What is it about popular music that lends itself so readily to a culture of violence?
Parents have pondered that question since the mid-'50s, when teens rioted to the strains of "Rock Around the Clock." But this question has become especially pertinent in recent months.
In rap, fans have been shaken and critics disturbed by the drive-by shooting deaths of Tupac Shakur and Biggie Smalls, a.k.a. the Notorious B.I.G. In rock, parents have been so upset by the sexual content of Marilyn Manson's act that there have been attempts in several states to stop the group from performing - including a well-publicized effort on the part of Oklahoma Gov. Frank Keating. Popular music hasn't seemed this alarming in eons.
Nor has that aura of danger been detrimental to the artists' popularity. Last year, Manson's million-selling "Antichrist Superstar" entered the charts at No. 3, while Shakur's posthumous, double-platinum Makaveli album, "The Don Killuminati," debuted at No. 1. And industry insiders are already certain that the Notorious B.I.G.'s last album, "Life After Death," is guaranteed to top the charts after its release next week.
All of which leaves many observers wondering what on Earth is the appeal of such violent, repellent music. But as any teen-ager could tell them, the edgy, anti-social aspects of these acts is the attraction - and always has been.
"I don't know what it is within youths that propels rebellion against their parents," said producer Bill Stephney, president of the New York-based hip-hop label StepSun Entertainment. "Whatever it is psychologically that produces that rebellion probably pushes them toward rebellious music.
"But rebellion is relative to the larger society," he added. "If even 'Dancing in the Streets' had a tone of anarchy to it, relative to its day, then relative to a very violent society, the music of Biggie or Tupac or some of the other artists today has to rise above just ordinary violence to be extreme." For decades, young people have been drawn to music that is harder and louder, more aggressive and in-your-face than what their parents (or even their older siblings) listened to. For instance, when Detroit rock legend the MC5 was developing its sound in the mid-'60s, its members wanted to make music with such rhythmic drive that the Motown sound paled in comparison.
"The Motown stuff was a little tame for me," MC5 guitarist Wayne Kramer told author Fred Goodman in the book "Mansion on the Hill." "We started working on this concept of drive - the music had forward power. I think it came from the kind of adrenaline you have when you're 16 or 17, when your hormones are pumping so fast that you're almost insane," Kramer said.
Although hormonal changes remain the same, today's teens have far different social concerns than those of previous generations. "Part of the problem is that this generation, across the board and irrespective of race, doesn't have parents," said Stephney. "It has the adults that biologically produced them, who are around somewhere, but the reason some of these messages and images are so extreme is because these kids are growing up in a vacuum, in their own moral environment, with their own values - twisted and skewed, and much of it because they're self-created.
"If the music is violent, truly it is a reflection of what is going on," he said.
"The barbaric violence that was prevalent in 'Braveheart' still exists today," said rapper Chuck D, from his home in Atlanta. "Society is still run by this concept of, 'If you can't get what you want, kill 'til you get it.' And I think it trickles down to kids, to what they think is exciting, as opposed to what they think is corny and boring and too regular.
"In this society, violence gets projected, whereas normal, day-to-day living gets downplayed. When a murder happens, that's front-page news. When something positive happens in the community, it's tucked on Page 38," he said.
That's very much the case with coverage of hip-hop. Gangsta rap gets loads of attention from the mainstream media - even though it represents just a small portion of a billion-dollar business - because the shootings of Shakur and Small and the thuggery of Death Row Records chief Suge Knight make good copy.
These days, even those who never listen to rap hear about the "war" between East Coast and West Coast rap contingents. But apart from a few rap-oriented magazines, there's been almost no coverage of those rappers who have called for unity within the community and an end to this sectarian violence.
"I've been saying for the longest time there's no such thing as an East Coast/West Coast thing," said Chuck D. "You have a couple of artists from L.A., and a couple of artists from New York - do you signify a whole coast? People have to be careful when attaching a term to anything, and calling this a conflict is concocting something out of thin air.
"And when you have this kind of a fantasy escalating, and people's reality is not in place, anyone is allowed into the fray," he said.
That has changed quite a bit about the way the culture operates. When the music was still in its formative stages, MCs built their reputations through verbal combat, belittling the competition while showing off their own rhyming skills. Veteran rappers shy away from such fights. "The MC battling thing is definitely dead now," said Phife, from the rap group A Tribe Called Quest, a few months ago.
"Because if a brother can't take constructive criticism, then how do you think he's going to take a (loss) in the battle? I'm not trying to be killed over no rhyme. I'll be damned if I die over some hip hop, you know what I'm saying?"
Phife (left), a member of A Tribe Called Quest, speaks on the state of rap music.