the subject of two paternity lawsuits, be arrested multiple times for offenses such as drug possession, speeding, or toting weaponry (which he was jailed for), cause uproars with artists such as Lupe Fiasco, Katy Perry, and Soulja Boy Tell'em via Twitter, and been speculated to have involvement in the rise of Chicago's never-ending, violent gang-scene and the murder of a young rapper from a rival street-gang. Williams was in his late twenties when his "bad-boy" status was obtained for things seen as the societal norm today; Keef is one-year older than the person writing this blog.

Consistent readers know I have obscure, off-the-wall obsessions with movies, events, and selected trends in modern culture. Since December 2012, I have been fixated on the Chicago-based rapped Chief Keef, who gained notoriety for his songs and music videos he posted on Youtube frequently a few years ago. In June 2012, he signed a weighty deal with Interscope Records for a debut album, which was released in December titled Finally Rich. Since then, he has been the subject of arrests for the aforementioned reasons, numerous songs he has released that will appear on forthcoming mixtapes, and for his street-like persona.

In my review of Kanye West's newly released Yeezus, I called Keef's debut "abysmal yet intoxicating." What did I mean; (1) I was initiating a pun (get it?), and (2) I noted that while the album is, for the most part, atrocious it is strangely addicting. Terrible songs like "Call Me Maybe" and "Party Rock Anthem" I heard once and knew I never wanted to hear them again. Since December, my phone states I've played "Love Sosa" over one-hundred and fifty times. I loathe the song, but find its instrumentals addicting, its lyrics invigorating, and the overall content of the song tasteless yet mesmerizing. "These bitches love Sosa, o end or no end, fuckin' with them O-Boys, you gon' get fucked over. Rari's and Rovers, these hoes love Chief Sosa. Hit 'em with that cobra, now that boy slumped over," says a coldly unmoved Keef on the chorus for the song. Right off the bat, you almost need an Urban Dictionary by your side to decode the massive amounts of slang and obscurities the first few lines of the song unleash. It doesn't get anymore descriptive, or even coherent. As a person who likes rap to an extent and can understand most of the modern releases, I was lost the first time I heard "Love Sosa;" I was tempted to search for an English version. But I couldn't stop listening to it. Everything about the song defines addicting. I found myself listening to it on repeat the day before I had to give a lengthy presentation in my sociology class.

The second Keef song I went for was "Kay Kay," an equally incomprehensible jam at first that details Keef's life as a gangmember and as a teenager in Chicago. "Me and my niggas we ballin', we don't do no talkin'. I see it, I want it, I bought it. In my closet bout 40. Pullin' up in foreigns, full of ig-nor-ance. You niggas is borin', I'm ballin' like I'm Jordan." The song is named after Keef's young daughter, who he has, from what I believe, custody of. Pictures of little Kay Kay on Twitter sometimes flood his own page. The tune is Keef's tour-de-force track, and it's equally good and bad. It's Keef rapping about what Keef loves to rap about, but it also features some of the most incoherent lyrics I've ever heard in a rap song - worse than "Love Sosa."

The third song I heard of Keef's was "Hate Bein' Sober," which featured verses by rappers 50 Cent and Wiz Khalifa. The song is probably the best jam on Keef's debut album. It flows the best, definitely, and gains more footing and momentum. By Khalifa's verse, I was immersed in the song, and after hearing it maybe six times, attempted to sing what lyrics I understood. "Damn I hate bein' sober, I'm a smoker. Fredo a drinker, Tadoe off molly water. Cause we can't spell sober, Ballout roll up. When we roll up, bitches be on us," Keef breathlessly raps in the chorus. Again, only in America would you find a teen releasing rap songs about things he can't legally do.

