Here’s the part people keep skipping over when they ask if hip-hop is falling apart:

It’s not the music that collapsed — it’s the middle.

Hip-hop isn’t struggling because the talent dried up. It’s struggling because fans helped evict the middle-class rapper. The ones who weren’t superstars, but weren’t struggling either. The ones who made careers, not moments.

Cultures don’t usually collapse from the top or the bottom. They weaken when the middle disappears. When there’s no space to be solid, dependable, and improving. When everything becomes either a breakout or a bust, viral or invisible. That’s when the real problems start.

In baseball, you don’t get tossed straight into the big leagues because someone likes your swing. You work your way up. Rookie ball. Single-A. Double-A. You struggle in front of half-empty stands. You learn what doesn’t work before it costs you a season. The farm system exists because development matters more than hype.

Hip-hop used to work the same way.

The blog era was the minors (The Cool Kids "Delivery Man"). Mixtapes were reps. Small tours were road games (Mac Miller - Incredibly Dope Tour). Features were call-ups (Drake x Jay-z "Light Up". You didn’t need to dominate immediately, you needed to improve. That system made room for artists to grow in public without being crushed by expectations.

That’s how artists like Curren$y and Big K.R.I.T. built real careers. Not because they were unavoidable, but because they were reliable. They didn’t need everyone. They needed their people. And that was enough.

Now we skip development entirely.

An artist like JID releases an album, and instead of discussing the music, the conversation immediately turns to sales. First-week numbers. Streaming projections. Everybody suddenly sounds like a front office exec instead of a fan.

That’s the shift.

We stopped asking if the bars are getting better and started asking if the numbers are big enough. And once fans start thinking like accountants, the middle class doesn’t stand a chance.

It’s cool if you sell a million. I just want to know what those bars sound like once the numbers stop talking.

Baseball understands something hip-hop forgot: you don’t rush growth (Hey, José Bautista). You earn it. When you eliminate the minors, you don’t get more stars; you get more flameouts.

The blog era gave hip-hop a farm system.
Streaming took it away.

And until there’s room again for artists to develop before they’re judged, we’ll keep mistaking exposure for readiness and wondering why so many careers end before they ever really begin.

If you want a real example of why hip-hop used to need a middle class, look at J. Cole’s climb.

Not the mythology. The work.

Early Cole could rap. That part was never in question. You could hear the pen immediately — the introspection, the hunger, the intelligence. But making songs? That took time. A lot of it.

Those first projects were uneven. Some records hit emotionally but didn’t move. Some hooks felt forced. Some concepts were heavy-handed, like he was trying to prove he belonged in the room instead of letting the room catch up to him. You heard talent, but you also heard someone still learning pacing, still learning how to let a record breathe.

And that’s normal. Or at least, it used to be.

Cole didn’t come in with a guaranteed hit. He struggled to find one. He chased radio a little. He overthought things. He missed. But here’s the key: he was allowed to miss without being erased. The culture didn’t treat those early swings as a verdict. They were part of the climb.

You could hear the star power before you could point to the star moment.

That’s what the middle class provided — time. Time to tour small rooms and figure out what worked live. Time to hear which songs people leaned into and which ones fell flat. Time to sharpen instincts instead of reacting to numbers.

What makes Vince Staples different isn’t just how he came up. It’s that he never felt the need to leave the middle once he got there.

Vince had chances to chase bigger moments. He could’ve softened the edges. He could’ve leaned into radio formulas, social theatrics, or constant visibility. He didn’t. Not because he couldn’t, but because he didn’t want to. The middle gave him control. It let him make the exact records he wanted, say what he wanted to say, and disappear when he felt like it.

That’s the part people misunderstand. Staying in the middle isn’t settling. It’s opting out.

Vince doesn’t move like someone chasing validation. He moves like someone protecting autonomy. Short albums. No filler. Minimal rollout. Long gaps. When he talks, it’s on his terms. When he drops, it’s because he has something to say, not because the calendar says it’s time.

In today’s system, that choice gets misread as underperformance. But it’s actually clarity.

Vince Staples didn’t get stuck in the middle.
He chose it.

And that choice, the ability to define success for yourself,  is exactly what disappears when a culture only recognizes the extremes.

What J. Cole and Vince Staples really show is that the middle wasn’t a phase — it was a framework.

Two different paths. Same system.

That’s the space JID is in right now — and the worst thing we can do is rush him out of it.

Not every artist needs to be crowned. Not every album needs to be graded like a quarterly report. Some careers need time to thicken. Some voices need space to settle. The middle is where that happens.

If JID ends up like Cole, great.         
If he ends up like Vince, that’s great too.

But either way, he deserves the same grace they got.

Because when a culture forgets how to let artists grow, it doesn’t get better music,  it just gets louder opinions and shorter careers.

And we’ve already seen how that story ends.

 The world has to be loud for monks to leave the temple. 

That alone should have stopped people from reaching for their phones.

Monks don’t just wander into the street because the weather’s nice or because they want attention. Their entire way of life is built on retreat, discipline, silence, and separation from the noise we all pretend we’re above but can’t seem to unplug from. So when they show up in public, walking slowly, quietly, and deliberately. It’s not a performance. It’s a signal.

And the signal is simple: something is wrong.

Instead of treating that moment with the weight it deserved, too many people treated it like a parade. Phones up. Videos rolling. Narration layered on top of silence. Folks trying to capture the moment instead of actually being in it.

That’s the part that misses the point.

Monks don’t walk for peace to be documented. They walk because silence alone isn’t working anymore. When people who have dedicated their lives to stillness feel the need to physically step into chaos, that’s not content; that’s a warning.

But we live in a time where everything gets flattened. Everything becomes something to post. Even reverence gets turned into engagement. Especially reverence.

We’ve trained ourselves to believe that if we didn’t record it, it didn’t happen. That if we didn’t share it, it didn’t matter. So when something shows up that’s meant to slow us down, we do the exact opposite: we speed it up, package it, and move on.

That’s not awareness. That’s consumption.

The walk wasn’t for us to watch. It wasn’t activism-as-entertainment. It wasn’t a vibe. It wasn’t a moment to prove you were there. The monks weren’t asking for likes, shares, or captions. They were asking people to pay attention to the world, to each other, to how broken things have become, that this is what it takes to get noticed.

Silence was the message. We talked over it.

And let’s be honest: the fact that monks walking peacefully through the streets feels unusual should bother us more than it does. That should register as an indictment. Because when spiritual leaders, people who typically stay out of the mess, feel compelled to step outside, it means the usual systems have failed. Political systems. Moral systems. Cultural systems.

It means the noise has drowned out the signal.

We’re living in a moment where outrage cycles reset every few hours, where tragedy competes with memes, and where empathy has to fight for attention against algorithms. Violence feels routine. Cruelty gets shrugged off. Everything is urgent, so nothing really is.

So yeah, when monks are walking for peace, that’s not random. That’s not symbolic fluff. That’s a last-resort kind of statement.

And maybe the most uncomfortable part is this: they didn’t ask us to do anything specific. No chants. No signs. No instructions. Just presence. Just awareness. Just the implication that if the most disciplined, quiet people on the planet feel the need to move like this, then society has stopped listening to itself.

Maybe the message wasn’t to record the walk.
Maybe it was to ask why it had to happen at all.

And if that question made you uneasy—good. That was probably the point.