From The Source’s legendary “Unsigned Hype” column to the hundreds of rap blogs that litter the internets, hip-hop culture has always raced to declare who got next. It’s a fervent debate that permeates basketball courts, barbershops and record-filled basements–who’s nicer than who, who deserves what, who’s dropping when and what it’s going to mean for everyone else. Rap mag XXL has capitalized on this perpetual controversy with its “Freshman Class” series: an annual cover story that features ten or so MCs dubbed to be the most promising amongst the plethora of new acts vying for airtime and attention spans. This past Monday evening, leaked photos of the 2011 Freshman Class hit the ‘net, prompting XXL to officially release the upcoming cover and spark a firestorm of debate about their latest picks. Couple this with the brow-raising pick for Best New Artist at this year’s Grammy Awards, and contention seems higher than ever about who deserves to be called the next big thing. But for all the tweets, tallies and tantrums, it seems like the one thing the public can’t agree on isn’t who the best new artists are, but what exactly it means to be “new” in today’s music climate. And if that can even be defined, how then can we hope to define criteria for “best”? As patterns for music consumption and artists’ lifespans shift immensely, the concept of a “new artist” has taken on unprecedented fluidity, and it’s becoming apparent that discovering the next may not be as important as understanding the now.

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There are few topics more consistently represented in popular music than love. We ache for a good love song–they narrate our relationships, articulate the feelings we cannot, and crystalize memories we never want to forget. Historically, the love song has been simple, almost formulaic, either celebrating a love just found or grieving over a love long lost. Songwriters made millions by constantly finding new ways to say “I love you” or “I miss you.” After a few smash hits, however, hip-hop turned the love song formula on its head, introducing new ideas about what was fair in love and rap. Comparing two of hip-hop’s definitive love songs, LL Cool J’s “I Need Love” and Biz Markie’s “Just A Friend,” highlights why the genre’s takes on matters of the heart have been so distinct, popular, and memorable.

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It was a little weird when Apple released their onslaught of cryptic press over finally landing the rights to all of the Beatles’ music. They may have, in fact, created too much hype, as the advertisements suggested that Steve Jobs was set to announce that he had signed Lebron James, legalized marijuana, or done both. Many fans had the same reaction once the news was revealed: Doesn’t Best Buy have the White Album already? Don’t I have the White Album already?

What Apple was trying to access, however, were the deep nostalgic recesses of their older customer’s minds. They didn’t care about the seventeen year old who hasn’t paid for a song since 2002- they were reaching out to his parents, specifically the ones who screamed and cried and dated Japanese girls and altered their entire outlook on life because of four lads from Liverpool.  Beatlemania seems to be something so unique and powerful that no one in his twenties or thirties should really try to describe it. It seems, though, like the closest thing our culture has to the orgasm-aneurism hybrid that the band consistently produced is the way someone reacts today when their soul has been saved in front of a congregation of hundreds.

To Jobs and company, tapping into that religious devotion meant huge numbers on iTunes. In the opening week, they sold almost half a million albums and over two million individual tracks.  Some customers were undoubtedly first-timers, but it’s likely that the strength of those huge figures came largely from die-hard fans that ached to have a new experience with their old idols, even if it meant buying additional copies of music they’d already memorized the words to.

It was another brilliant move by the company that stays winning, but one person has actually harnessed collective nostalgia on an even larger scale. Ironically, his name is Brandon McCartney. Most of us know him as Lil B. Read the rest of this entry →