Where is this going? Do I love Keef or hate him? Something needs to be said about an artist whose music is of pretty low-quality but you still return to his album and listen to it. Hell, I find myself often searching on Youtube his newest songs and then listening to them. Some I immediately write off as trash and never touch again, others I download and save for the right time. Take "Now It's Over" for example, the song he released after his prison sentence in Cook County, IL ended. "I keep a big bank roll, and some designer clothes. Last year I didn't have shit, well, now it's over. Keep me some hoes; a lot of hoes. Last year I cuffed that bitch, well, now it's over." The song perfectly articulates Keef's rise to fame and his encounter with money, regardless of the lyrical quality at hand. This is the song that made me deeply contemplate my feelings on Keef. Here is a teenager who grew up in Englewood, IL; for those ignorant to the Chicagoland area, that is one of the most dangerous neighborhoods in the state and quite possibly the nation. The gang activity is enormous, the establishments and businesses are almost uniformly dead, and unemployment there is more common than employment. It was the subject of Steve James' brilliant documentary The Interrupters, which focused on a group of devoted men and women of past gang affiliations that tried to stop urban violence in rough parts of Chicago.

Keef's Englewood roots should've already justified a broken youth, but somehow he now has enough money to acquire the entire town. He now resides in a huge mansion with his Rari's, Rovers, and diamond chains that "cost more than your house." Despite this fame, it's fair to say Keef hasn't lost touch with his reckless roots, continuously making headlines for being rowdy and often careless. I could say that's respectful in the sense that, while many celebrities forget their homelives and origins instantaneously after achieving fame, Keef has managed to remain true to his roots as a whole and embraced the newfound fame with a reckless sense of madness. On the other, I could condemn him for further glorifying and boasting gang violence, which cost the city of Chicago over five-hundred lives in the 2012 year. Keef's gang - Glory Boys Entertaiment (GBE, his record label) and "3hunna O'Block - are often given shoutouts in his rap music. "We the Glory Boys, we just hope ya know that we full of ig-nor-ance and we a bunch of shooters," he states in "Squad I Trust." 

From a culture standpoint, it is fair to say that Keef has acquainted us with a rising culture/epidemic that many of us wouldn't have heard about otherwise. Living in Chicago - even if it is the suburbs - it is sadly normative that we turn on a TV and hear something along the lines of, "we begin tonight with breaking news, "x" amount of people have been shot and killed in the "x" block of the "x" town in Chicago." In his song "First Day Out," Keef describes a day in his life, detailing him and his gang hanging out, what he does in his spare time, and even dually noting his love for alcohol and chemical reinforcement. Keef is different in the regard that rather than mope about how the gang life has been the result of many losses in his life, he embraces the impulsiveness and the unpredictability of the "business" side of it. Rather than release tracks about how we all need Jesus, we all need to get along, Keef romanticizes the idea of gangs and gang violence. I can't say it's correct, but I can say it's interesting and a different take on something that is widely talked about.

Keef's impact on Chicago can be argued positive and negative for the city as a whole. One could say he unites people in the sense that he details struggles had by many, regardless of gang ties (he has undoubtedly seen more than myself and we're about the same age in the same state). One could say his romanticization of danger, violence, drugs, and the objectification of women further us into a detached state. I'm, again, torn between admiration and disgust. Admiration for his subversiveness in his approach to his rap, even though the quality is very, very poor, but disgusted at his behavior all the more.

Backtracking a bit, a good word for Keef is detached. He's an ice-cold singer, often rapping in a nihilistic state detailing similar things with every song he releases. His perspective is often predictable, his views are rather shallow, and his lyrics become droning and robotic with excessive listening. But I'll be lying if I'm saying his work isn't addicting. I revisit many of his songs on a daily basis and I achieve some sort of satisfaction listening to him everytime. I've deeply contemplated reviewing Finally Rich in a very analytical state, but should I be applying such depth to an album that features the lines, "These broke-ass niggas need tune-ups. I'm a rich-ass nigga, hallelujah. Broke-niggas we see right through ya, sayin' Chief Sosa gettin' that mula?!" The answer is still being contemplated.