It's bad poetry executed by people that can't sing. That's my

Hear now the sharp and cutting words of Peter Steele, who declared: “It’s bad poetry executed by people that can’t sing. That’s my definition of Rap.” In this utterance, there is more than insult, more than jest—it is a glimpse into the eternal struggle between tradition and change, between the guardians of one art and the heralds of another. Steele, a man of heavy sound and gothic spirit, looked upon rap, not with reverence, but with disdain, as if it were an imposter at the temple of music. His words echo the cry of countless elders through history, who condemned what was new, for it did not resemble what they themselves loved.

The meaning of this quote, then, lies not only in its surface judgment, but in the deeper human truth it reveals: every generation births a new form of art, and every such form is at first ridiculed by those who do not understand its power. To call it bad poetry is to miss the hidden craft of rhythm, rhyme, and flow. To say it is sung by those “that can’t sing” is to overlook that rap is not song but spoken fire, not melody but cadence, not harmony but truth hammered into beat. Yet Steele’s rejection is not strange—it is the echo of Plato who once sought to ban poets from his Republic, fearing their power to stir the soul beyond reason.

Consider the tale of the Impressionist painters in France. When Monet and his fellows unveiled their canvases, the critics of the day cried out that it was “unfinished work,” mere smears and blurs, bad art unworthy of the name. Yet what was once dismissed became the language of light itself, reshaping painting forever. In the same way, Steele’s judgment of rap reveals less about rap itself and more about the gulf that yawns between the old guard and the new. What is condemned as crude often hides the seed of greatness.

But let us not dismiss Steele’s view too quickly, for even in scorn there is truth. Some art does fall short; some words are poorly woven, some rhythms clumsy. Not all who rap are masters of the craft, just as not all who paint are Picassos, nor all who sing are Orpheus. The warning within his words is this: do not call every utterance poetry simply because it rhymes, nor every beat music simply because it thunders. True art demands discipline, mastery, and soul. Without these, rap—like any art—can indeed descend into noise and shallow echo.

Thus we see both the blindness and the clarity in Steele’s proclamation. He failed to see the heights to which rap could rise—where Tupac, Nas, or Kendrick Lamar wield words as prophets wield fire—but he rightly reminded us that not all who claim the mantle of poet or musician are worthy of it. Art must always strive upward, must always seek to pierce the human heart, not merely parade as rebellion.

The lesson, then, is twofold. To the listener: do not be quick to despise what is new, for within the unfamiliar may lie the future of beauty. To the artist: do not be content with half-formed craft, but labor until your work cannot be dismissed as “bad poetry,” until even your enemies must admit its power. Rap, or any art, must be judged not by the weakest hands that hold it, but by the strongest voices that shape it.

Practical is the path forward: as listeners, open your ears, test all things, and keep what is excellent. As creators, sharpen your gift, refine your words, practice your rhythm, and prove wrong those who would dismiss you. Let your art stand not as a hollow echo, but as a mighty tower, built of skill, passion, and truth. For though Peter Steele called rap the work of those who “can’t sing,” the true artist will rise and show that poetry, even when spoken over beats, can shake nations and carve immortality in the memory of mankind.