Once, while desperately trying to do anything other than study for a law-school exam, I created a pictorial guide for Rick Ross's verse on Kanye's "Devil in a New Dress." Rozay, so extravagant and grandiose, was hard to believe, and committing his words to images helped to reinforce just how opulent and absurd he is.
Today, I am reprising this project to again animate a rap absurdity. Below, find an illustration of Drake's fighting words on Rawse's new track, "Stay Schemin'." Common is the target of his pillow-fight bars. It speaks for itself, I hope. You can listen along thanks to the embedded YouTube video. Drake comes in at the 1:48 mark.
(Click on the images to enlarge.)
It bothers me when the gods/Get to actin' like the broads
Guess every team doesn't come complete with n***as like ours
That's why I see no need to compete with n***as like y'all/I just ask that when you see me/You speak up, n***a/That's all/Don't be duckin' like you never wanted nothin'
It's feeling like rap changed/it was a time it was rugged/Back whenever n***a reached, it was for the weapon
Nowadays, n***as reach just to sell their record
Spaghetti bolognese in the Polo Lounge/Me and my G from DC/That's how I roll around
Might look light/But we heavy, though
You think Drake would pull some shit like that?/You never know
Million-dollar meetings in the Polo Lounge/Me and my man, Oliver North/That's how I roll around
Shorty wanna tell me secrets 'bout a rap n***a/I tell that bitch it's more attractive when you hold it down
Kobe 'bout to lose a hundred-fifty M's/Kobe my n***a/I hate it had to be him/Bitch you wasn't with me shootin' in a gym
(Ruh--bitch you wasn't with me shootin' in a gym!)
Tell Lucien I said "Fuck it"/I'm tearin' holes in my budget/Bag her like we in Publix/And take her ass out in public
Ordered her the filet/Told 'em, 'Butterfly, she'll love it'/She used to soda and nuggets/She really just started thuggin'
I'm just hittin' my pinacle/You and pussy--identical
You like the fuckin' finish line/We can't wait to run into you
But let me get my mind off that/Young, rich motherfucker/Gettin' mine off rap (wit' my n***as)
N.B: We have arrived at the end of my music-year retrospectives. See here for best and worst songs. Below is Part One of the Albums list. Part Two runs Friday.
Should someone ever perform the community service of writing a definitive obituary for hip-hop's critical standards, that author would be smart to identify some moment around 2005 as the time of death. To the extent that critical standards were ever alive and well, they surely passed away around the time when Kelefa Sanneh was intellectualizing bullshit for The New York Times and Tom Breihan was arguing that Pitbull was better than Nas. By the middle of last century, the rap-critic intelligentsia was exploring its deepest fetishes for all manner of bad music. That meant riding for Mike Jones and beseeching that everyone give Gucci Mane a chance.
This critical
filter through which many of those writers listened to music did not
permit better hip-hop to pass. Writers would not rest while
insisting upon Wayne's verbal dexterity, but they would dismiss rappers
like Black Thought as boring. Young Jeezy was a street poet but Sean
Price was off the radar. Despite music criticism's long tradition of
embracing slept-on fare--sometimes for its own sake, to be sure--many
new-age rap taste makers professed apathy toward anything that wasn't of
the moment's latest, downward craze.
Writers with those attitudes founded Pitchfork, edit GQ, enjoy validation at the Times, and have passed through Entertainment Weekly. They escape the burden of their culpability for diminishing hip-hop. (Some, like Breihan, now cover professional wrestling because, well, it's probably as cute as venerating French Montana.) In turn, many media outlets have assimilated this group's predilections and now celebrate hip-hop using inherited, skewed ideals. Oddly enough, those appetites currently overlap with the most mainstream sounds possible. So it is that Watch the Throne and Take Care are staples of the year-end roundups.
Now that the beasts sleep inside, consuming hip-hop within context while avoiding misleading conversation is difficult. That's why God made message boards and Twitter. (Peacetosomeofthegodsandtheearths.) All the same, an enjoyable year in rap music--one devoid of the great but overrun by the good--was best enjoyed in the wilderness.What follows is some wandering in from the cold.
Twelve Albums I Wanted to Like More
- G-Side, The One...Cohesive I ride for G-Side. Their lyrics are unconventionally honest quite often, and they relentlessly seek out new sounds that will work for them. Cohesive was the price paid for that kind of artistic latitude. Fairly uncoordinated, the album was a hunt on wax, an excursion out into the woods to unearth hidden secrets. Select moments--the swelling synthesizers on "Y U Mad," the strange mood from "Pictures"--are successes, but too much of the album's production was slightly off.
- Freeway, The Statik-Free EP The beats were too drab, and whether consciously cultivated or unfortunately unattended, the production made the record a throwaway.
- Statik Selektah, Population Control Making a forgettable mixtape with Sean P, Freddie Gibbs, Big K.R.I.T., Styles P, Strong Arm Steady, and Chuuwee is likely more difficult than corralling all of them in the first place. Somehow, Statik Selektah pulled off this most difficult task. To be fair, though, one of the few hip-hop feats even harder is creating a truly great collaboration record. That alchemy has eluded many talents since the dawn of time. Look no further than rap movie soundtracks: one could fill in the Mariana Trench with the many LPs whose impressive compilation of stars misled a listening public longing to hear the promise of those manifold talents made manifest on the ultimate record. Instead, rappers usually phone in their verses, lose their way outside of a comfort zone, or create a nonce song that is thematically aligned with the project but horrid as a result.
- Cocaine 80s, The Pursuit Every town has a radio station that plays Rod Stewart, the Police, the Eagles, Elton John, and Journey. Amid "Young Turks," "Every Breath You Take," "Hotel California," "Rocket Man," and "Faithfully," "Tears in Heaven" might get mixed in. Maybe even a random Stevie Wonder song. The Cocaine 80s EP, despite some promising songs, would have a home.
- J. Cole, Cole World: The Sideline Story Some of this record's faults were not its own. The rapping is good. However the production diverged so markedly from the most promising mixtape tracks which had augured for Cole's success that it was hard to not resent these choices. To wit: how can anyone listen to "The Autograph" and ever want to listen to Cole World again?
See? That song on repeat fifteen times is a better album than Cole World. Get on our your old level, Jermaine.
- The Go! Team, Rolling Blackouts An exceedingly pleasant record, each song inoffensive, melodic, and full. However, Go! Team has made two other albums about which the same can be said, and both were better. As a result, Rolling Blackouts may have unwittingly drawn a chalk outline around the band, but in permanent marker.
- Stalley, Lincoln Way Nights As a matter of principle, I don't believe in dedicating songs to Pimp C, so that's points off. (Write him an open letter using an awkward boxing simile, and then get a tattoo of him on your back if you truly see an artistic void.) But more importantly, it was just a boring album from a capable MC without a quotable or hint of personality.
