The Voice of the Streets Is Fading? Benny the Butcher Weighs In
The “voice of the streets” may no longer be the sole authority, but it hasn’t vanished. Instead, it has been amplified, remixed, and contested by a multitude of voices.
Buffalo rapper Benny the Butcher sparked debate when a clip of him stating that “the voice of the streets” no longer carries the influence it once did in hip‑hop went viral. According to the clip, Benny argued that “nerds” now control the game. Coming from a Griselda MC who built his reputation on grimy realism and mixtape hustle, the comment hit a nerve: has the street lost its cultural power? Or has its voice evolved, amplified through new tools? He was responding to a generation of rap fans who spend as much time on social‑media dashboards as on the block. Benny—born Jeremie Pennick—has spent the last decade shaping rap’s renaissance around gritty street narratives that he insists are grounded in truth, not fantasy. The comment came off as equal parts lament and provocation. In his view, algorithms and feeds have diluted the authenticity that once defined rap music. The “weird Twitter nerds,” as he called them, decide what goes viral and what is forgotten. Yet the same online denizens help keep his records streaming, debate his lyrics on Reddit, and shout out his Black Soprano Family crew on Instagram. Benny’s frustration, therefore, opens a deeper conversation about who gets to decide what counts as “real” in hip‑hop when ground‑level credibility collides with digital cultural power.
Hip‑hop did not start as a marketing plan. Rolling Stone’s investigation into the genre’s 50th anniversary noted that the culture occurred from “oppressed communities,” allowing them to create “cultural expressions in an independent, autonomous way.” From block parties in the Bronx to South Central cipher sessions, early rap’s authenticity lay in lived experiences and the social conditions that artists described. Dr. Jared Ball told the magazine that hip‑hop was radical because it came from Black and Puerto Rican youth “respond[ing] to the hostilities that they were suffering.” Reality was its currency. The importance of “keeping it real” continued into the 1990s, when gangsta rap and golden-era boom-bap valorized the streets as both subject matter and a measure of credibility.
From hip‑hop’s earliest years in the Bronx, artists have framed themselves as spokespeople for the communities they come from. N.W.A.’s 1988 album Straight Outta Compton opened with “You are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge,” a proclamation that rap’s legitimacy came from the lived experiences of Black and Brown youth in neighborhoods ignored by mainstream America. Authenticity was about telling stories of systemic neglect, police brutality, and hustling with a voice that insiders recognized as real beyond the location. The Los Angeles Review of Books notes that since the late 1980s, rap has been “relentlessly and uniquely fact‑checked,” with fans and critics only rubber‑stamping artists whose lyrical tales and personas were verifiable. Rappers themselves policed authenticity: Schoolly D mocked Run‑D.M.C. and the Beastie Boys for being too clean; Nas roasted JAY‑Z for “faking” his background; N.W.A.’s rawness was simultaneously an assertion of lived experience and a marketing trick.
Benny the Butcher built his career around that lineage. In an interview with The Ringer, he explained that, despite a reputation as one of rap’s foremost “dealers turned artists,” he downplays his past rather than embellishing it. Unlike other rappers who mythologize their drug‑dealing exploits, he insists that the numbers in his songs are conservative estimates; old friends from his Buffalo neighborhood told him he “low‑balled” his famous line about making “20 grand a day” on Montana Avenue Producer Harry Fraud says Benny’s appeal lies in that honesty—he paints “rich details and hyperspecific stories” because he has “seen what that picture is representing.” BET’s profile of him notes that his “raw, street‑centered narratives … provide listeners with a vivid glimpse into the harsh realities of his upbringing,” and his discography—eight projects since 2019, including Tana Talk 4 and his Black Soprano Family compilation—proves that he is prolific without pandering. In other words, the streets are not just thematic for Benny; they are a credential.
In the pre-digital era, control of what reached listeners was concentrated in the hands of specific individuals. Radio DJs were tastemakers; without their endorsement, artists struggled to break through. In an interview about the birth of rap radio, historian John Klaess explains that in the late 1970s and early 1980s, rap wasn’t yet an established genre—labels doubted it would sell, and there was no clear way to convert a three‑hour park jam into a record. DJs like Mr Magic and Marley Marl, therefore, built their own shows by buying airtime, hustling for sponsors, and turning the radio studio into a laboratory. These on‑air communities were “key to the development of the culture.” The Awesome 2 described radio as a space where they could experiment away from the club and mail tapes around the world.
The mixtape was the other vital “street” conduit. In New York, the hand-to-hand distribution of tapes and CDs not only fueled local scenes but also served as a grassroots A&R system. The Red Bull Music Academy’s profile of the city’s mixtape ecosystem notes that the late ’80s through early 2000s were a “golden era” where the hustle of street corners and corner offices intersected; artists built careers on street buzz, and DJs like Kid Capri, Mister Cee, and DJ Kay Slay curated the culture. Percee P, a legend of DIY distribution, continued selling CDs on the street even after digital downloads took over because personal interaction was central to his identity. Mixtapes also functioned as marketing: labels would leak tracks to gauge interest, and street co‑signs created the momentum that turned underground anthems into mainstream hits.
