ne of the most familiar criticisms of reggae is that it all sounds the same. It’s an erroneous, lazy charge for numerous reasons, one of which is that “reggae” isn’t a catch-all phrase for Jamaican music, but a subset of the country’s modern musical heritage, one that developed prior to or following sounds such as mento, ska, rocksteady, dub, dancehall, and ragga. The idea that Jamaican music is monolithic likely arose because the only sound from the nation that most Americans are familiar with is roots reggae, popularized by Bob Marley and Peter Tosh in the 1970s and seized upon by groups such as the Police, the Clash, and others. In recent years, however, another form of Jamaican music has entered mainstream America’s consciousness: dancehall, which was brought to the fore by Shaggy, No Doubt, and others, and more recently by genuine Jamaican stars Sean Paul and Wayne Wonder. Ironically—now that people are less likely to dismiss the island’s music as monophonic—the backing tracks of the two crossover hits are literally the same. Both Sean Paul’s “Get Busy” (currently No. 1 on the Billboard top 100) and Wayne Wonder’s “No Letting Go” (in the top 20) are built upon identical foundations: Jamaican producer Steve “Lenky” Marsden’s infectious and relatively simple hand-clapping Diwali rhythm.


In the U.S., “Get Busy” and “No Letting Go” aren’t just the first dancehall breakthroughs—they are also its first riddim successes. As a result, they are among the latest in a line of songs and events that have blurred elements of the street and mainstream hip-hop, putting increased attention on freestyling, the battle, the mixtape, and, increasingly, the version—and ensuring that in hip-hop the streets breed stars the mainstream’s stars.


P. Diddy may laughably claim that he invented the remix, but to many American pop fans he may as well have. In the past couple of years Diddy and others helped not only popularize the remix, but redefine it. Whereas most dance or even rock remixes are characterized by the sonic deconstruction or manipulation of a track, U.S. hip-hop more often than not maintains the original rhythm and simply invites different MCs to add verses, just as Jamaica’s toasters and MCs did or are now doing. With mainstream hip-hop in the capable hands of a small group of inventive producers, it’s no wonder. There are certainly more artists lining up to work with Pharell Williams and Chad Hugo than there are fresh Neptunes rhythms, so why not for instance draft in another half-dozen MCs to add verses to the “Grindin’” rhythm?


And with instrumental versions of tracks—those favored by bootleggers—floating around, it’s easy for aspiring rappers to borrow their own Neptunes beat. Add your own verses and you have the start of your own mixtape/calling card. Lately, it’s not just the unknowns that are doing it, either. Following the Jay-Z/Nas throwdown and Eminem’s “8 Mile,” there is a renewed interest in battle rhymes and freestyling. Whether it’s Benzino trying to call out Em or 50 Cent name-dropping well, everyone, on “How to Rob an Industry Nigga,” there has been an increase in battles and disses in the past year. An Eminem/50 Cent/Busta Rhymes collaboration that targets Ja Rule and surfaced on New York radio and a DJ Green Lantern mixtape is now lodged in the top 60. And Jay-Z’s remix of a Panjabi MC track—included on his a disc of remixes and freestyles called the “S. Carter Collection” created as a bonus for those who buy his new, similarly titled Reeboks—is in the top 40. America’s wealthiest and best-known artists are willing to participate in what is at first glance an underground phenomenon because hip-hop culture demands that even after reaching superstardom, artists still need to maintain ties to their roots, to still prove themselves in arenas outside of charts.


More curious is that despite hip-hop’s popularity, the corporations still haven’t fully gotten their mitts on the stuff. Sure they’re making money from it, but they can’t seem to groom their own hitmakers. When hip-hop first hit the charts, it was through feather-light rhymes, heavy-handed samples, and cartoonish figures such as Vanilla Ice and MC Hammer. It’s generally believed that a genre is usually watered down as it becomes more popular and large companies gain a better grasp on how to package and sell the sound. But between increasingly culturally literate hip-hop fans and the willingness for the street’s top stars to court success, the opposite has occurred. The more popular hip-hop becomes the further away from co-option it seems to be. Despite any lack of connection to hip-hop’s front lines, fans in America’s suburbs and rural areas—the ones long assumed to fall the major label’s watered-down takes on cutting-edge sounds—can easily go online and find the bootleg CDs and mixtapes of versions or freestyles sold on the streets. Vanilla Ice may have fooled them once, but now any kid from the flyovers can tell you that Malibu’s Most Wanted is a phony.


Mixtape and freestyle culture helps tomorrow’s stars become known today—and they’re bred not in the boardroom, but in street or in da club. Shady Records and Dr. Dre helped 50 Cent, to be sure, but all they did was win a bidding war for a future king already crowned by Hot 97 and New York City and lauded on everything from Internet message boards to MTV.com. Freeway and Clipse were also well known before their albums were released, and it doesn’t take an astute cultural mind to guess that Roscoe P. Coldchain, Obie Trice, Lloyd Banks, and Joe Budden could become platinum sellers. Guest spots and working with top producers are a boost but these future hitmakers worked their way into those circles by winning the freestyles, the battles, by producing the best versions. Because both the labels and established artists with patronage streaks look to the streets for their stars, the underground doesn’t so much spin around as provide a direct pipeline to the Billboard charts.


Encouragingly, this process allows the cream to rise to the top. Mainstream hip-hop fans aren’t being told who their heroes should be—they’re mostly getting fresh, dynamic, and charismatic rappers, not corporate versions of former stars. A&R men don’t seem to have a grasp on how to create and package a hip-hop artist—and even if they did, there are too many watchdogs doing whatever is necessary to prevent this African-American jewel from cultural imperialism at the hand’s of the white business class. (Remember that despite Eminem’s breaking of the color barrier, he did it through the streets.)


Why mainstream hip-hop is succeeding while mainstream rock is failing may be down to these divides. Unlike rock, in hip-hop there is no hand wringing that accompanies a move from the underground to the top and limits the ambition of its most creative forces. There are no indie cultures of underachievement or suspicion—hip-hop fans encourage success rather than abandon their heroes if they attain it. And in mainstream hip-hop not only are talent and money not cordoned off from one another but, crucially, the money end doesn’t know how to breed its own talent. Let’s hope it stays that way.