- Shabazz Palaces, Black Up Very different, but not in a way that encouraged repeated listens. So many friends vouched for this record, but it never worked out.
- Skyzoo, The Great Debater For a particular set of rappers, one need only hear three or four songs in a given year but no more. They are professional MCs with polished skills, only they cannot go beyond a fairly narrow niche. Skyzoo is the avatar of this rapping class, a Kyle Korver who can do but a few things particularly well. In Sky's case, that's ride a beat and string together phrases easily. He pumps out records that might as well be widgets, fungible and nondescript.
- Co$$, Before I Awoke Co$$ is the West Coast bureau chief of Skyzoo's operation. Rather than nineteen tracks, Before I Awoke could have been a sublime four-song EP #damnedwithfaintpraise
- Saigon, Greatest Story Never Told Among the more grating television experiences are the instances when the sound feed lags ever so slightly behind the motion on screen. Characters talk and the sound tracks the motion of their mouths closely enough that the audience knows what the actors are saying when they deliver lines, but the subtle delay is a gnawing discomfort. Greatest Story Never Told is just like that. The elements seem to fit together: Saigon's tough-man bars, Just Blaze's loud production. Only, the entire presentation seems off half a tick. The rhymes are not as impressive, the beats not as moving. The record is exactly as it should be, but a lingering malfunction prevents it from being truly enjoyable.
- The Game, Purp & Patron Tapes On January 27, Game released a 29-track mixtape, Purp & Patron. Its best seven or eight songs are 75% of a memorable album. On February 2, Game released Purp & Patron: The Hangover, another 15 songs, largely superfluous. Its best two or three songs are the other 25% needed for an album that would stand alongside anything else as Game's best post-Documentary work. (Forget not that any inquiry into Game's "best" rapping is a highly subjective exercise in ranking name-drops and thug posturing.) To assemble that album requires cutting away more than thirty bad songs, a task that is just miserable. Demanding so much effort from a listener is an imposition, and the hubris behind it would be galling were it not hilarious. After all, this is Game, an unembarrassed rap marionette who would be adorable as a character on Sesame Street.
- Lil Wayne, Tha Carter IV The rhyming was lazy and outright stupid at times. Wayne's voice has forever been like catnip. The production, a putative strength, was uneven. The best song, "6'7'," came out so long before the record that by the time Carter IV dropped, its standout track was fun to remember and then put away. Its second-best song, the interlude with Tech N9ne and Andre, tellingly doesn't even feature Lil' Wayne. Its third-best song, "She Will," carried some of the album's dumbest rapping. Its fourth-best song, "John," was a tinny, cheap remake of a middling Rick Ross song. "How to Love" is on this disaster. And the nicest thing anyone had to say about Carter IV was that it carried some veiled shots at Jay-Z (fired by the Kitten Whisperer), and Jadakiss quickly disclaimed any knowledge of them, likely because he was embarrassed to be on the album in the first place.
Had Wayne, an awful rock musician, just remade Spinal Tap songs and called this album "Shit Sandwich," it would have been better. What a wonderful hero for hip-hop.
- Drake, Take Care In my worst songs of the year post, I covered everything I dislike about Drake. When you set aside the most petty reasons for scorn, and divorce yourself from the endless humor he invites (no easy task), what remains are legitimate music criticisms. His rapping is often facile, his struggle is not sympathetic nor terribly interesting, and his music is mediocre, the bad and good intermingled. Those reasons, alone, should be enough. But then...it's also so much fun to hate. Not wholly undeserved, either.
- Wale, Ambition Not only is his Maybach Music Group persona cheap, ignorant, and derivative; not only is his Maybach Music Group production garish and uninviting; not only has he destroyed the promise made by The Mixtape about Nothing, but also he now traffics in the most banal hip-hop cliches possible. What a boring waste.
Five Curious Records
- Clams Casino, Instrumental Mixtape It is fitting that Clams Casino provided the signature sounds for A$AP Rocky. An album like Rocky's that is devoted to the codeine lifestyle deserves a soundtrack to that woozy period when the cold medicine begins to really kick in. Casino can do that as well as anyone, something he demonstrated most notably while making music for Lil' B. Many of those beats are on this tape, and it is a tribute to their emotional heft and body-shot drums that they are better when stripped of the Based God's rapping. Though not its sole theme, 2011 saw the gauzy music of yearning everywhere, signaling that Casino's time is nigh, if not already upon us.
- Nujabes, Spiritual State When I first got to the internet, a random Japanese rap record driven by jazz-piano riffs found its way onto my computer. That was Modal Soul by Nujabes, and it remains some of the smoothest, most ambient music I know. Spiritual State, six years later, extends that legacy. It is a record of refined, pristine jazz music placed over elemental break beats, and it is perfect for almost every day.
- Safety Words, The Ghostface Pixels Mixtape Nerds--squad up! Imagine Wu-Tang clan verses grafted onto hip-hop beats constructed using a drum machine and the music from 8-bit Nintendo games. Cool right? OK, now stop quoting Star Wars (I do that), put down the George R.R. Martin (I read that), take a cold shower, and peep this joint. It's a lot of fun. And Safety Words is from St. Louis, so you know, I care a little extra.
- Dela, Translation Lost Like Nujabes, Dela is symbolic of internet music life. Floating in the ether, Dela drops spacey, jazzed-out albums periodically and probably wouldn't find an audience without the new means of music consumption. Nothing is touching the incredible Atmosphere Airlines series, but Translation Lost was a worthwhile follow up, albeit without the usual array of Native Tongue sympathizers and imitators.
- Gummy Soul, Fela Soul Chopped up Fela Kuti songs paired with classic De La Soul verses. What else must be said?
When Chris Paul was untraded back from the Lakers to the Hornets, the procession of horribles was so obvious that cataloging them was almost a delight. Los Angeles suffered a compromised foundation, the untraded Pau Gasol and Lamar Odom. Houston's careful planning was exposed and burned to the ground. Boston alienated its future by marginalizing Rajon Rondo and lost out on David West. New Orleans was left with a toxic asset and even less of the limited leverage it enjoyed at the outset. Further, the Hornets were not likely to receive more for Paul than Lamar Odom, Luis Scola, and Kevin Martin.
Ultimately the Hornets sent Paul to Lob City, where he is now mayor, and New Orleans received Eric Gordon, Al-Farouq Aminu, Chris Kaman, and a coveted draft pick in return. However ugly the Paul trade saga may have been, watching the NBA-sanctioned Hornets was worse.
Game time in Phoenix, and the U.S. Airways Center is 60% full. The Suns event staff ushers the crowd through the customary, empty pre-game ceremonies. The in-arena MC for the evening is Cedric Ceballos, and this invites conflicted thinking: is it horribly sad that Ceballos is left to fill this role, or should everyone feel optimistic that the NBA is an engine of job growth? Better that he has something to do, right? Really, the answer lies somewhere in the middle. Over the course of the evening, the Suns will help America get back to work by trotting out not just Ceballos, but also Kayte Christensen, a "social sideline reporter," and no fewer than three different blonde women who preside over trivia games and giveaways. (Jokes aside, these are the faces of the lockout's true losers, and they were largely without representation during the NBA labor strife.)
