Between its image as both a seaside resort and a crime-ridden city, Marseille is also nationally known for its rap music. The unique nature of the Phocean city has given rise to an entirely distinct musical culture, and has asserted itself throughout the years as a launchpad for established and emerging artists, most often coming from immigration.
But how did immigrants and their descendants build Marseille’s rap culture, and how does this urban musical culture, in return, influence these communities?
Naji, 21, was born in Marrakech, Morocco. Currently studying law in Rabat, he was an exchange student in Aix-en-Provence, where he got to discover Marseille’s rap scene. He discovered his passion for rap early on, but it was the Marseille rapper Akhenaton, that introduced him to the sounds of Marseille: “Ever since I discovered rap at the age of 11, it has been a huge part of my life, and has defined me as a person.”
Mickaela, 22, studies Natural Language Processing in Paris. Born and raised in a town near Marseille, she is the daughter of an Ethiopian mother and an Italian father. Even though the sounds of Marseille do not remind her of her origins, she still finds them familiar due to how closely linked they are to her younger years: “I attach sentimental value to Marseille rap because it’s where I grew up, in Provence.”
From IAM to Jul: a two-faced industry?
Several things separate Marseille rap from the rest of the French scene, whether it is the synths, the slang lyrics, or the characteristic accent marseillais, but the difference goes further than just sonically, according to Naji: “I believe that, unlike rap from Paris or Lyon, Marseille’s rap is more rooted in the workers’ struggle, politics, and especially relating to immigrants.”
One of the most iconic rap groups in the metropolis, and France as a whole, is IAM. Founded in 1988, 5 of its 6 founding members come from immigration. “IAM made me the person I am today,” affirms Naji. Their lyrics are known for being particularly socially and politically conscious, often delving into sensitive topics:
Normalized, the rhetoric hardens, and we endure it.
We feel the impact of every statement reported by the press.
— Pain au chocolat (2013), IAM
However, this group has only remained popular among the generation that saw its emergence. Gen-Z is rather interested in newer, younger artists: “What immediately comes to mind is Jul, SCH, maybe Soprano (…) the kind of songs you listen to while driving to the beach,” explains Mickaela. Indeed, the current mainstream rap scene is more energetic and lighter in tone, much to Naji’s regret: “It’s lyrically and artistically vacuous to me (…) they don’t drop the knowledge anymore.”
Jul is undoubtedly the musical emblem of Marseille. His face and his signature hand gesture, forming the letters of his name, are plastered on murals, and it is practically impossible to spend a day in the city without hearing at least one of his songs. His over-autotuned, “tacky” but catchy style has earned him many detractors, despite being the most streamed male artist in France in 2024, for the fourth consecutive year.
Nevertheless, it is important to emphasize that Jul is a white man who doesn’t come from an immigrant background, even though his style, his lyrics, sprinkled with slang from migrant languages (Maghrebi Arabic, Comorian, etc.), and his artistic circle all come from immigrant backgrounds.
This is what could be referred to as the Marseille paradox. Although the metropolis, its history, its culture, and its fortune were built on the backs of immigrants, they represent only a tiny minority of those in power:
The paradox is that there is political discourse about ‘Marseille, a melting pot of integration’, (…) there are no managers, no project leaders from immigrant backgrounds: so there is still ostracism when it comes to these issues.
— Cultural action officer at the FASILD (Action and Support Fund for Integration and the Fight Against Discrimination) (Interview from April 11, 2001)
Mickaela weights in: “I feel like he [Jul] contributes to caricaturing Marseille’s northern districts, which are collectively imagined as neighborhoods where you could be killed on any street corner, even though he has never lived there. (…) It doesn’t do justice to the people who do live there.”
Haram traffic, Marseille, we find corpses.
Marseille hala, no soul left, the young ones turn to murder.
— Bande organisée (2020), Jul
In a way, Jul’s success could be seen as a form of cultural osmosis, where hegemony is directed from below, by the masses, and then projected upwards. But what does it mean when the face promoted by the industry doesn’t match the ones from which the culture originated, and does not directly benefit the disadvantaged neighborhoods where these people struggle to make ends meet?
“When you look at the quality of Jul’s music, it begs the question: is it successful because it’s fundamentally good, or because he’s a white, cis, heterosexual guy, and therefore predisposed to success? (…) It’s the same productions, the same sounds… There was a scandal recently about his new song being likely AI-generated,” adds Mickaela.
Bridging the generation gap
It is important not to get lost in a divisive dichotomy between an older generation of socially conscious but “outdated” rappers, and a new generation of refreshing but “brainless” rappers. In fact, some artists are proud to prove the opposite. For instance, 37 year old rapper Soso Maness is a first-generation Algerian immigrant. His art tackles important and topical issues that directly affect Marseille’s working-class youth, particularly police violence:
Because we see the BAC [Anti-Crime Brigade], every night, abusing its powers
Protesters lose their eyes, young people in the ghetto lose their faith
— Interlude (Mistral) (2020), Soso Maness
Indeed, the issue of police brutality is central in France, and several organizations such as the UN and the European Commission have denounced the exceptional recurrence of police violence and racial profiling in France.
However, Soso Maness’ commitment goes beyond words and extends to direct public action. In September 2024, during a performance at the famous Fête de l’Humanité festival, he incited the crowd to chant the controversial slogan “And everyone hates the police!”. This act, largely reported in the national press, immediately drew condemnation from Interior Minister Gérald Darmanin.
Through this stunt, Maness has undeniably demonstrated his commitment to his political principles by engaging in a form of civil disobedience. By knowingly placing himself at the center of a national political storm and facing potentially career-jeopardizing institutional backlash, he highlighted a crucial point: for part of the Marseille rap scene, it is less about simply portraying social ills, and more about using their voice as an instrument of protest, moving from performances for passive spectatorship, to active calls for political mobilization, thereby keeping alive the legacy of groups such as IAM.
Mickaela acknowledges: “I find what Soso Maness does more praiseworthy, because it goes back to what rap was originally supposed to do: denounce the reality of the people, that of silenced communities.” Rap written by marginalized individuals thus proves to be a valuable tool for denouncing injustice and giving a voice to the oppressed.
“The hood unites us, the trafficking divides us”
Art has the power to create an imagery that allows us to visualize a better future, and rap is especially compelling due to its universal and accessible nature. In this current socio-political context, hostile towards immigrants and their descendants, where hate speech and hard-line dehumanising rhetoric are becoming increasingly normalized: could music serve as a universal bond, an empathy-building artistic tool.
While often dismissed as vulgar by elites, rap serves as a unifying force for the working class and racialized communities. It gives voice to a persistent contradiction, perfectly captured by Soso Maness:
“The hood unites us, the trafficking divides us”
— Balance (2020), Soso Maness
This urban musical culture crystallizes a shared identity in a space that brings together all the cultures and languages of the world: “I only realized I felt a sense of belonging to the South when I left it, and when parisians labelled me as ‘the girl from Marseille’ (…) because Marseille is truly a place that’s ‘apart’,” points out Mickaela.
Naji argues: “There is a dialectical relationship between rap consumers and rappers, each influencing the other.” According to him, it is up to listeners to change their habits and rappers to resist industry pressure to depoliticize themselves in order to maximize their profits, in order for societal change to happen.
To conclude, Marseille’s rap culture exposes a long and complex history of immigration and cultural mixing. Of course, potential alone is not enough to bring about change. There is undeniably work to be done and scope for improvement, particularly with regard to the inclusion of other marginalized groups. But as we have seen, there are artists and listeners who are willing to get involved and make a difference.
