I can’t pinpoint the exact moment “The Power” by Snap! first blasted into my ears. Was it the car radio, a music video flickering at a friend’s house, or maybe the ubiquitous mall speakers? All that remains is the vivid memory of being completely arrested by that electrifying beat, the unforgettable hook, and those commanding raps. From the instant vocalist Penny Ford declared, “I’ve got the power!”, I was utterly captivated.
In 1990, the year Snap! unleashed their debut album, World Power, I was navigating the awkward terrain of seventh grade at Talmadge Middle School in Independence, Oregon. Picture a semi-rural landscape where the quiet of farmland abruptly yields to cookie-cutter streets lined with ranch-style houses. My recollections of that era are a montage of teenage trivialities: furtively chewing gum in class, awkward Friday night dances at the Elks Club soundtracked by college DJs spinning daring tracks like Bell Biv Devoe’s “Do Me”, and the constant, low-grade anxiety of dodging the popular girls and their relentless teasing.
Musically, I was already charting a different course from many classmates, largely thanks to my older sister, whose taste leaned towards the raw energy of Hüsker Dü rather than the saccharine harmonies of Wilson Phillips. Being labeled “different” didn’t particularly bother me. Yet, even as I asserted my individuality by blasting my Dead Milkmen/Ramones mixtape on my Walkman during the school bus ride, I wasn’t impervious to the siren call of certain radio hits.
Before “The Power” seized my attention, I’d been momentarily swayed by the catchy rhythms of Bell Biv Devoe, the showmanship of MC Hammer, and even the novelty of Vanilla Ice. But Snap! possessed an undeniable magnetism that propelled me to the record store, allowance money clutched in hand. Nine dollars secured an eight-song cassette, a purchase unequivocally worth every penny. Not because tracks like “Blase Blase,” “Oops Upside Your Head,” or “I’m Gonna Get You (To Whom It May Concern)” were groundbreaking masterpieces, but because this album, surprisingly, acted as the portal through which I stepped into the vibrant and expansive universe of hip-hop.
The raps embedded within World Power were the first I ever consciously committed to memory, a feat that continues to reward me today. Even now, decades later, I find myself reciting lines from “Blase Blase”: “If you wonder wonder wonder who I be / I’m the superdopeincredible Turbo B / Licking the lyrics skillfully, like a champ / Grab the microphone, and all the suckers are breaking camp.” The satisfaction of keeping pace with Durron “Turbo B” Butler’s rapid-fire delivery was a completely different sensation than belting out Beatles or R.E.M. lyrics. And those beats? Utterly addictive. “The Power” instantly became my new dance floor obsession, dethroning Technotronic’s “Pump up the Jam” and eclipsing “U Can’t Touch This” in my personal charts. It was while mouthing Turbo B’s boastful rhymes that words like “sucker,” “posse,” and “jam” shed their mundane meanings and acquired a whole new, streetwise significance. I was hooked, line and sinker.
As fate would have it, my burgeoning Snap! infatuation was momentarily sidelined by a fleeting, static-ridden glimpse of A Tribe Called Quest’s “Can I Kick It?” video during a late-night MTV session at my best friend’s place. A Tribe Called Quest was just a name to me then, and the Lou Reed “Walk on the Wild Side” sample was completely lost on my uninitiated ears. All I registered was another immediate, visceral hook. Weeks later, that same friend gifted me ATCQ’s Low End Theory for Christmas, and the die was cast.
Externally, my newfound hip-hop allegiance didn’t trigger any dramatic transformations. No Africa medallion appeared around my neck, no Cross Colours found their way into my wardrobe. Frankly, I doubt I could have even sourced such items at the local mall. Beyond a handful of kids tentatively sporting Starter jackets and baggy jeans, hip-hop fashion hadn’t yet permeated rural Oregon’s junior high scene. Stylistically, I remained on the path paved by my sister and her cohort: Doc Martens, dyed hair, ripped jeans, and striped tights. But internally, a profound shift had occurred. My exploration of hip-hop intensified, leading me down increasingly fascinating and unexpected sonic paths.
Discovering New Hip-Hop Sounds
High school brought further musical revelations. A pale, intellectual classmate from Alabama, whose vices were confined to coffee, cigarettes, and political discourse, introduced me to Dr. Dre’s The Chronic, initiating me into the world of gangsta rap. He dubbed it his “war music,” an essential soundtrack for marathon sessions of Diplomacy, a board game akin to Risk, but exponentially nerdier and requiring hours upon hours to complete.
College marked another pivotal moment: meeting my future husband through a shared passion for the Beastie Boys’ Paul’s Boutique. We connected instantly, rapping along word-for-word at a party. His courtship unfolded through Post-It notes affixed to my dorm room door, each bearing obscure Beastie Boys quotes, like the unforgettable: “I saw you at the checkout line / You dropped your coupons, and you were looking fine.”
My sole visit to the legendary Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe resulted in an unexpected prize – a free Heineken. I successfully met the host’s challenge: identify the famous rapper son of the next performer. The Trinidadian poet, hailing from Queens, delivered a powerful piece about her diminutive son and their shared struggle with diabetes. The answer struck me immediately: Phife Dawg from A Tribe Called Quest, the lyrical genius behind lines like “I’m all that and then some / Short, dark and handsome” and “When’s the last time you heard a funky diabetic?”.
Hip-Hop’s Enduring Influence
Throughout this ongoing musical evolution, my personal style and broader musical taste continued to diversify. In high school, Ice Cube, Public Enemy, and the Fu-Schnickens shared car stereo rotation with The Cure, Ella Fitzgerald, The Clash, Tom Waits, The Specials, and Nirvana. College expanded my horizons further, introducing me to Elliott Smith, Sebadoh, and Fugazi, alongside the experimental sounds of Dr. Octagon, the raw energy of Wu-Tang Clan, and the playful rhymes of The Pharcyde.
Even now, people often express surprise when they learn about my deep-seated love for hip-hop. Apparently, a 29-year-old, white, small-town newspaper editor with a penchant for 1960s vintage clothing, gardening, and knitting isn’t the stereotypical hip-hop aficionado. But embracing only what’s expected of us would be utterly devoid of excitement.
Loving hip-hop for its intrinsic artistic merit, without feeling compelled to alter my lifestyle to validate that love, reinforces my fundamental belief: music, in all its forms, is universally accessible. It has taught me that the essence of music transcends stylistic boundaries, cultural norms, and all the superficial trappings that may accompany it. And for this profound realization, I owe a debt of gratitude to a somewhat cheesy, yet undeniably infectious, dance track crafted by a pair of German producers – the song that declared “I got the power!” and changed my musical trajectory forever.
