LJ Talks to Nik Cohn

David Valencia, King County Library System, Seattle -- Library Journal, 1/24/2006

At only 22 years of age in 1968, Nik Cohn wrote Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom, a book as notable for its subject—it was one of the first chronicles of rock'n'roll—as its subjectivity and irreverent prose. Nearly 40 years later, we find the intrepid scribe a hip-hop producer of New Orleans talent, an adventure he captured in his recent love letter to the Big Easy's rap scene, Triksta.

You've written in detail about some of the great pop music cities of the West, London, New York, etc; what is it that defines New Orleans for you as a cultural capital?

NC: The essence of New Orleans as a musical city is its "roux"—the depth and range of ingredients that went into making it. African, Caribbean, and Hispanic influences are intermingled, Mardi Gras Indian chants, brass bands, jazz, funk, and much else. It was this great stew of sounds that drew me to the city in the first place, along with its beauty, its seductiveness, and the sense of life being lived to extremes. The magic has never faded.

Generally speaking what do you think of popular music as a cultural force now as opposed to the Sixties, Seventies, Eighties, and so on?

NC: Popular music always reflects its time. This is a time of marketing, above all, and its pop music is essentially product, as opposed to individual expression. This is just as true of supposed "indie" bands as it is of American Idol winners. As much as 90 percent of hip-hop is equally robotic. But it would also be a mistake to think of the Sixties or Seventies as pure—the music business was just as rapacious back then, just not as sophisticated or industrialized in its selling techniques.

You've had what by all accounts can be considered a legendary career as a music writer. Are there any writers or books that have had a major impact on you and your work?

NC: The only direct influence I'm conscious of is Jelly Roll Morton's spoken memoir Mister Jelly Roll, which I read as a teenager. Reviewers have often commented on the musical cadence of my style; this comes from Morton, I think. He spoke his life story over piano chords, close to song at times, and I have always written in rhythm. Sometimes I'll switch beats or throw in a discord to keep things fresh, but I never lose sight of the underlying pulse.

In reading Triksta, I take it that you endured a tremendous amount of false hopes, dead ends, and pure aggravation in your stint as a would-be producer within the New Orleans hip-hop world. What made you persevere?

NC: I'm just stubborn. Making music, like any other communal activity, always tends to be more struggle than plain sailing. Aggravation comes with the turf. What kept me going, and far outweighed all negatives, was the rare moment when everything meshed. I love bounce, and I love hip-hop, and I knew I was lucky, at my age, to be involved with New Orleans rappers. They weren't always easy, but I didn't want easy. At root, I wanted to learn, which I did.

Many readers of Library Journal will be visiting New Orleans this year for the annual American Library Association conference in June. Have you returned since Katrina, and what did you find?

NC: I was there last month. The city is still devastated. The tourist areas were not so severely damaged and have been tidied up, so the casual visitor, judging by the French Quarter and the Garden District, might think that everything's back to normal. On the other hand, the African American areas that occupy most of the city are still without power or water. There seems to be an effort to turn New Orleans into a boutique city and drive out its black majority. Certainly, it's hard to imagine the street life returning to its old vibrancy, even though that's what has always given New Orleans its cultural uniqueness. I suspect a Creole Disneyland is in the works.

What are your thoughts on the future of New Orleans rap and New Orleans cultural life in general?

NC: Unless the black neighborhoods are restored, there can be no real future for rap in New Orleans. The authorities seem bent on portraying all young black males as looters and gangstas. This is nonsense, as my book makes clear. The city can have no genuine life without its youth. If the Mardi Gras Indian tribes and second-line parades are reduced to tourist attractions, as seems to be the plan, everything that has made the city so alive and ever-evolving will wither. Even those who dislike rap should understand that it's the music of the streets today. Banish it, and New Orleans becomes a museum.

Have you had any contact with the artists and personalities so vividly described in Triksta, such as Choppa, Junie B, Earl Mackie, and Supa Dave, since the book went to print? How are they doing?

NC: I'm in contact with the great majority of people in the book, except those I'd already parted ways with pre-Katrina. They all survived the hurricane but lost everything: homes, jobs, possessions. They are scattered around the South, some in Houston, some in Atlanta, and others in Dallas, San Antonio, and Florida. Only Seventh Ward Snoop and Wild Wayne are back in New Orleans. Most of the others want to return but, as I've explained, they're being kept out.

What's next for Nik Cohn?

NC: I'm still involved in hip-hop. I want to record an album of post-Katrina raps in New Orleans, as soon as I can find a dry studio and bring the scattered talents together. I'm also making a documentary film about the "ethnic cleansing" of New Orleans, addressing the issues I've talked about above. On the writing front, I'm working on a book about the first summer I spent in London, aged 16. The title is Dirty Pictures.