At HHGA, we rank Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five’s “The Message” among the most important songs in Hip Hop history—a track that reshaped the genre with its raw honesty and enduring resonance. Released in July 1982 on Sugar Hill Records, this seven-minute masterpiece, driven by Melle Mel’s searing verses and a minimalist funk beat, hits like a siren echoing through the Bronx’s burned-out blocks. The synth riff hums low and hypnotic, the bassline thumps steady, and the snares snap with a stark, deliberate edge. The mood simmers with despair and defiance, the structure a slow-building narrative that swaps party vibes for street truths. “The Message” is a cornerstone—a sonic document of urban struggle that turned Hip Hop into a megaphone for the marginalized, cementing Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five as pioneers of the art form.
Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five: From the Bronx to the Blueprint
Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five emerged from the South Bronx in the late ’70s, a crucible of Hip Hop’s birth amid economic decay and cultural rebirth. Joseph Saddler, aka Grandmaster Flash, was a DJ prodigy, born in Barbados in 1958 and raised in NYC. Obsessed with his father’s records—James Brown, Aretha Franklin—he studied electronics and built his own gear, mastering turntables by the mid-’70s. His innovation—the “Quick Mix Theory,” cutting and scratching with a crossfader—turned DJing into a science. By 1976, he’d recruited MCs Melvin Glover (Melle Mel), Nathaniel Glover (Kidd Creole), Keith Wiggins (Cowboy), Eddie Morris (Mr. Ness/Scorpio), and Guy Todd Williams (Rahiem) to form The Furious Five, a crew that blended Flash’s beats with their rhymes.
Their early gigs—block parties, parks—built a rep. In 1979, Sugar Hill Records’ Sylvia Robinson signed them after “Rapper’s Delight” blew up. Their debut single, “Superrappin’,” grooves with a funky bassline and rapid-fire bars, the vibe lively and loose, hitting #7 on Billboard’s Disco chart. Flash’s turntable wizardry—spinning breaks from Chic’s “Good Times” or The Incredible Bongo Band’s “Apache”—paired with the Five’s chants, made them stars of Hip Hop’s party era. “Freedom” (1980) bounces with a tight groove and call-and-response, while “The Birthday Party” (1981) thumps with a festive pulse, both charting high on the R&B lists. But 1982’s The Message LP shifted gears, with its title track eclipsing all else—a raw pivot that redefined their legacy.
Duke Bootee: The Visionary Who Shaped “The Message”
The late Ed Fletcher, aka Duke Bootee, was the creative force behind “The Message,” a New Jersey native who joined Sugar Hill as a session drummer and songwriter. He’d played on The Sugarhill Gang’s “8th Wonder” and penned The Sequence’s “Funk You Up,” his ear tuned to funk’s pulse. In 1981, Fletcher cut a demo for “The Message” at home—a stark synth riff humming over a minimal beat, lyrics reflecting the urban decay he saw daily. “I wanted to say something real,” he told The Village Voice in 2002, aiming to break Hip Hop’s party mold with a survival tale.
Sylvia Robinson heard it and envisioned a Furious Five hit, pushing Fletcher to collaborate with Melle Mel despite his initial resistance—he’d planned it as a solo joint. In the studio, Fletcher laid the track’s core. Melle Mel took the verses, Fletcher coaching him to match the mood. Robinson’s call for rawness drove it home, merging Fletcher’s vision with Mel’s Bronx edge into a track that hit hard.
Sound, Mood, and Structure of “The Message”
“The Message” opens with a stark synth riff that hums low and eerie, like a warning over crumbling streets. The bassline kicks in, steady and deep, borrowed from funk’s pulse, while snares crack sharp and sparse, crafted by producer Clifton “Jiggs” Chase. A faint shaker rattles like wind through broken glass, and Flash’s subtle scratches add texture. The mood brews bleak and urgent, the structure unfolding like a street sermon.
Duke Bootee commands the lead: “It’s like a jungle sometimes, it makes me wonder how I keep from going under.” Melle Mel’s baritone cuts in crisp and heavy, the synth pulsing beneath as he paints the Bronx with his epic opening lines— “Broken glass everywhere / People pissing on the stairs, you know they just don’t care.” The rhythm locks tight, the mood raw and weary, a snapshot of urban decay. Melle Mel’s hook is iconic—“Don’t push me ‘cause I’m close to the edge / I’m trying not to lose my head,” it loops hypnotic, the shaker hissing, the vibe teetering between despair and rage, the beat steady as he riffs in the closing verse, “A child is born with no state of mind / Blind to the ways of mankind. / God is smiling on you, but he’s frowning too / Because only God knows what you’ll go through”.