Staying true to their community, the Suns' dance team features women named Sumer, Brittni, Geminise, and Jordan, among others. How terribly Phoenix. Betting against them having tattoos and fake hair would be like burning money. These girls enjoy center-court status as the Hornets and Suns are introduced. New Orleans trots out Eric Gordon and four of Chris Paul's Pips: Marco Belinelli, Emeka Okafor, Carl Landry, and Trevor Ariza. (Chris Kaman, earning $12.9m this year, does not start. Enjoy working at your job.) After dispensing with this formality, the lights go out, a jumbotron introduction video forged in the fires of excessive editing comes on, and the Suns are revealed. Emerging in pairs from assorted gates--look how much the players love the fans!--these desert conquerors descend onto the court for another exciting season of hoarding cap room for 2012. (Phoenix will have more than $29m to spend next off-season.) The smartest pairing is Josh Childress and Hakim Warrick. The crowd can only point, gawk, and make fun of their contracts once.
The first quarter is as ugly as one might expect when two ill-prepared teams of meager ability play for the first time. Grant Hill collapses in a heap on three different occasions, Carl Landry fires an air ball, Jared Dudley looks disoriented. The Hornets soon bring in Greivis Vasquez, a point guard who couldn't beat out Jeremy Pargo for minutes in Memphis, and literally everything he does is awkward. Everything. Errant and ill-advised passes. "Drives" to the basket that are labored exercises in grinding on another man. Hectic dribbling with no discernible purpose. Nothing, though, is a greater indictment of the New Orleans offense than the quarter coming to a close with Eric Gordon taking only two shots. He may be an efficient scorer, but on a team with such a stunted attack, Gordon should shoot often enough to embarrass John Salmons.
The game wore on this way. There was never a rhythm, nor any spells when cleaner play hinted that each team would eventually look professional. Instead, the Suns and Hornets animated the NBA's worst problems. In a league of stars, none were to be found. Gordon, despite his shooting touch, balance, and basketball aplomb, is the ultimate sidekick. He is not assertive, partially because he cannot be. Gordon does not drive to the basket reliably; he struggles to control the game when forced to dribble. A shaky handle leaves him as an excellent jump shooter. There is no shame in that fate, but neither is their glory. Steve Nash, meanwhile, plays as his worst self on this diminished Suns team, dribbling too often and recklessly racing toward vanishing real estate. Nash had twelve assists against New Orleans, but he never created a sense of control, and much of his production owed to his protracted periods with the basketball. Less maestro than ER doctor, Nash spent the game scurrying around to no end. Something less than the stuff of NBA mythology.
Not every team will have a transcendent star, of course, and the Hornets and Suns might be forgiven as teams in the midst of churn. Worse was the depressing nature of the entire affair. By the end of the first quarter, the arena was 90% full, a late-arriving crowd that surely needed just a few more minutes for those final fluorescent vodka shooters. (Phoenix!) The PA announcer worked hard to keep the audience engaged, leading cheers of "De-fense," kicking it over to Cedric, and supervising the endless barrage of gimmicks. Fire exploded out of the baskets, t-shirts whistled into the crowd, and those tasteful dancers gyrated with elegance. Yet all of these elements comprised an elaborate citadel built to guard a gaping void. On the court, Robin Lopez and Marcin Gortat mechanically finished at the rim while Trevor Ariza vacillated between encouraging veteran and disappointing never-was, but the season's first game condemned both teams before either had played its remaining sixty-five. No good will grow out of this garden.
Sad air suffocated the night. Al-Farouq Aminu was a whirling mess in eleven minutes, hardly playing on a team going nowhere after factoring prominently in the trade that ground the league to a halt. Chris Kaman was an infamous grotesque. Shannon Brown looked heavy yet adrift. Everywhere, NBA basketball was in its ugliest iteration, from incompetent isolations to woeful free-throw shooting and vacant defenses. The enduring image was a common, deflating one: Josh Childress missing an open corner three after 24 seconds of writhing in the name of nothing. It is a symbol of basketball at its worst, and it was the most fitting reminder of why it can sometimes be so difficult to love this game.
Dave Bing should pass a law mandating that all Detroit-area rappers must prove themselves over this Black Milk banger. The beat is one that I can't ever turn off or skip. Soulful and spacious, it is a perfect litmus test.
Ever since I heard him reduce hip-hop's stupidity to memorably pithy bars on Talib Kweli's "Slap N***as," Saigon has done scared-straight better than anyone. His voice is clear and firm, lending his bars understated authority, and Giddy can take on a matter-of-fact demeanor that shames any listener who was thinking otherwise. Given that it took Saigon more than half a decade to drop a major-label release, the mid-aughts feel and structure are fitting.
If an instrument can make a big sound, Black Milk wants it in his music. If it can make a big sound alongside other bombastic elements, Black Milk wants it in his music. And if it can do these things on top of drums that will never stop coming for you, Black Milk will find a way to make it sound like hip-hop. He does not engage in the ostentatious musicianship of the Roots, and he does not get the same kind of credit as Kanye when Mr. West plays his shit with a string orchestra, but Black Milk does as much for hip-hop arrangement as anyone. Dude is brilliant.
87) The Go! Team, "Apollo Throwdown"
I can't tell if anyone else still likes the Go! Team. I never hear or read about them, this year's album came and went briskly, and they haven't played a show near me in ages. Rolling Blackouts was more curiosity than record. The music was largely derivative and the rotating roster of vocalists was not a feature with enduring appeal. "Apollo" captured the band at its best, though--an energetic medley with a schoolyard feel.
The interplay between Miguel, all loving, and Pusha, all menace, created a tension that kept this song fresh, no matter how often it came on the radio.
Should we say it now or hold off? How about now, only so that everyone knows what's what: I would feel flattered if Sean Price ever were to slap my kufi off. Only when he dies will we know what "gully" means because he lives it every second of every day. That's what this track is about: 70 seconds of unadulterated gully.
Beating the shit out of you, telling you that you can't rap, making fun of
your sneaker collection, smoking drugs. Sean
Price...does...not...give...a...fuck. As I have explained at least once before, it is freeing and the absolute best.
84) Azealia Banks, "212"
I used to think that I was the most profane person anyone could meet. Oops.
The first hundred seconds of this song are great. Banks flows better than most rappers you've heard of, and she demonstrates a playfulness that makes her a human, not just an internet sensation.
83) Amy Winehouse ft. Nas, "Like Smoke"
Don't tell Jay or Kels, but these two would have made a proper Best of Both Worlds album. Nas picks production that actually works for him about once every five or six songs, so credit goes to Winehouse and her team for finding yet another vintage-sounding beat that simultaneously showed off her rare talents and his.
