Dayvon Daquan Bennett, known to the world as King Von, was born on August 9 in 1994. People describe the rising Hip Hop star as being a soft-spoken, yet smooth talker, and very charismatic.
His song “Crazy Story” is his biggest hit, and his debut studio album, Welcome to O’Block. Critics praised the 26-year-old up-and-coming rapper for his raw and creative storytelling. Fans appreciated his authentic lyrics.
Yet, despite his talent and potential, his claim to fame was his criminal background. His criminal exploits as a Black Disciple, the same gang that brought us, Chief Keef and Lil Durk, made him an infamous figure in the Chicago drill scene. He just beat a murder charge in 2017, after spending three years in prison. Most of all, he’s notorious for bragging about his criminal exploits on social media and in his music. And, unlike most rappers, he continued to be about that life, even as he became a hip hop star. His gang-banging only added to his allure.
His passing sent shocks throughout the hip hop world. This closely followed FBG Duck’s passing a few weeks prior. The outpouring of support was real. But what about the fans who celebrated Von’s “authenticity”, who dubbed him a real Chiraq savage? Where are they now? Some sent condolences. Others threw their hands up, saying: “if you live by the sword, you die by the sword.” Some tweeted #fuckquando. Von’s death became a media spectacle. After a while, it’s no longer about Von’s death, but the media spectacle behind it.
Death, unfortunately, has been a frequent cameo in hip hop. But it isn’t the 1990s anymore. Hip hop is one of the most popular genres of the world, generating millions of dollars every year. Despite all this, death and self-destruction are as normalized now than it has ever been. Every year there is a new roster of rappers who have met their maker way too soon. Most of the time, their deaths were avoidable, an inevitable conclusion to all that transpired before it. These artists destroy themselves in broad daylight as we pick up our popcorn and watch.
It’s become a sad, predictable cycle; a young rapper, with so much more to give and life to live, leaves us too soon. An avalanche of support floods online. The artists’ streams shoot up. 258%. 392%. 487%. 970%. 9000% Labels rush to put out a posthumous album. The album is adored and beloved by fans and non-fans alike. Music execs pocket the extra bread. Their names trend on social media. Then it’s on to the next one.
Why Hip Hop stars pass away
When a rapper dies, it’s easy to blame the usual suspects. First off, there are the music labels: for not doing more to protect their artists. Fans love to scapegoat families, friends, exes, and security guards. Why didn’t anyone check on him? They were supposed to protect him. No one told him to put the drugs down?
You can blame society at large; some blame the artist themselves. Yet, no one stops to ask whether we, as hip hop fans, as the consumer, have any role in this?
Labels profit off of death because it sells. Rappers partake in drug abuse, petty beef, and criminal behavior, partly because it sells to do so. A charge is the easiest way to get free publicity in hip hop. And we, as consumers of celebrity culture, eat it all up.
We follow the drama, no matter how destructive it is. We give it our attention, energy, clicks, and mentions. For many, the dysfunction makes these artists more fascinating, and even endearing. The artists are rewarded for surrounding themselves in dark energy. When the inevitable happens, one question we seldom ask is: are we complicit?
The Tortured Artist trope
That’s not to say hip hop fans are the only people who love tortured artists. According to psychologist Elaine Aaron, the tortured artist trope is “a trap … laid by those with mundane lives who allow no time for the [tortured] artist within.” Fans “want someone else to … display all the craziness they repress in themselves.” (The Highly Sensitive Person, pg 125)
Hip hop fans love dysfunctional rappers because they reflect a part of ourselves that we repress. We project our troubles onto them. We fall in love with their flaws since we have flaws ourselves. We romanticize the tortured artist. In hip hop, this goes even further. Currently, the majority of hip hop fans are white suburbanites. Yet the fascination with gang-banging by those sheltered from it has only intensified. Hip hop romanticizes Black death.
This dynamic is even more disturbing once you consider that most hip hop fans are white suburbanites, far removed from the struggle these rappers face.
Hip hop, more than other genres, requires the rapper to tell the story of their lives. They get to weave their tale of struggle, talk about their past, examine their demons, and expose flaws without being shamed by polite society. For many artists, music is their only outlet.
We relate to these powerful personal narratives in different degrees. Some have direct experiences that line up. Others grew up in similar environments. Many relate to the feeling of having the world against you, or of struggle that permeates hip hop lore.
Most of all, we relate to their flaws. We all have issues and self-destructive tendencies that we desperately try to hide from the world. Sometimes, these demons overwhelm us, sending us to the bottom of the abyss. It’s a dark and lonely place. Music helps us to process and cycle through these emotions. If we cannot share those vulnerable moments with others, we share them with our favorite artists. Knowing someone out there, at the bottom of the abyss, makes you feel less lonely. So we gravitate towards artists spiraling down.
Rappers, by the very nature of the genre, get to narrate the story of their lives from their perspective. We get to hear them talk about their life experiences, their fears, worries, challenges, struggles, and darkest fears. In their own words. In a society where such open expression is disallowed, especially for Black men, music gives both the listener and artist an outlet. The relationship formed is special.
Artists cling to our attention both for revenue and validation; we cling to their story and image. The relationship between a rapper and their fans can be intimate and beautiful. It can also be toxic.
Because for the whole thing to work, the rapper always has to struggle. There’s no room for the artist to overcome, grow, and heal. No struggle, no story.
The more tortured, the better.
The truth is, we as rap fans can be selfish. We like seeing our favorite artists duel and dance with the devil. We like seeing them win battles but never win the war. If the war is over, and then the show is over. If they stop spiraling downwards, there is no one there to be with us at the bottom of the abyss.
The worst of hip hop fandom: fans are quick to excuse their faves’ latest fuck up, even if they harm others. This defense doesn’t come from genuine care for the artist’s wellbeing. Rather, we refuse to reject these artists because if we do so, it feels like we are rejecting parts of ourselves.
We may tweet #freexyz when they get caught up, but it was the dysfunction that drew us in. It’s just part of the show.
The audience turns these artists into tragic heroes for our consumption. Their death is the final act; the emotional outpouring afterward is the catharsis. Musicians reach the saint-like status after they pass away. It is almost as if their death is being celebrated.
Fans eat up a rapper’s music after they pass. They talk about how the lyrics hit harder. The words are more powerful. Otherwise innocuous melodies carry more emotional weight. The experience of listening to their music becomes much more vigorous.
It’s almost as if the artist died for our entertainment, to satisfy our insatiable need for catharsis.
Closing
Let’s compare King Von to another Chicago rapper: Chance the Rapper. Acid rap is one of my favorite mixtapes of all time. On the record, Chance was an artsy stoner who popped tabs like Advil. His zany, soul-inflected raps about the challenges of growing up and being an outsider struck a chord with me. His music felt both cutting-edge and very relatable. I was so excited to see where he’d go from there.
Since then, he’s become the poster boy for corny rappers in hip hop. The progression was slow. First, he distanced himself from his psychedelic laced image; then he cultivated a wider, more mainstream fanbase. After that, he cleaned up his subject matter, found Jesus, gave up drugs for good, and boom! We get the Big Day.
Like most hip hop fans, I despised the album. But as an early Chance fan, this disappointment was much more visceral. I felt like he abandoned a lot of what made him special in the first place, and that he was wasting his talent rapping about … loving his wife.
But it’s not about me. Though I miss “the old Chance”, he grew. He found his inner peace. He is sober, successful, happily married, and getting paid millions to do what he loves to do. What is there to hate?
Would I rather he reach his full artistic potential at the expense of his happiness? His life?
Maybe I have some growing to do. Maybe we all do.
Rest in power, King Von.
fin
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