MF DOOM: Hip-Hop’s Worst Kept Secret

“He wears a mask so the charge don’t grab”-MF DOOM, Gazzillion Ear

The night after the world found out that the great MF DOOM had died, I found myself in a minor argument with a friend, in which she expressed a feeling of alienation when the public grieved over celebrities. I replied by saying that, at least as far as I was concerned, the grief came from the loss of an immense talent who impacted lives in ways we sometimes don’t realize until they’ve left us. For example, I had similar reactions to the deaths of Kobe Bryant and Chadwick Boseman earlier in the year. And besides, MF DOOM wasn’t a celebrity. Not a normal one anyway.

The conversation led to to an interesting debate about what exactly constitutes celebrity. MF DOOM, the multi-hyphenate alter ego of the artist born Daniel Dumile, was many things: an indomitable, world-class, god-level MC; one of the most inventive and talented producers the genre has ever known; a graffiti artist; at times a comedian, at times a nuisance, always a charmer. But was he a celebrity? If the definition of celebrity is simply “famous” then perhaps he was. But not in the traditional sense.

It would be incredibly difficult to be a fan of either hip-hop, cartoons, or videogames (namely Rockstar’s Grand Theft Auto franchise) over the last 25 years or so and not be at least somewhat familiar with the name MF DOOM. DOOM was a ubiquitous (if elusive) presence in pop culture throughout the early part of the century. During those years, he created some of the most beloved albums in the history of the genre, featured on Adult Swim cartoons and commercials, popped up on radio stations in GTA V, and generally embodied the concept of “your favorite rapper’s rapper”. But if you showed 100 random people a picture of the villain, how many could you reasonably expect to be able to identify who or what they were looking at? I find it hard to imagine a number any higher than 10. And that might be pushing it.

Therein lies the genius of the mask and the MF DOOM persona. Most people couldn’t name two MF DOOM songs to save their lives, but the mask is among the most recognizable touchstones in hip-hop (perhaps a tier beneath the Wu-Tang and Run DMC logos). DOOM pops up in best of all-time conversations, despite the fact that even many of his fans wouldn’t recognize him if they walked past him on the street sans-mask. When his death was announced to the world on the last day of 2020, the outpouring of tributes from people of all walks of life was immense. It was honestly a bit surprising to see. For someone whose highest ever chart position on the Billboard 200 was 52, it was a shock to see just how many fans he had.

Conceptually, MF DOOM can seem very esoteric from the outside looking in. A rapper whose persona is based on a comic book character, who never shows his face, and sometimes raps from the perspective of a three-headed alien monster isn’t really easy to explain, but ask any DOOM fan and they’ll tell you that it’s a lot more simple than it seems. In many ways, DOOM embodied the James Joyce notion “in the particular is contained the universal”. The character was a hook (or a barrier, for some), but DOOM reeled fans in by seasoning his twisty rhymes with granular detail. His approach to rapping provided a little something for everybody. Take these bars from his guest verse on De La Soul’s “Rock Co.Kane Flow”:

“Been on in the game as long as he can wheelie a Schwinn
Turn the corner spinning, bust that ass and get up
Dust off the mask, whoever laugh give him a head up”

Can’t relate? Then you’ve never tried to wheelie a bike in front of others. Trying to show off, failing, and hopping up ready to fight to mitigate the embarrassment is part of the game. At the same time, the reference to “dusting off the mask” serves to deepen the lore of the famed super villain persona i.e., “he’s been wearing the mask since childhood? Just how villainous is this guy?”

What the uninitiated would be surprised to find is that behind the fabled mask, there wasn’t exactly a dense narrative to dig through. He was largely making it up as he went along. And though the real-life story of how Daniel Dumile became MF DOOM is a fascinating, and rather tragic one, knowing the details of it aren’t necessary to unlocking the secrets of what made him a special figure in hip-hop. In many ways, he was simply a guy who, like just about any other red-blooded human, loved cartoons, weed, and beer. (From “Kon Queso”: “In love with Mary Jane, she’s my main thang/Pulled her right from that web head, what a lame brain”). As mysterious and odd as DOOM could seem (and he was very much both), he also was also incredibly easy to relate to. It just so happened that he was one of the most talented rappers to ever hold a mic.

Songs like “Meat Grinder”: “Borderline schizo, sort of fine tits though/Pour the wine, whore to grind, quarter to nine, let’s go” and “Avalanche”: “MC extraordinaire, technique sort of rare/ Caught a glare, sure to scare, next week, more to share” demonstrated a grasp of internal rhyme schemes that few could match. He could be incredibly poetic; the opening line of Accordion could very well be the work of Edgar Allen Poe: “Living off borrowed time, the clock ticks faster…”. Poignant and political: “They pray four times a day, they pray five/who ways is strange when it’s time to survive?”. Or incisive and clever: “If I had a dime for every rhymer that bust guns/I’d have a cool mil’ for my sons in trust funds”.