82) Del tha Funkee Homosapien, "The Things"
The internets don't know this song. They should. Del does Del things on it, and his scratchy, discordant voice is intact and awesome.
It takes five-and-a-half minutes, but after "I'm So Appalled" makes it through that dreary, angered march of super friends, the RZA blows up the track with his shout-rapping. Amid other pissed off people, it doesn't sound out of place, however RZA shows up like a raving lunatic from off the street, not another inconvenienced member of Kanye's refined society.
RZA was well served by that guest spot. It was a useful reminder of what he can accomplish when not doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-ing. Specifically, RZA retains command over an exciting, rambunctious microphone presence and an endlessly discursive rhyming style that is unique and amusing. He puts it to good use on "Robbery," a simple but effective song.
Angering the Caribbean League is a bad look, and not just because of its association with the Click Clack Clan. (R.I.P.) Rather, Pusha T is quietly ferocious at almost all times. When he spits battle bars--no matter how empty the threats may be, nor how senseless the beef--it is cutting all the same:
Rappers on their sophomores
Actin’ like they boss lords
Fame such a
funny thing for sure
When n***as start believing all them encores
I’m
just the one to send you off--bonjour
See yourself as I pull up in that
mirror tint
Skins vs. blouses, you mirror Prince
Given the relative whisper with which he was gunning for dudes, his presence was even more sinister, and the song even more intense.
In the nicest way possible, "Random Call" served as an everyman-rapper's anthem. For years, Guilty Simpson has strung together serviceable if unspectacular verses, just as Sean P has put out the best druggin'-and-thuggin' rhymes possible. On "Random Call," each got to enjoy a moment of recognition, assuredly doing what they each do best over one of Black Milk's finest-blended beats of the year.
I've never been to Los Angeles. What I know of the city comes from hip-hop music, Boyz n the Hood, Training Day, The Hills, and Laker games. In my mind, it's an unyielding traffic jam with movie stars, Pau Gasol, gangsters wearing one-button flannel with their khakis, and dudes like Co$$ and Blu sitting on a couch somewhere smoking drugs. This song provides a score for the scene.
Co$$ is underrated and overlooked. Blending an unassuming demeanor with an active voice that recalls the Pharcyde, he churns out head-nod track after head-nod track. Most of his music has the same sanded-down feel of "Flames." Such an accessible and smooth style suffers the misfortune of being easily forgotten, but when made well, these types of tracks connect to an emotional state that they accordingly call forth in perpetuity. "Flames" successfully does just that and suggests a relaxed afternoon with the sun shining through a curtain into a hazy living room.
77) Cocaine 80s ft. Common, "Summer Madness"
Somewhere along the way, No I.D. decided that he was going to own the lite-FM genre this year. In service of that agenda, he made Common an album that is as confusing as it is good, and he put out a random EP with his Cocaine 80s friends that should have come with a mullet and tube socks. That said, the track's breezy vibe is great, and the updated take on a Kool & the Gang favorite is appreciated.
The mere fact that some New Zealand rapper--New Zealand--got Freddie Gibbs to lace his debut single with one of the most deftly spit verses of the year merits inclusion on any retrospective list. Dallas is a pedestrian MC who had the good sense to choose a sedated beat with just enough character as a showpiece. The winding piano chords were a great touch.
Now, about Gibbs: he is the best rapper working today, and the analysis need not be complicated. His presence is commanding, his flow is impeccable, his rhymes are precise. The man makes music that a rap fan wants to hear. Gibbs is very much a gangster on the microphone, but he is not so froward that he eschews adapting to a beat. He is no chameleon, of course, but however he has to vary his cadence, Gibbs finds the best way to not just ride the beat but control it. He put that talent on full display during the second verse of "Daze," and it only reaffirmed everything I wrote about him last year.
So much to make fun of: 1) They called it "Let the Dogs Loose" because it relies on the same "Shaft" sample that Jay-Z used for "Reservoir Dogs," and two of the original members from that lineup rap on this song; 2) Papoose is alive, apparently, and accounted for here (I still kind of like how awkward he is); 3) Busta Rhymes delivers another globalization lecture and name checks Uzbekistan, probably because it's a weird place far away that he's heard of; 4) Kay Slay still puts out mixtapes; 5) Kay Slay yells, "Rhyme or Die!"; 6) "Credit and debit" is "rhymed" against "weapons in seconds." That's enough for now.
For all those failures and more, it's a dumb song. And yet, it's dumb in an entirely pleasing way that keeps this proudly New York posse cut entertaining. It's also hard to ruin a Shaft bass line.
Christmas came early this year when the Game released twomixtapes in January. He had a quiet 2010, and the world suffered as a result. After all, Earth, to say nothing of hip-hop, is a better place when Game is pumping out the self-conscious, earnest psycho-drama music that he has elevated to an art form. The arrival of two bloated, misguided, quietly crazy tapes heralded that 2011 would surpass its predecessor.
"R.I.P Story" and "Children's Story" are the living proof. On the former, Games walks us through a nice bedtime story about getting away with murder, and he sets it to a cheery, pared down soundscape that would be a fitting accompaniment for a children's book on tape. There's even a Puffy cameo and--what else?--a mention of his inflammatory past with 50 Cent. On the latter, Games conjures his best cockney accent to turn in an unconvincing Slick Rick impression. Whatever Game lacks as an impersonator he compensates for as a lunatic person, though. "Children's Story" is the heartwarming tale of...getting away with murder. Only in this one, Snoop Dogg helps him get home and there are conspicuous references to Biz Markie and Slick Rick.
So yes, he made two upbeat songs that delve into the rich details of getting away with fictional murders. The definition of madness is to do the same thing over and over but to expect a different result, and it would seem as though Game falls into this trap. But that may be Game's true genius: who is the crazy one if the audience keeps listening with expectations that anything will ever change? Game forces each of us--or me, at least--to look inward and confront whether we, not him, are the people headed down the wrong path. As we do so, he'll provide rap music with solid fundamentals and never ending fodder for psychoanalysis. The Game is a singular artiste.
72) Talib Kweli, "I'm on One"
You know, the other song with this title. Probably not a club staple wherever it is that you go to get drunk and sweaty. This one has a "C'Mon, Son" from Ed Lover on the intro and Khrysis on the boards with the heat. Were it performed in St. Louis, it would surely have Murphy Lee since the background vocal loop is the same quasi-shouting from Big Tuck's "Not a Stain on Me." (St. Louis is still rocking that shit on repeat.) Kweli is direct, standing at attention and delivering efficient, crisp rhymes. Over the beat's rigid shouts and pumping bass, the entire affect is somewhat bellicose, and that's a good look for Talib as a departure from the norm.