The production thrives on simplicity—it’s lean, letting the lyrics breathe. Verse by verse, Melle Mel and Duke Bootee trade tales— “A crazy lady living in a bag / Eating outta garbage pails, used to be a f** hag,” or “Turned stick-up kid but look what you done did / Got sent up for an eight-year bid.” The synth hums unrelenting, the bass thumps like a heartbeat, the mood swelling with gritty realism.
Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five’s Place in Hip Hop History
Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five didn’t invent Hip Hop—but they perfected its early form and pushed it forward. Before them, rap was party-driven—Kool Herc’s “Merry-Go-Round” looped breaks for dancers, The Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” grooved light and fun. Flash’s turntable mastery—cutting Chic’s “Good Times” into a frenzy—made the DJ a star, while the Five’s rhymes turned MCing into a craft. “Superrappin’” bounces with a funky strut, their interplay tight and lively, setting a template for crew dynamics—think Run-DMC’s tag-team flow or Wu-Tang’s posse cuts.
“The Message” rewrote the playbook. Where Wild Style’s “Basketball Throwdown” kept it playful, “The Message” turned inward—social commentary over celebration. Melle Mel’s “Broken glass everywhere” echoes Curtis Mayfield’s “Pusherman,” but swaps soul’s polish for Hip Hop’s grit. That shift birthed conscious rap—KRS-One’s “You Must Learn” thumps with lessons, Public Enemy’s “Fight the Power” roars with rebellion. Their sound—Fletcher’s synth, Chase’s sparse funk—paved the way for minimalism in beats, from Too Short’s “Freaky Tales” to Mobb Deep’s “Quiet Storm.”
Their cultural mark is massive. Flash’s gear—headphones, crossfader—became DJ icons; the Five’s Kangols and leathers defined early Hip Hop style. They hit #4 on Billboard’s R&B chart with “The Message,” a rare crossover for a track this raw, and earned Hip Hop’s first Grammy nod (1983, Best R&B Performance by a Duo or Group). Post-1982, splits hit—Flash and Rahiem left over royalties, Melle Mel led a partial Furious Five—but their legacy held. “White Lines (Don’t Don’t Do It)” (1983) grooves with a funky plea, while 1988’s On the Strength nods back with “Magic Carpet Ride.” Inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in 2007—the first Hip Hop act—they’re architects of the genre’s soul.
The Significance of “The Message”
For HHGA, “The Message” is a titan—one of the most important Hip Hop songs ever, a track that turned rap from party chants to street poetry. Released amid Reagan-era neglect—Bronx tenements crumbling, unemployment soaring—it’s a time capsule of 1982’s urban despair. Melle Mel told Rolling Stone in 2012 it was “a song about survival,” born from Duke Bootee’s demo and Mel’s ad-libs, refined by Sylvia Robinson’s push for realness.
Its impact hit hard and wide. Critics raved—The New York Times called it “a grim anthem,” Billboard praised its “street-level urgency.” It peaked at #62 on the Hot 100—huge for a rap single then—and #4 R&B, proving Hip Hop could cross over without softening. DJs spun it worldwide—spreading rap’s reach. It inspired a wave—Run-DMC’s “It’s Like That” thumps with social grit, N.W.A.’s “F*** tha Police” snarls with fury. VH1 ranked it #1 on its “100 Greatest Hip Hop Songs” in 2008, a nod to its staying power. We ranked it #1 on our Top 100 Hip Hop Songs Of The 1980s list.
“The Message” shifted Hip Hop’s DNA. Before, rap was “The Breaks” by Kurtis Blow—funky, light. After, it was a platform—KRS-One’s “My Philosophy,” Nas’ “NY State Of Mind.” Its rawness—Mel’s “Got no money to move out, I guess I got no choice / Rats in the front room, roaches in the back”—set a standard for storytelling, echoed in Biggie’s “Juicy” or Jay-Z’s “Hard Knock Life.” The minimalist beat—synth, bass, snare—proved less could hit harder, a trick producers like Rick Rubin and Just Blaze ran with.
Legacy and Lasting Echoes
“The Message” changed the game. It gave Hip Hop a conscience, a voice for the unheard, from Reagan’s ’80s to today’s protests—think Kendrick Lamar’s “HUMBLE.” or Killer Mike’s “Reagan.” Its beat still slaps—remixed in 1995 with Coolio, sampled by Ice Cube in “Check Yo Self.” Melle Mel’s verses endure—quoted in classrooms, etched in memory. At HHGA, “The Message” reigns as a pinnacle—one of the most important songs ever, a Bronx cry that turned Hip Hop into a movement, its echo still ringing loud.