FOUR years ago, DJ Ivory issued a challenge. He had long been a collector of rare American rap records, particularly those from the era commonly referred to as hip-hop's golden age - the late 1980's and early 90's. It "was a terrible year for music," he said, recalling 2001 in a phone interview from his home in Nottingham, England, "so I found myself revisiting a whole bunch of rare 12-inch singles I'd bought over the years that weren't getting any attention." He decided to compile his favorites on a mixtape, "Hear No Evil," which he released that same year with a twist - no track listing.
Aficionados viewed it as a challenge and scrambled to identify the songs. But some of them were so obscure that it took two years for anyone to name them all. In the interim, however, the buzz created by the mix helped jumpstart a movement, broadly called "random rap." Until then it had been a private affair, the preserve of a small group of D.J.'s, collectors and writers. But through mixtapes, articles and, in the past year, a proliferation of Web sites, random-rap acolytes have begun to create a parallel history of the genre in which artists who were shunned - or completely ignored - finally get attention.
Hip-hop has never been much for institutional memory: there is no museum devoted to this relatively young genre, and many early recordings, released on regional independents and in limited supply, are now all but impossible to locate. Others, relegated to warehouses for years, were simply ground to bits. Paradoxically, the first efforts at preservation arose in Britain and Japan, where collectors, working at greater distance and cost, were less likely to take rare records for granted. "People overseas have long appreciated what America finds disposable," says Jefferson Mao, who compiled Ego Trip's "Big Playback" (Rawkus), one of the first licensed compilations of rap obscurities.
Kohji (K-Prince) Maruyama, who has been a collector for 15 years, says that random rap, still fairly new on these shores, has experienced several waves of interest in Japan. "A lot of the old records went to Japan," he says. "Unlike here, they don't grind records over there, so they're still in circulation. And expensive."
After "Hear No Evil" started attracting attention, other D.J.'s began to issue their own random-rap mixtapes (which, despite the name, appear on CD's). In 2003, Maruyama teamed up with DJ Muro to release "The Golden Era of Hip-Hop" (11154 FM WKOD), which resurrected unheralded groups like the Freestyle Professors and New England Massive. Around the same time, 7L/Tall Matt of Boston released "We Drink Old Gold," which featured rare remixes of notable tracks by artists like 3rd Bass and Tim Dog. Last year Tony D, a producer from New Jersey, entered the field with two volumes of a series called "The Indy Years," and the electronic music pioneer DJ Shadow released his own mix, "Diminishing Treasures."In addition, a number of compilations built around a particular theme - like J-Zone's "Ig'nant," a collection of particularly lewd tracks; Edan's "Sound of the Funky Drummer," which explores variations on a common hip-hop sample; and the self-explanatory "Fast Rap" - have also become prevalent.
Unlike "Hear No Evil," these mixes identify all the songs and artists they include. That's good news for rookie collectors looking to learn more about the field. For DJ Ivory, who cites a long hip-hop tradition of one-upmanship (early D.J.'s like Afrika Bambaataa would soak the labels off their crucial pieces of vinyl so that a rival wouldn't be able to copy their ideas) doesn't think that's necessarily a good thing. "I don't like people trying to buy into hip-hop," he says.
To Freddy Fresh, however, who has been at it as long as Ivory has, the more attention random rap gets, the better. So he set out to write a collectors' guide, a complete catalog of all rap vinyl released from 1979 to 1989. "It bothered me that Beach Boys and Elvis collectors have a wealth of resources at their disposal, but we had nothing," Fresh says. Released last year, "The Rap Records," a self-published guide, is a vast compilation of might-have-beens and never-weres, overflowing with minutiae and scanned images of original pressing-plant markings, to help distinguish real articles from attempted forgeries. "Once the labels folded, there was no paper trail for a lot of these records," Fresh says. "If it didn't get documented properly, and quickly, it was going to disappear forever."
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