Changing up a rhyme scheme within a verse is not a new rapping technique. Gibbs does it often. His transitions within a verse are what set him apart. Be it extending an image, tip-toeing over a break in the beat, changing up his tempo, or whatever else is required, dude always finds a way to maintain his rhythm. The first verse on "Dawgz" was a helpful illustration.
9th Wonder suffered an unfortunate fate. Little Brother crafted one of the best albums of the 2000s, and that debut turned out to be the group's apex. The Listening was great, and it generated a dedicated following (*raises hand*). However, it was far too elemental and normal for music critics, many of whom were already fast out of the gates as they raced toward what has become an ongoing obsession with bad rap music. (Never forget who has wasted your time insisting that Houston is the movement, T.I. is the best, and Nicki is brilliant.) Without critical backing, and without a commercial environment interested in Little Brother, the group steadily dwindled. 9th branched out along the way, producing for Jay-Z and many others, but opinions of him from all quarters turned sour. 9th was derided as formulaic, simple and boring for using the same drum schemes on too many beats, and for his abiding faith in soul music.
Some of the criticism was fair. Many 9th Wonder songs sound the same, in kind if not always specifics. Many are straightforward and basic, inoffensive but unremarkable. The high preponderance of similarities across his catalog facilitates dismissing all of it; wading through all those samples may not be worth the effort if the best are ultimately reminiscent of the worst. There is some merit to that thinking, but it too steeply discounts 9th Wonder's talent. Further, it neglects that during his washed out phase, the man has become a reliable producer working steadily.
We might say something similar about Masta Killa, a Wu founder who never broke out and has always been an afterthought. That cool, calculated delivery is a chilling asset on Wu-Tang favorites, but it's also laconic to the point that it fails to encourage much fealty. The man raps well, though, and he linked up with 9th to create a track that is both redemptive and instructive. Both of these guys can make good music.
I like K.R.I.T., but I don't love him. He doesn't move me the way he does others. I wish he did. I envy the rap fans who commune with Big K.R.I.T. because I recognize that his wit, his flow, and his ear for music is each great. Instead, I have to work a little harder to sit with his music and make sure I soak it up in a fashion that happens more naturally with some other rappers. "Moon & Stars" didn't take much extra effort. It is as smooth a track as one could want, and that is no coincidence. Both K.R.I.T. and Curren$y have made that feeling a hallmark.
66) Elzhi, "Verbal Intercourse"
Few rappers spit such weighty bars with Elzhi's ease. He is not polished, but then, he is unconcerned with the cosmetics. The dude just wants to get on something that bumps and tell you the truth. El's rhyming is honest, intuitive, smart, and thorough. Fittingly, "Verbal Intercourse" is not an ultimate triumph but instead another entry in one of rap's deepest catalogs. Elzhi at his most prosaic is a star, and that's high praise.
Pusha will never assimilate. No matter how many songs he records, how much money he makes, nor how far removed from the streets he gets, he always will have that burner mixed in with his socks. Clipse albums have suffered from this uncompromising grasp on the past, and Pusha may always be just the best of the dope boys. "Raid" sounds like change, but it presents a tautological quandary: does that solitary ragtime piano carry a lingering melancholy that infects Pusha, or does Pusha's stern facade make that piano seem lonely? Those elements appear inextricable.
This song incepted my mind, the parasitic idea so deeply embedded in my psyche that ultimately it flourished. And I mean that in the most complimentary way possible.
On the surface, "Thinking about You" is languorous and maybe even an imposition. The muted Moog synthesizer wafts from chord to chord, and the song appears to go nowhere. It's up to Frank Ocean's syrupy voice to save the track. He dances along the music, sweeping his way across a sluggish accompaniment and instilling more life. He softly lands on the notes with grace. Were Ocean playing basketball and not singing, he would be the balletic Kobe Bryant pivoting on the base line. Ocean's performance gives an audience much to consider. A first inconvenienced listen becomes a second, just to verify that the initial impression was the right one. A second becomes a third, becomes a fourth, becomes a fifth, each time justified because there is one last thing to catch. All the while, "Thinking about You" grows entrancing, and by the ninth or tenth listen, it has claimed space in your memory.
62) Meyhem Lauren ft. Action Bronson, "Typhoon Rap"
Perhaps the most hip-hop song of the year: a break beat, some limited DJ filler, a chorus that picks up only so that it can give way to bludgeoning verses, and rhymes that make you smile. Oh, and Action Bronson, your favorite food blogger's favorite rapper.
Speaking of the Wu-Tang Clan, no one--no one--has made better-sounding Wu-Tang music over the last few years than Bronze Nazareth. Nazareth consistently creates the off-kilter feel of first-wave Wu-Tang solo records. He chops up samples and runs them into each other before carving an instrumental flourish into the side and summoning the drums. He is not the RZA, but he also is not some cheap substitute. Rather, Nazareth is a worthy successor to the Wu-Tang legacy, and his new works simultaneously extend the style while celebrating the foundation. That Masta Killa and Deck sound at home over this beat is the ultimate validation.
By the way: Bronze Nazareth is from Michigan. Of course. No state has produced more of the best music since 2000. Look it up.
The cascading synth notes laid across such punchy drums made this a hypnotic instrumental when Black Milk first introduced it. To his credit, he preserved its character while allowing Sean Price to rap like he were on a corner and enlisting Roc Marciano to drag it even farther through the streets. Subtly, then, this track was a wonderful stylistic blend. And as though Random Axe were seeking extra credit, the track cuts out with a Wu-Tang homage.
I didn't know O-Solo before Madlib delivered him. His voice is booming, so much so that he manages to stand up to an overwhelming Madlib production. The beat sounds like the soundtrack from the life of a pinball.
With apologies to Drake, Jim Jones, and anyone still rapping about kosher lawyers, "Operator" is the most Jewish song of the year. How Jewish? "Operator" has yarmulkes, Jewish street money, falafel, vitamins from Israel, and, of course, Kosha Dillz. He is not likely to become a rich and famous rapper, but there is no question that he can enjoy a novelty career on the bar-mitzvah circuit if he wants that.
"Operator" also has Kool G Rap dumping bodies in dumpsters and selling hard white. L'Chaim!
Blu is enigmatic. Were it not for the internet, no one would know he exists. Even with the internet's assistance, he is inscrutable. His music appears randomly, and the appellation schemes for his mixtapes are confusing. No one has much bad to write about him, and yet few are ever excited by his music. Whenever he makes a song that more of the internet might hear, he acquits himself well but it leads nowhere. Meanwhile, he makes tape after tape of well-wrought sample-driven hip-hop. That might be some of his problem. A lot of the music blends together, and while a technically gifted MC with a soothing voice, he does not spit verses that you'd automatically quote to other people. Blu is dope, but in a way that fails to resonate.