While street authenticity was a prized currency, it was always contested. The LA Review of Books reminds us that authenticity is ultimately “performative” and used as a creative and marketing tool. “The strength of street knowledge” insisted on the value of young Black perspectives, but it was also a way for record companies to package danger and sell it back to suburban teenagers. As hip‑hop moved from parks to MTV and the Grammys, artists negotiated how much of their real stories to reveal and how much to mythologize. Legends like 2Pac, The Notorious B.I.G., Scarface, and later 50 Cent built entire brands on being “of the streets,” even as their success depended on corporate distribution.
When Benny the Butcher made that comment, tons of people argued that it represents outdated thinking from someone unwilling to evolve or grow beyond their comfort zone, and honestly, they have a point. We have to point out that the audience Benny claims to represent has matured significantly. These individuals are now facing adult responsibilities, such as mortgages, tuition payments, family obligations, retirement planning, and other life priorities that extend far beyond street culture. They’ve moved past caring about who controls hip-hop from a street perspective because they have more pressing concerns in their lives.
A central argument made is that the streets never actually controlled hip-hop in the first place. While neighborhoods certainly influenced the culture through language, fashion, and artistic style, true control was never in the hands of the streets. The speaker notes that even the most respected figures from that era, like JAY-Z, eventually transitioned into executive roles, demonstrating that street control was never the ultimate goal or reality. The commentary becomes particularly critical when addressing the apparent hypocrisy in Benny’s position. Griselda Records, the collective Benny belongs to, reportedly benefited enormously from social media platforms and the very “nerds” that Benny now criticizes. Coming from Buffalo, which wasn’t traditionally considered a hotbed for hip-hop talent, the group relied heavily on social media and online advocates to build their audience and push their narrative to a wider market.
Also, Benny’s complaints stem from frustration over his career trajectory not meeting his expectations. Despite having major label opportunities, including a deal with Def Jam and current management by Roc Nation, Benny appears dissatisfied when things don’t go according to his vision. This leads to what the critic characterizes as blame-shifting and whining rather than productive self-reflection. The commentary around Benny’s approach is similar to that of other veteran artists, such as Nas, who have found ways to mature within the industry while maintaining their artistic integrity. These artists focus on their craft and let their music speak for itself rather than constantly complaining about the state of the culture or demanding recognition for contributions they didn’t actually make.
The question, then, is not whether hip‑hop has lost its soul but who gets to define it. For Benny the Butcher, authenticity flows from experience—his songs chronicle incarceration, addiction, loyalty, and street codes. Producers and journalists praise him for painting vivid pictures drawn from firsthand knowledge. Audiences looking for gritty realism gravitate to his work because it resonates with their lived or imagined experiences. However, in 2025, the gatekeepers of taste also include teenagers uploading reaction videos, data scientists crafting playlists, and social‑media managers engineering viral challenges. Their backgrounds may be far removed from Benny’s Montana Avenue, but they can propel or punish careers with a post. They are, as he put it, “nerds” with cultural power.
Benny’s gripe overlooks the fact that these very communities aided his own rise. His fan base reached far beyond Buffalo thanks to blogs and digital word of mouth. The streaming era enabled him to release eight projects in six years and cultivate a cult following without the backing of a major label. In truth, both worlds continue to influence hip‑hop. The street remains a metaphor and a memory; it still informs the storytelling of artists like Benny, Freddie Gibbs, and Conway the Machine. However, the “corner” has expanded to include digital spaces where fans around the globe debate lyricism, dissect rivalries, and champion niche subgenres. The challenge for artists is to translate lived authenticity into a digital persona without becoming a caricature. Some, like LaRussell and Doechii, succeed by engaging directly with fans and treating social media as an extension of their art; others, perhaps including Benny, struggle to reconcile a grizzled worldview with the playful feedback loops of TikTok.
A particularly pointed observation is that Benny is nostalgic for an era of hip-hop that had already passed before he even entered the scene. The period when streets allegedly had more influence was long over by the time Griselda became relevant, making his complaints about losing something he never actually experienced seem disconnected from reality. Instead of accepting his position as a niche artist, which we argue is perfectly respectable, Benny appears to be seeking mainstream success while simultaneously criticizing the very mechanisms that could help him achieve it. Hip-hop culture naturally expands and evolves, and artists who refuse to adapt while dwelling on imaginary golden ages they never experienced will find themselves increasingly irrelevant.
The genre’s center of gravity is therefore not fixed but continually renegotiated. It moves from street corners to blogs to timelines, from vinyl to streaming to NFTs (remember that garbage?). The “voice of the streets” may no longer be the sole authority, but it hasn’t vanished. Instead, it has been amplified, remixed, and contested by a multitude of voices. Benny the Butcher’s lament about “Twitter nerds” controlling the culture highlights the discomfort many artists feel when cultural influence shifts. Yet his own career proves that legitimacy can coexist with digital savvy. The battle isn’t between streets and screens but between those who understand the new dynamics and those who yearn for a bygone order. The most compelling hip‑hop today acknowledges its roots while embracing the reality that the microphone is still in the streets—it’s just connected to Wi‑Fi.