The struggle’s all over, right ladies? After all, now that those pesky “gender stereotypes” have fallen by the wayside, we’ve earned the right to watch hip-hop’s current leading ladies shake off the shackles of sexism to don their snug, spandex onesies and represent our fair gender with their shock-rock shtick about lustful endeavours.

After all, if Salt-n-Pepa can talk about sex, why can’t they? Didn’t “None Of Your Business” pave the way for ‘Lil Kim to ask us, “How Many Licks”? And it’s safe to assume that Rihanna’s channeling “Free Your Mind” with “S&M”. Expression is expression – just take off your clothes.

But isn’t the medium the message?

It’s easy to forget that following the Black Power movement, the genres of funk, soul and yes, even disco evolved into the now-established MC culture, introducing the masses to the likes of the Sugahill Gang and Grandmaster Flash, and drenching listeners with relatable commentary, understandable fear, precious hope and above all – power.

So imagine how women felt when Salt-n-Pepa’s 1986 debut hit shelves and not only perpetuated the urgency of the decade’s most influential genre, but had the guts to address misogyny and sex from a female perspective. Include the arrival of MC Lyte (the first female hardcore rapper signed to a major label) and Queen Latifah, and women’s place in the predominantly male-oriented genre was relatively solidified.

Then as years progressed, forces like Mary J. Blige, TLC, Eve and Lauryn Hill began populating hip-hop’s gritty, hardcore, sexist landscape and used their dynamic personalities to speak on behalf of a gender that was loudly being told to shut it.

Their response? To give the proverbial finger and instead pave the way for the likes of Da Brat, Foxy Brown and even ‘Lil Kim, whose raunchy contributions to Junior M.A.F.I.A. were a welcome reprieve from Biggie’s infamous “bitch please” agenda.

But that’s the thing about novelties: they wear off. And nearly 30 years after hip-hop’s matriarchs told us to “Push It”, we’ve got ‘Lil Kim and Nicki Minaj playing dress-up and overshadowing their clever prose with the race to fit into a doll-sized box.

So whose fault is this? I think we know. Because personally, I’m over the concept of finger-pointing and blaming society for keeping us down. Does it? Yeah, sure. But there comes a time when we’ve got to look at ourselves as women and wonder what the fuck is going on.

Why is it that the godmothers of hip-hop once used the genre as a mouthpiece for social commentary, when it’s now evolved into how many words you can rhyme with “dick”? Is there nothing else to talk about? (Though using the subject of sex as a lyrical safety blanket is another issue altogether.) Why can men be poetic while women are expected to address domestic violence while wearing short-shorts in front of a burning house? We don’t expect the same from female rock ‘n rollers, but in hip-hop, “that’s just the way it is”.

I disagree. Artists like Northern State and MasiaONE are gritty, poetic, honest and (gasp!) female, and you’d hardly see them accept a place within a hip-hop hierarchy that demanded them to shake it next to a “more capable” male figure.

The reason Barbie’s prevailed over integrity is because it’s easy. Certain women in hip-hop have perpetuated the cycle of misogyny because to be popular and objectified has been the go-to for women since teenage boys liked breasts. ‘Lil Kim and Nicki Minaj aren’t stupid – they’re quite the opposite. But instead of using the attention to bring attention to sexism, they’ve embraced it, singing the age-old, chauvinist song in which “empowerment” means “I’m so confidant, I demand you look at my ass.”

And maybe to some women, it does. But like the girls in high school who just wanted to wear their combat boots and be recognized for their intellect or sense of humour, the popular, push-up bra wearing population insisted they were the minority – because to the public, they are. There’s a reason it’s shocking when a fully-clothed woman emerges onstage and sings about empowerment – because if you remember the ‘Lil Kim-Christina jam, not even their short-shorts and a fire hose could “hold them down”.

Oppression is old news, and so is our willingness to accept it. But if we’re going to look to Nicki Minaj as the future of hip-hop, perhaps we should ask why she’s striving to be a living doll – or why we as women are so willing to champion it.