What's that? You like this song because it is severe and grand, sort of like a blaring soundtrack from a 70s movie? Yeah, well no shit. You're now rocking with Bronze Nazareth.
In a bygone era, Timbo King would have crafted a signature song worthy of cult worship, if not something better. Timbo delivers a forceful assertion of self using bars that are wacky and feverish. Over the course of the record, he spits memes, he pauses to cough as an artistic element, he creates sideways punch lines. He uses a tradition-rich shorthand to punctuate his rhymes. Timbo does it all, and this should be a street record that people remember. Only they won't. They don't. This style of music, loud heathen rap, doesn't command that sort of reverence any longer. It's a shame.
Yinka Diz is another MC worthy of more shine. Diz has a crisp voice and an insightful train of thought. He does not concern himself with marketing or perpetuating an image. Instead, he relays back to a listener what he's seen and thought. The simplicity of his approach is appreciated.
Sure, he openly campaigns for it, but that doesn't make this any less true: this is a quintessential summertime song.
52) Raekwon ft. Black Thought, "Masters of Our Fate"
Black Thought steps away from his normal milieu and takes a bath in this viscous struggle-bar music. The song has a desperate spirit, and no matter how exaggerated the emotion, it works.
It's strange that four notes from "Starfish and Coffee" can remain so potent. Yet ever since Nice & Smooth's "No Delayin'," this piano snippet has been premium hip-hop real estate. The loop derives most of its appeal from the sense of expectation that it conveys: the notes open up onto a void. Rather than continuing as a melody rises, the music resets, and the cycle begins again. Such evergreen possibility gives MCs a license to flow on, and the Money Making Jam Boys fill the space ably with ego-rich declarations that honor the beat's heritage ("Synthetic Substitution" drums for good measure) and the tradition of the posse cut. Whatever people normally don't like about Roots weed men Truck North and Dice Raw seem insignificant as the group calls the meeting to order up in its tree house.
Statik Selektah was the hardest-working dude in rap this year. Every ten minutes, he had a new song or mixtape out. Pump the breaks, dun, and let us digest it all. Fuck.
More struggle bars, but delivered by two of hip-hop's finest. K.R.I.T.'s delivery was perfect, the last verse in particular. He alternated between his southern drawl and slightly clipped syllables, there, alone, helping to advance a story of striving.
You know what's hilarious? In all these Bronze Nazareth YouTubes, the dudes (you know it's dudes) who upload the songs set them to kung-fu clips. How meta.
This song is great. It is wildly incoherent and downright hallucinatory. "Fresh from the Morgue" is so crazy that no one on the internet could manage to properly transcribe all the lyrics. Here are some of them (I think):
- "We chop trees never yellin' 'Timber!'"
- "Triple-beam coffin lifter"
- "Molotovs tossed/detonate/engulf my blogs"
- "Sicilians and gold Brazilians/Over my lap like pavilions"
Those are Bronze Nazareth. RZA came correct in response, including a line of the year. See if you can catch it:
"The inflictions to past descriptions known by known adjectives"
"Crumble MCs/Keep a pocket of crumbled cheese/Not of tuna fish/But I been in the can with bumble bees"
EMI doesn't understand the internets, so there is no easily found studio version of this song. The live versions only do it partial justice; they fail to capture the swelling emotion that makes the track so enlivening. I have nothing to say about the lyrical content. Frankly, it's worthless, because the soaring instrumentation is what made this so good.
G-Side's continued transformation has been less of an evolution than a series of experiments. After Huntsville International, the Cohesive album was a step backward. Though it had its moments, that record was anything but what its title suggested, and G-Side sounded like it was uncertain of what to do next. So back to the laboratory it went, and when the group again emerged on Island, it had put its experiential wisdom to good use. "Cinematic" captures G-Side's latest iteration as a group that seeks novel ways to tell everyday hip-hop stories. Dispensing with traditional rap styles, be they southern or otherwise, these dudes have instead concocted a stew with all manner of ingredients. It allows them to seamlessly weave together the sound of a live band and a choral backing that turns from rich to sparse and back again.
Maybe this is cheating a little. You can do much worse than remaking a Led Zeppelin favorite. However, if the original was triumphant and aggressive, the new version is sinister and deliberate. This update sees you getting enveloped by evil, so it opts against inciting conflict. Instead, it encourages fear and surrender to the inevitable. That's fucking bad-ass.
And now, a programming note: you're halfway through. Congratulations. I believe the second half is shorter than the first. You know, because my taste is so good that any song's mere inclusion on the list is definitive proof of its merit.
Freeway is the ultimate style-over-substance MC. Whatever he's saying is always obscured by how he's saying it. He can't help it--that voice. Free's sing-song delivery still commands attention, so much so that the aesthetics of his music are more important than they would be for less of a peacock. How a Freeway track makes you feel is the dispositive inquiry, and "P.A." acquits itself nicely. The somewhat shrill sample mirror's Freeway's high-pitched vocals, the track's tempo keeps things moving, and Mac Miller holds his own amid so much energy.
Can someone explain to me what happened to Busta Rhymes? How did we go from Leaders of the New School and Long Island living to acceptance as a shadowy rap mafia don? From hard-rapping goofball on The Coming to an international playboy with Rothschild money and A-rab money riding camels in the Middle East? From Native Tongue friend to Young Money mercenary? I will die still perplexed but what we've witnessed.
Anyway...Styles P stays underrated. He strings together great images, he makes references that hold a listener's attention, and he can really work a beat. This sparse set up suits him. It also suits Rozay, who burps gravy all over the place and smothers the track in a way that manages to not kill it but make it heavier. Not sure if you have to be a New Yorker to ride for this track, but it probably helps. "Harsh" was made for a midnight mixtape show.
*sigh* Jay Rock is exceedingly adequate. Give him a paint-by-number rhyme book and he can follow the key while generally staying within the lines. He can't create his own pictures, though. If it's been done before and from Los Angeles, he knows what to do. Otherwise, nope. Kendrick Lamar, meanwhile, has vision. He has talent. He can rhyme with creativity. Setting them against each other in juxtaposition is almost like an elaborate practical joke at Jay Rock's expense. Hopefully he got paid well.
Hard to hate on Jay too much, though, because the gorgeous J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League beat is distracting. When these dudes find a sample they like, no one is better right now.
Not sure what happened to the Loosie Crew, but these dudes have always been able to rap. It's no different on this track. There is a segment of hip-hop fans who find songs like this boring. Not quite boom-bap filler, it is a close relative, your basic beats and rhymes. The production does its job but little more, and the rapping is about word play and jokes for the sake of the craft. That is not hard to find, but it is not inherently bad music because it sounds commonplace. Rather, "The Cookout" is an example of when ordinary is an ideal.
