It’s impossible to make honest art and great money at the same time. Thus, rap music sucks and though I clearly want it to die, it refuses. Now, rap’s similar to 1972’s favorite Blaxplotiation horror film character Mamuwalde, a blood-sucking (largely) Blacula that is at present surviving with a stake driven into its heart by some of the genre’s most socially aware artists. With wealth accrual at the top of the rap industry higher than ever, why is the genre possibly closer to mainstream creative death than it has ever been? Furthermore, though weathering an incredible attack, how is this vampire-as-rap still clinging to life?

Only six months old, 2014 has seen: Jay-Z embark on a tour sponsored by JP Morgan Chase, Dr. Dre supposedly (or not, depending on who you ask) become a billionaire, Diddy release “Big Homie,” a track in which he states that “my Rolls Royce spray cologne / the fragrance money,” and zombie rap moguls Lyor Cohen, Kevin Liles and Damon Dash once again ascend to impressive heights of relevance in hip-hop culture — as well, there’s Steve Stoute and FUBU’s Daymond John still involved and wealthier than ever, too. And of course, there’s word that rap godfather Russell Simmons wants to create a hip-hop opera. Plus, in the midst of all of this, Kanye West has set new standards in opulence by marrying Kim Kardashian in Paris and then celebrating his daughter North West’s birthday with an opulent #kidchella first birthday party.

Hip-hop culture has always established its goals with an uneven emphasis on more financial and ephemeral goals than grounded and humanistic aims. However, is it possible that rap’s greatest moment is also its ultimate downfall?

Rap music’s issues with sudden acquisition of wealth were already all summed up by Biggie in 1994’s “Juicy” when he said the following:

Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis / When I was dead broke, man I couldn’t picture this

50-inch screen, money green leather sofa / Got two rides, a limousine with a chauffeur

Phone bill about two G’s flat / No need to worry, my accountant handles that

And my whole crew is lounging / Celebrating every day, no more public housing

Thinking back on my one-room shack / Now my mom pimps an Ac with minks on her back

If we are to take Biggie at his word (and why not, he also correctly advised “never get high off your own supply”), prior to his debut album even hitting the streets, he had already gone from being “dead broke” to being able to afford an outlay of $100,000-plus, and also hire an accountant to watch his already growing portfolio of acquisitions and investments. Of course, at the end of this amazing discussion of what he has financially accomplished with his (then) grandiose wealth, he said, “damn right I like the life I live / cause I went from negative to positive.” Capitalistic/humanistic imbalance, achieved! By 2014, hearing Diddy’s proclamation on “Big Homie” that he’s rich (but without a kind modifier to follow) the capitalistic/humanistic balance in rap has evaporated, and that’s a harbinger that maybe rap as a genre has become outmoded.

Those who are rap capitalists clearly are making money without contemplating the future of the genre. What’s even more intriguing is that as soon as pop-rap power broker Damon Dash can take to Instagram and chastise industry power-brokers like mainstream label chiefs Lyor Cohen and Joie Manda for profiting from rap and not giving back to hip-hop culture, at roughly the same time there’s veteran emcee and de facto Public Enemy leader Chuck D calling out New York City’s Hot 97 on Twitter for the liberal use of the n-word at their recent Summer Jam concert. The highlight of his rant was when he made the incendiary (and possibly true) claim that “If there was a festival and it was filled with anti-Semitic slurs… or racial slurs at anyone but black people, what do you think would happen?”

Rap’s humanists are certainly few in number, but pack a powerful message regarding what the capitalists have done with their too-filled financial coffers and high level of industry control. Chuck D’s loaded and intriguing statements also include him declaring that “[his] goal by year’s end is to change the face and sound of (longtime rap music standard bearer) urban radio.” Continuing, he states, “I’ve been in this shit 30 years, too long to just sit and let it be. I’m not going to be the grim reaper. I don’t want to be the grim reaper. But people have to stand up and we need some change, and it’s time.” Furthermore, D “[doesn’t want] to be a moral compass,” but he also wants record labels to consider including artist contract clauses that state “you can’t be derogatory to the community you came from.”

More damning to rap may be what The Roots have done, and what they may not continue to do anymore. Released on May 19, 2014, …And Then You Shoot Your Cousin was the band’s 12th studio album in 27 years as a group. Together for two-thirds of rap music’s 40 years of existence, The Roots have matured as rap has matured, evolving from being jazz fanatics making rap records into being the house band for The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon. In going from being dead broke, to having a Super Nintendo and Sega Genesis, and now having corporate, yet still music-related jobs with 401(k) funds and retirement plans, the album reflects the band’s ability to say f*** you to rap, and be able to evolve into members of hip-hop culture no longer entirely dependent upon the rap music industry for much of anything.

“When The People Cheer” was the album’s lead single, and when Black Thought mentions “douchebags in doo-rags” it’s said with a biting derision that (to extend a connection to this op-ed’s title) a Blaxploitation film hero would have had for calling a villain a “low down and dirty mother***er.” The entire album is powerful minor chord tracks and lyrical polemics against what happens when cash rules rap moguls’ ability to remember the genre’s socio-political aims in gaining power and respect. Similar to Chuck D, but different, The Roots are the undertakers of rap, too. However while Chuck is content to rail away with the spike at Dracula’s cold black heart, The Roots feel content with having buried him in the ground deep enough to walk away. Their latest album gives off the feeling of being assured that the blood-sucking vampire is going to die, but not staying for his final breath.

Forty years into its existence, rap has passed its crossroads, and, like disco and hair metal did prior, taken the road most travelled. Content with being grandiose, rich, bloated and absurd, rap has a group of its most intellectually potent artists calling for its demise. Yet somehow rap soldiers on, blood as money leaking everywhere, like so much corrupted life desperately clinging to death’s door. Maybe what we’re missing is a gangsta rapper to fire the theoretical assassin’s bullet. Or maybe this demise is happening as it should. 2014 for rap has been slow and painful, so many demon spirits fleeing the corpse, making themselves apparent for all to see. The Blaxploitation version of this rap story was called Scream, Blacula, Scream. It’s time to update that to Die, Blacula, Die.