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Chilly Gonzales takes the stage at the Pigalle Club, a Forties-style dinner and cabaret spot in London’s West End (circular tables, low ceilings, regular intervals of green velvet), and assumes his place at the piano. He is wearing a brown knee-length silk robe with matching trousers and a pair of generously cushioned slippers. His hands are encased in pristine white gloves. With shadowy deep-set eyes and slicked back hair, he is the very image of the brooding piano maestro.

He eases into a medley of slow, spare classical pieces. The music starts off somber and restrained, but his fingers move with such fluidity that they can’t resist adding little flourishes here and there. The embellishments begin to mount up. What opened with an air of great solemnity is now becoming increasingly comical. Now he’s playing a blues standard with one hand, a blur of white hammering away at the lower octaves.

He wraps it up and turns to confront his audience. “Hi, I’m Chilly Gonzales. If you don’t know me, I’m a Grammy-nominated producer.” This is true. He continues: “I hold the Guinness world record for longest continuous piano concert at 27 hours.” This is also true. “I’ve got a lot of famous friends.” He pauses for effect, then performs a modest raise of the shoulders. “In France, where I live, they call me un génie musicale.”

In 2004, Gonzales, who is neither French nor Hispanic but Canadian and whose real name is Jason Beck, released Solo Piano, an album of concise minimalist classical numbers in the vein of Erik Satie which gave substance to the génie musicale claim. Those who came to know Gonzales through that album – his best-selling by some margin – would have been shocked to learn that the author of those beautiful, delicate pieces had previously made, among other things, a gleefully profane lo-fi rap record called The Entertainist.

It’s not entirely surprising that a musician who rolls out his “unfuckwithable resume” at the beginning of a show, and makes unabashed reference to his musical genius at every opportunity, should dabble with rap. Rapping is, after all, the art of the inflated brag. The Sugarhill Gang were extolling their globally-endorsed sexual prowess and enviable motoring options as hip-hop drew its first breath, and given the amount of hot air that’s been blown over 4/4 beats since then, it’s no wonder the ice caps are melting.

Gonzales embraces the spirit of boastfulness on The Entertainist and its more lavishly produced follow-up, Presidential Suite, although in Gonzoworld the line between brag and self-skewering gag is always porous. Yes, he may be “the greatest entertainer of the year”, but he is also “the worst MC” who gets “more pussy than a priest”. He is “the prankster Frank Sinatra”, a “combination of Joe Stalin and Woody Allen”, whom you may address as “Fuckeye” or “the one-eyed Jew”. Or “Chilly Chaplin”. Or “Santa Klaus Kinski”, because he spent a few years living in Berlin.

“I am the worst MC” is at once a villainous sneer and an admission that Gonzales’ rapping abilities circa 2000 left something to be desired. In fact, as he demonstrates during tonight’s show, Gonzales is a pretty good rapper – stylistically derivative perhaps, but deft, playful and always entertaining. He spouts vast jets of nonsense in his rhymes but somehow manages to be more upfront than any other rapper you’d care to name.

Musicians rarely speak about, let alone lyricize, the shallow calculations that often underscore big career decisions, yet here is Gonzales on why he left Canada for Berlin: “I still remember when it first occurred to me./ Fuck it, I’m gonna move to Germany./ I don’t speak German, screw it/ But hey! I’m Jewish/ And I need a new press angle and that should do it.”

These kinds of outrageous proclamations make listening to Gonzales, or attending one of his shows, enormously fun. His almost pathological frankness presents an interesting challenge, however, when it comes to interviewing the guy. Any criticism you’d level at him has already been anticipated, and slyly underlined, in his music, or on other platforms. When he released Soft Power, his paean to Seventies soft-rock, in 2008, he posted a video online in which a Mercury label honcho begs him to take singing lessons to soften his harsh Montrealer tones. In the clip he circulated to promote his London dates, Gonzales tells a buffoonish interviewer, also played by Jason Beck, that although he “owns” France, he remains an underdog in England, adding: “I’m not a young man anymore. This could be my last chance.”

So why all the second-guessing?