I am told that the "rapper" Big Sean also appears on this song. I consider that apocryphal because: 1) I heard a version without his verse (or any "do it"); and 2) I don't acknowledge his existence (the best way to get an annoying kid to stop). Wiz doesn't do much for me, either, though he is Rakim to Big Sean's Bishop (not in a Juice way). Khalifa is a more thoughtful and artistic rapper, but his music has a hollow feel that predominates. That may be a cultivated affection meant to match the Smoke-or-Die lifestyle Wiz perpetuates, but regardless of its provenance, that vibe leaves him uninteresting. Many technically able MCs are just not compelling, and Khalifa is among them. Poor Wiz.
Curren$y, though, is the dude. I was late to appreciate his music, partially because sometime around 2009, I was tired of having to hear a new rapper's new mixtape every day. But then I stopped reading the music-breaking blogs that treat every artist equally and hype up bullshit because Asher Roth'sCurt@!ns'sNickelus's someone's people asked nicely enough. Freed of that duty, I could spend more time with what I actually wanted to hear, and ultimately I found my way to Spitta. For as nimble as his rhyming can be (and it certainly is here), and for as unique as his voice can be, he has an incredible ear for music. He picks fantastic material for himself. That is not a talent for which rappers receive much credit, but it makes a huge difference.
The enduring message of every A$AP Rocky song appears to be that he wishes he had grown up in Houston. How else to reconcile that LiveLoveA$AP is essentially a playlist for getting throwed? A$AP never goes all the way, though. He is not the next in line after Mike Jones, Paul Wall, Slim Thug, and all them. Nor is he 100% DJ Screw. Rather, his sound is more like artificial Houston, or maybe even tofu Houston (Houst'n?) The heavy bass and those chopped-and-screwed moments are everywhere, just like the drawn-out string notes. Yet they are diluted by other influences, and the sum of those parts resembles many other things but is never a true copy. "Bass" is an argument for synthetics, an easily digested simulacrum that gives outsiders a taste of the Gulf but withholds the real thing. Given how underwhelming most Houston rap music is, that's plenty filling.
37) Shabazz Palaces, "Swerve...The Reaping of All That Is Worthwhile (Noir Not Withstanding)"
First of all, shorten the cot'dam title.
More substantively, this is a sneaky track that pulls itself together suddenly. Butterfly's rapping remains steady and he has retained a presence that carries an air of dignity. If I understood what he is rapping about, I would probably like him even more.
Again, can anyone find a rap song that ever suffered from a jazzy horn loop?
Murs is wonderfully accessible. It might strike some as odd to laud him for this trait when discussing a song about the travels common folk don't experience, but that is also why now is most appropriate. Even when the realities of a celebrity lifestyle invade his music, Murs remains like the rest of us. He raps without pretense, he perpetuates no fiction, and he describes his subjects with references and values that are appealing and familiar. Murs is the proverbial guy you'd like to grab a beer with. He is as likable a rapper as you'll find. And his shit knocks.
Lyrically, this track is all about celebration and opulence. Musically, this track is all about the end of days. Combined, the satisfied rhymes and the dire aesthetic create a song that is urgent and definitive. When arguing, an animated and assertive person can overwhelm the more reasonable party. "Rich and Black" has that feel, as though it seeks to overwhelm before anyone has an opportunity to say something.
And while we're on the topic of rich and black, that should merit consideration for the title of the next album these two put out together. It's what they're into now. That they should be as into beats like this. Jay and Kanye are much more fun--and much more tolerable--over a richer sound like this than they are over jagged beats like those from "N***as in Paris" and other Watch the Throne joints. Perhaps that is heresy among those who have celebrated the reaching style of WTT, but activity and accomplishment are not to be confused.
This is the No I.D. everyone wanted to hear when Common said he was working with his original shepherd on The Dreamer/The Believer. Shepherd is the best word, too, because Common is perpetually in need of direction. From No I.D., to the Soulquarians, to Kanye, to the Neptunes, to No I.D., Common has been searching. (A psychologist can delve into why, and what it says that Common's dad closes every album from a career spent seeking guidance.) He is supremely talented--insightful and pithy with a strong presence and biting one-liners. Yet his talent has brought him little peace; Common always seems in conflict. The New York Times called him "neutered" recently, and that speaks to the usual perception that he is wounded and somehow impaired. In that spirit, "Lovin' I Lost" is one of the best kinds of Common: reflective, honest, articulate.
Out of nowhere, No I.D. put together this one-off pop EP that is melodic, beautiful at times, boring at others, and pretty different. It defied easy categorization. "Truth" is the best track from it, a loaded love ballad that is made by James Fauntleroy's singing.
Like everyone else, I fux with Frank Ocean. Endorsing him is like endorsing Adele. "Strawberry Swing" stood out on a generally strong record because of the thin guitar picking that opens the track and runs through it. That element enhances a putatively wistful song. Curiously, the rolling drums are triumphant, so the track's design is far from obvious. Depending on the listener's mood, it can be a sad song about a conclusion or an encouraging song about moving forward. That dichotomy may be a fitting proxy for Ocean, whose solo work has been easy to latch onto but not as readily classified.
My
esteem for this song may be inflated by its cinematic sample (car chase
in a big American car from the 70s!) and the fact that Prodigy and Hav
are (mostly) rhyming again. (No small feat for Prodigy, sadly.) Does
this sound reminiscent of halcyon era M-o-b-b? No. Will anything they
make ever again? No. Will anyone ever pull that off? Hard to touch The
Infamous. "More Like Us" succeeds on its own, though, largely due to the
production.
Kendrick Lamar gives us a lot to work with. Lyrically, his words and methods are engaging; there is usually something more to listen for. Thematically, he takes on engaging topics. And stylistically, he presents a range of music and sounds.
P.S. It was a good year for the RZA. And he is an actor now.
Coming on in medias res, Ghostface holds himself out as an almost mythic superhero who is banging geishas, wearing shark-skin Clarks, pushing so much dope that he sits on piles of it, running the prison yard, and so forth. You know. It's very Ghostface of him. In the annals of Tony Starks history, this verse is unlikely to register with the greatest, but he has set the bar so high that a sense of what he should be doing is probably unfair. Ghost does what he must in order to deliver on the promise of a dark track with Sean Price.
P does P, and he probably has the best track-come-on of the year. (If not the best, then at least my favorite.) It is characteristically gully and audacious. He says things that no normal person should, and that leaves a lot to vicariously enjoy. P: "Yo/Everybody get paid/Everybody get laid/All these bitches dirty/Everbody got AIDS." From there, it's more Sean Mandela, breaking heaters off your face and smoking laced cheeba.
Poor Trife has to bring the track home, and his arms are too short to box with the gods who precede him. Some of it is not his fault: he can't change that his higher-pitched voice lacks the weathered sound of Ghost's or the bass in P's. Nor can he help that with Ghost as his benefactor, he will never measure up or stand alone.
The whole thing sounds like it takes place in a damp dungeon somewhere in the Chinese countryside, and that only makes it better. Ghost and P should make an album together called Bodying the God.