But what set DOOM apart from most “lyrical miracle” rappers — a phrase I’m pretty confident DOOM himself created — is a dedicated lack of self-seriousness. A lot of our most gifted rappers often get bogged down in dour lyrical content or become so enamored with their own gifts that the act of rapping is just a a chance to jerk themselves off. DOOM was no less assured of his own prowess than any other great rapper, but he carried himself with a looseness rarely seen in the genre. His music was fun and funny. He peppered jokes into most of his songs. One of my favorites from “Beef Rap”: “What up? To all rappers: shut up with your shutting up/And keep a shirt on, at least a button-up/Yuck, is they rhymers or strippin’ males?/Out of work jerks since they shut down Chippendales”. Or the many he told at his own expense, like this line from “Bada Bing”: “Stocky, short and cocky/Looked like Apollo Creed after he fought with Rocky”.

This casual approach to his craft probably stemmed from how he viewed hip-hop: as a hustle. Most masters of a craft, be they athletes or musicians will tell you “I’d do this for free”. They’re almost always lying. DOOM told no such lies. In both songs and interviews, he constantly reminded fans that he was “in it for the quiche”. Anything that wasn’t getting him paid wasn’t really worth his time or effort. He was here to get paid, not to get famous. This philosophy ties back into the philosophy of the mask. When asked where the mask came from, DOOM cited a change in hip-hop, where he felt rap began to be as much about image as it was about skill, if not more so. The mask was a way to eliminate concern with appearances entirely. Was he handsome beneath it? Frightening? It didn’t matter. Either way, the bars and beats would be unassailable.

As far as DOOM was concerned, the human underneath the mask was irrelevant. It could be anyone under there (and sometimes was), but what mattered was the music, and DOOM had a run that most artists would kill for. From 1999’s Operation: Doomsday to 2005’s The Mouse and the Mask, DOOM’s output was absurd. He released 2 albums as MF DOOM, two as his alter ego Viktor Vaughn, another one as his other alter ego King Geedorah, and two collaborative albums, with Madlib and Danger Mouse respectively. Of these, at least 3 are considered classics (Madvillainy, Operation: Doomsday, and Mm..Food, if you ask me). This doesn’t even get into his production work. During this period and afterward, he worked with artists ranging from Thom Yorke and the Gorillaz to Ghostface Killah and Flying Lotus.

His output slowed considerably after 2005 but his influence and impact only grew. There is almost no one who came up in the underground hip-hop scene between the 2000s and early 2010s that doesn’t cite DOOM as either a direct influence or one of their favorite rappers. This includes Earl Sweatshirt, Tyler the Creator, Joey Bada$$, Danny Brown, Griselda, Freddie Gibbs, Das Racist, Jay Electronica, Playboi Carti, and even Drake. And yet, he still felt like an obscure outsider. That was the magic of MF DOOM, he was as significant a figure as there’s ever been in hip-hop, but being a fan of his still felt like being part of a secret club. Twitter user @bobby summed it up perfectly with this tweet:

DOOM said himself on the opening track of his debut album that he “came to destroy rap”. He didn’t quite succeed on that front, but he did help to completely upend the idea of what a rapper could be. He did away with placing hooks and choruses in his songs almost entirely. He never showed his face in public. He rarely did interviews, and only slightly less rarely showed up to his own concerts. He broke all the rules and succeeded not in spite of it, but because of it. Roger Ebert once wrote: “Each film is only as good as its villain. Since the heroes and the gimmicks tend to repeat from film to film, only a great villain can transform a good try into a triumph.” If there’s any truth to that, it’s embodied in MF DOOM, who made hip-hop better just by existing.

All things considered, DOOM was probably the most hip-hop a person could be. I don’t know how good a breakdancer he was, but as far as the other pillars of hip-hop go, he was aces in every category. But was he a celebrity? Probably not. I don’t think you could find DOOM’s name anywhere on TMZ’s website until he died. He was so not a celebrity that we didn’t know he was gone until two months after the fact. He was never tabloid fodder. He would probably only ever be followed around by fans after shows or at music festivals. Meeting DOOM without his mask on was a thing that fans would boast about (whether it actually happened or not), but they respected him enough not to snap a photo. This allowed Daniel Dumile to exist apart from MF DOOM, walking among the common people who were unaware they were in the presence of hip-hop’s one and only Supervillain. He was better than a celebrity. He was an icon.

It’s actually hard to believe he’s gone. Not just because even during his long absences he felt like a constant presence. Not just because there were a number of promised projects (like Madvillainy 2 or his collaboration album with Ghostface Killah) that never materialized. And not simply because the first stage of grief is denial. It’s because faking his own death only to be resurrected later on (be it as a new alter ego, or just with a new album in tow) is totally something the character MF DOOM would do. And though it would be welcome, I don’t wish it to be true. If he did indeed fake his death, I hope it was so that he could live out the rest of his years as Daniel Dumile: husband, father, and friend to many, free from the burden of terrorizing the rap game. Either way, MF DOOM lives forever.

Rest in peace, DOOM.