They used to call him "the hip-hop mayor."

For many, the appellation once applied to former Detroit mayor Kwame Kilpatrick was always intended to be more derision than description, more generic insult than generational indicator. 

But for those of us who helped fashion and then grew up alongside the most energetic and creative form of black music since rock n' roll, the nickname "hip-hop mayor" carried a much deeper and warmer resonation. 

For many of us, it meant that a tortured generation had finally arrived. Like the music itself, we had survived — and been shaped by — the bloody and nihilistic dysfunction of the Crack Era, the disdainful imperiousness of Reagan-omics, the horrifying outbreak of HIV and AIDS and an ever-hardening national policy of urban neglect.

With the election of the youngest CEO of any major American city, we were a generation that appeared to  finally be on the rise. A generation once feared lost had been found again. And no figure more forcefully and colorfully reflected that re-discovery  than Detroit's "hip-hop mayor."

He wore an earring. He spoke fluent Run-DMC. He seemed as comfortable standing on street corners on Mack and Dexter avenues as he did commandeering rostrums inside the state capitol and the Coleman A. Young building. 

But then came an epic implosion that seemed even more rapid than his ascent. And suddenly, in the wake of text-message scandals and pay-to-play accusations and a series of half-assed cover-ups, we realized that the hip-hop mayor had taken all the wrong lessons from the music. 

His wasn't the ferociously insightful, politically progressive hip-hop of Public Enemy or KRS-One or Black Star. It wasn't even the industrial-strength street knowledge doled out by the likes of Ice Cube and Rakim and Tupac. 

Rather, Kilpatrick's hip-hop was that of the dark side of the "paid in full" generation, the wanton greed and crass materialism and "don't give a fuck" attitude that had helped transform too many of our communities into demilitarized zones. He was all about white parties and back room deals, about popping bottles and groupie trysts, about accumulating as much paper and power and perks as one office could contain. 

He was all about the Benjamins, baby.

And now, in the wake of his conviction on 24 federal counts of racketeering, extortion and tax evasion, we're left wondering not only about what could have been but also fearing what is yet to come.

We enter election season with a caretaker mayor possessed of little political will and even less vision. Our city teeters on the brink of bankruptcy. Racists statewide are doing jigs, not because justice has been rightly served, but merely because another black pol is off to the pen. And a wolf dressed as a governor sits at our doorstep salivating over assets his corporate and political buddies have been hoping to devour for decades.

It's not all Kwame Kilpatrick's fault, mind you. But some of it is. And even where it isn't, he damn sure didn't help matters much.

If only he'd abided by different lessons from the music. Would that he had heeded Chubb Rock when he called for an "Organizer" or X-Clan when they invoked "Fire and Earth" or Cube when he warned that you'd "Laugh Now, Cry Later." Would that he had heard Boogie Down Productions when they pleaded "You Must Learn."

If only he had paid closer attention to PE's "Nighttrain," when Chuck D broke shit down thusly:

Land of the free/But the skin I'm in identifies me

So the people around me energize me

Callin' all aboard this train ride

Talkin' 'bout raw hardcore/Leavin' frauds on the outside

But the bad thing is anyone can ride the train

And the reason for that is 'cause we look the same

Lookin' all around at my so-called friend

Light skin to the brown, the black/Here we go again

Homey over there knows Keith an

But he be thiefin'/I don't trust him

Rather bust 'em up

Out goes his hand and I cough

He once stole from me/Yeah I wanna cut it off

The black thing is a ride I call the nighttrain

It rides the good and the bad/We call the monkey trained

Trained to attack the black it's true

'Cuz some of them lookin' just like you

Maybe if the hip-hop mayor had applied some of the best of the music's lessons, perhaps the generation he lifted up and then let down wouldn't now have to apply them so harshly to him.