Soundclash? ... French rap singer Doc Gyneco chats with Nicolas Sarkozy in Marseille last year. Photograph: Olivier Laban-Mattei/AFP.
Psephologists seeking to determine what lies behind the remarkable 85% turnout in the French presidential elections should spare a thought for some unexpected activists. Outraged by Nicholas Sarkozy's hardline comments during the 2005 Paris riots, and troubled by opinion polls showing strong support for Jean-Marie Le Pen, the country's rappers were out in force during the campaign, urging people to use their vote.
Female rapper Diams guest edited the left-wing newspaper Libération, scene veteran Akhenaton lent his support to Ségolene Royal and an MC called Rost went as far as producing a 32-page voting guide to mobilise the youth vote in the suburbs. Even Sarkozy, the bete noire of the banlieues, managed to find a rapper, Doc Gynéco, happy to share a podium with him and sexagenarian crooner Johnny Halliday.
It's not just in France that rappers are being courted rather than avoided. Last October, David Cameron agreed to meet Chicago MC Rhymefest to discuss the relationship between rap lyrics and violence. A month later, US presidential hopeful Barack Obama sat down with rapper and actor Ludacris, the erstwhile architect of Move Bitch and Pimpin' All Over the World who has suddenly found a social conscience to go with his new acting career. Ludacris told reporters that the pair discussed "empowering the youth".
During the 2004 elections, MTV filmed P Diddy, taking time off from his dreadful rapping to front the station's Vote or Die campaign, embracing Hillary Clinton.
It was not ever thus. Just ask Sister Souljah. After the 1992 Los Angeles riots, Souljah, a rapper and activist associated with Public Enemy, told the Washington Post: "If black people kill black people every day, why not have a week and kill white people?" Bill Clinton publicly slammed Souljah, tactically distancing himself from the radical left. US political pundits still use the phrase "Sister Souljah moment" to describe a politician's scapegoating of an alleged extremist in order to appeal to the centre. This coincided with the media storm over Ice-T's rap-metal song Cop Killer.
A more enlightened approach to one of the world's biggest-selling musical genres is certainly welcome. Asked about misogynistic rap lyrics during a meeting in South Carolina two weeks ago, Obama replied that they were "degrading their sisters. That doesn't inspire me." It was fair criticism, rather than the righteous, baby-with-the-bathwater indignation traditionally displayed by politicians.
Of course, there can be drawbacks for politicians and rappers alike. Doc Gynéco lost friends and fans over his support for Sarkozy, while Obama's meeting with Ludacris prompted such thunderous disapproval from conservative bloggers that he may choose his interlocutors more carefully as election day looms nearer. And not everyone can pull it off.
As Gordon Brown learned to his cost when he half-heartedly expressed his enthusiasm for Arctic Monkeys, there are few sights more risible than that of a politician attempting to jump an inappropriate musical bandwagon.
It is easy to be cynical. The doomed Britpop/New Labour love-in showed that eyebrows should always be raised when politicians cosy up to pop stars. That infamous picture of Noel Gallagher sharing a laugh with Tony Blair at Number 10 will haunt him to his grave.
But rappers, unlike rock stars, represent alienated voices in the ghettos, banlieues and estates. When Labour MP Stephen Pound condemned Cameron's sitdown with Rhymefest as a "step too far", the rapper responded, "You get somebody who wants to talk and discuss and you're going to criticise them? And you wonder why the people don't vote?"
If politicians engage with intelligent rappers beyond a soundbite and a photo opportunity, they don't just have the chance to pick up first-time voters. They might actually learn something.
