Last Saturday, a number of Daily Cardinal-associated folk met up for a vaguely "Mad Men"-themed classy Christmas party. While I was pre-gaming in my blue-suit-and-skinny-tie combo, a friend observed that I had been acting remarkably somber in light of Russell Wilson and Co.'s epic late-breaking beat-down of Michigan State earlier that evening. He suggested that I needed to get out of character and act more like my goofy, excitable self.
Since my introduction to "Mad Men" six months ago, I have found myself continually entrenched in an ideological sparring match with the series' avatar of unrestrained masculinity, Don Draper. The character appeals to the same power-fantastical middle-American urge that got the kids hot for Sean Connery's chauvinistic antics in roughly the same time period that paradoxically saw perhaps the most notable confluence of bra-burnings in history.
Fans of the show adore Draper. Even more than the show's slick aesthetic or the sometimes-subtle social commentary layered throughout, Draper defines "Mad Men" and ensures its continued popularity. His extraordinarily stoic assuredness and sensitive intelligence attract, even as his brash, selfish disregard for his wife's and coworkers' emotions shocks the conscience. Draper seems less a fully developed human being than a hyperbolic distillation of an archetype with a primal subconscious intensity.
Draper exemplifies unreachable freedom, insatiable appetites fulfilled. He disappears for weeks. He seduces women with remarkable style and callous indifference. All the while, he remains sympathetic because of his artistic capability and his remarkable adherence to an unconventional but readily apparent sense of integrity. Draper, despite his destructive passions, respects the women he isn't bedding and is capable of isolated incidents of uncommon compassion.
I find that my conflicted objections and simultaneous, sincere attraction to Draper run parallel to my feelings concerning of a number of hip-hop stars. Something intrinsic or extrinsic about convincingly spitting rough-hewn poetry over samples and beats seems to entail a persona like Draper's. Hip-hop stars require an extreme verbal intelligence and seemingly an ungodly pocketful of swaggering, misogynistic bravado. Until recently, one could count on any particular rap career living or dying by the success of an intangible, shamanistic mass trance cast by an invariably Draperian persona.
On Nov. 15, R&B superstar Drake released his second effort Take Care, while newcomer Childish Gambino (aka Donald Glover) released Camp. On its surface, Drake and Glover's coinciding release date could be construed as a sea of change in modern hip-hop's landscape, a coincidental aligning of the stars not implausibly signaling a new era of rap stardom. The similarities between Drake and Glover cannot be ignored. The two rappers share backgrounds as actors.
More notably, both have reputations as best-selling hip-hop idols who white kids relate to. Although he rarely calls attention to the fact, the young man born Aubrey Drake Graham was raised by his white Jewish mother in an affluent Toronto suburb. His sing-songy lyrics exclusively engage with subjects as familiar to white-washed people than to the average black person, Jay and Ye's post-modern royal court precluded.
Throughout Take Care, Drake copes with the dehumanization of celebrity, a pattern of estrangement from old flames, and overabundance of unchallenging sexual conquest. On the album's very first track, he half-heartedly grumbles/boasts about his six-figure tax load. (Such are the burdens of the Canadian nation's free health care.)
Glover, on the other hand, relentlessly struggles with his racial identity, especially on Camp. Glover re-appropriates the term "Oreo" on the record half a dozen times. Throughout, he lashes out at the bloggers and childhood bullies who used to claim that he wasn't black or tough enough to succeed as a rapper. His insecurity contrasts sharply with Drake's cool, soul-searching confidence.
On the uncommonly restrained first verse of "All the Shine," Glover lays down his M.O. "What's the point of rapping if you can't be yourself? ... I know it's lame, that's the reason I'm doing it. / So why does everyone have a problem with rapping stupid shit? ‘Cause sometimes that stupid shit is real shit." Glover values authenticity over Draperian super-poise. Arguably, Glover has staked out the braver position in the fast-approaching war for hip-hop's soul.
And yet, as I compare Drake's stoic minimalism and Glover's admirably enthusiastic overreach, I can't help but be more greatly allured by Take Care's stronger and sexier texture. Like it or not, Drake exudes relaxation and an otherworldly charismatic self-assurance. He struggles for honest integrity but remains ruled by his lust for women and all that glitters gold.
To my ears, he sounds a lot like Don Draper. In a swirl of drunken half-consciousness stuck between two ear buds, Drake might sound like the lady-killing embodiment of confidence, a force one could capture and harness given the right mixture. Last Saturday, I wore a blue suit and a skinny tie. I'll leave the evening's details to your imagination.
Interested in the gritty details? E-mail Alex at seraphin@wisc.edu.