In the early 90s, MC Ren might have rapped over a creeping beat like this one. He would have done well with it. Not as well as Gangsta Gibbs, of course. This thing is just hard as fuck, grimy and dangerous. What else is there to say? Listen.
25) Curren$y, "This Is the Life"
Beautiful production. That piano is hypnotic, and Spitta sounds perfect over it. Curren$y's music is dominated by how it sounds, pushing what it's saying to the periphery. That is not meant to marginalize his rapping skills or contradict my interest in the words of others. Rather, Curren$y makes so much good-sounding product because of his impeccable ear for beats and his silky voice. A mood sets in almost immediately, and that is Curren$y's most potent power. He is a deft rapper, too, but he's largely concerned with getting high. That his sound is fresh after so many tracks speaks to his wordplay and the strong ambiance he creates.
This was the first Stalley song I ever heard. Sadly, it's his best, so it was all downhill from there. Whatever. "Milq in My Chevy" has a memorable lower register--is it a tuba?--that reverberates in your brain for days. One of the year's "This Shit Knocks" all-stars.
"Might
move away one day, but I'm always gon' belong to the streets" should be
printed on Freddie Gibbs's business cards. Though, he would never be
one to carry them.
"Thuggin'" has a sleepy feel evocative
of an early morning. The ringing in the background might as well be an
alarm that won't stop. Gibbs takes a few bars to shake out the cobwebs
and wipe his eyes. Then he hops in the ride and cruises around for three
minutes. At the end of the trip, he quietly gets out, closes the car
door firmly, walks inside, and everything goes black. There is something
enervating about this song. Gibbs's intensity, precision, and pace are
dizzying, to the point that "Thuggin'" leaves a listener drained. What a wonderful song.
20) Uncle Murda ft. French Montana, Jadakiss, Styles P, Cam'ron, and Vado, "Warning" (Remix)
This track's inclusion is dedicated to @sexyresults, who at any given moment is scouring DatPiff for a new Uncle Murda tape
Don't you want to punch someone? Or maybe buy something you can't afford, get drunk, and make outrageous claims in a public place? This song is great. It is over the top, Uncle Murda is intrinsically hilarious, and Cam'ron manages to remember what it was like when he earned all that internet worship. They even let him bat clean up. Also, isn't cute that Jada and Styles trade bars like a married couple? It's as close to cuddly as the Lox can come.
French Montana is a horrendous rapper, and yet the song perseveres. Seriously though, he sucks. Make him go away. Or get Bol to bring back the Hunt and Kill series.
This version has become something of a white whale on YouTube, and the link above is neither what I have in mind nor on my computer. Sorry. It's the closest we can come.
He doesn't like this truth, but it is immutable: Kanye West sounds best over soul beats. Particularly his own (though this is not one of them). Kanye can writhe with discomfort in the face of this reality, and the war he's waged while attempting to claim other musical territory has produced Graduation, which was dope, and My Dark Twisted Fantasy, his second-best album. Let not these exploits distract from Kanye's core competency, though. The rapper who once boasted that others wanted to "rap and make soul beats just like" him should not run from that destiny.
Kanye began his career as a talented jester, someone who could use self-deprecating humor and biting sarcasm to compensate for anxiety. He also was carried forward by the confidence in his product: he had refined rap's soul sound. That was evident on College Dropout, on the I'm Good mixtape, on one-off tracks "Would You Like to Ride" and "So Soulful," and most famously, on all his collaborations with Jay-Z. Ye was "killin' the game very bad."
As he's grown artistically, Kanye has strayed. Beginning with Late Registration and continuing now, through Watch the Throne, Ye has found catharsis and greater fulfillment as his music has morphed from the elemental hip-hop of his ascent to the larger pop vision of his reign.
But no matter how precise his instrumentation, and no matter how catchy his synthesizers, Kanye remains best at what he did first. He isn't a talented singer. His autotune experiments have generally been his worst music. The innovative fare normally sounds ever so charged, as though control over the medium is tenuous. And his rhyming, though more sophisticated, remains frayed at the edges. For instance, he has a bad habit of shoving too many syllables into a couplet and he can't always deliver lines cleanly. These flaws stand out more noticeably as the aspirations grow grander. Some of that owes to the redrawn lines within which he operates, and some of that owes to the innocence, humor, and good-nature Kanye has sacrificed in the name of stardom.
"Mama's Boyfriend" was arresting because it sounded like the bygone Kanye revived and improved. His sense of humor was easier and the pretense of the music was abandoned. Yet he had not surrendered the topical and narrative complexity learned on his travels beyond the traditional hip-hop form. Best of all, he had reverted to that soul-beat modality over which he always sounds best. Soul music is a comfort zone for Kanye. He leaves himself a greater margin for error, and the music better accommodates the traces of clunky rapping that he'll never shed. And those are all attributes of a song he didn't even intend to make, which only further argues for a return, even if not permanent, to what will always be his home.
It would be nice to have an old friend back more often.
18) My Morning Jacket, "Circuital"
There are two rock bands whose music I listen to contemporaneously: Pearl Jam and My Morning Jacket. (Everything else is retrospective. I only heard Tommy from beginning to end for the first time a few months ago. I listened to my first Arcade Fire album last year. Make whatever jokes you must.) Pearl Jam is the greatest American rock band of all time, and I've made no secret of what they mean to me. My Morning Jacket will never be as good, but they are better than anything else I know. I don't have a great vocabulary for music writing, and mine is particularly limited with regard to rock acts, but anything good that a person can say about rock music applies to MMJ. They are expert musicians, Jim James's voice is distinctive, and their music feels great. "Circuital" puts a lot of the band's best on display.
It's hard to go wrong with a "Seed of Love" sample, a Pete Rock beat, a guest spot from Styles P, or a guest spot from Sean Price. If you combine all of those elements, you're something like 90% of the way to a dope rap track. Still, something, or someone, has to account for that last 10%. Sticking with the track's theme, it's hard to go wrong with Smif-N-Wessun, particularly when the task is so limited. Hold those built-in advantages against this track if you must, but you'll probably better enjoy just genuflecting and appreciating all of the good.
For a band as accomplished and curious as the Roots, they haven't done funk or blues all that often over the course of almost twenty years. "Kool On" argues for more of that union. Well mixed, with that vocal wail and bluesy guitar riff starring alongside the rappers, the track steams along at a brisk pace without hurrying. P.O.R.N. and Black Thought sound especially comfortable in these new environs, and the track comes to a startling end because it sounds like it could, and should, continue on in perpetuity.
This is an exciting song. Optimistic and big, it feels freeing. It also vaguely calls to mind 80s progressive pop and rock, largely due to the repeated shouts and the squirrely synthesizers that pop up to fill what little empty space is permitted.
Let me be clear: I didn't miss T.I. I was never his biggest fan, and I felt particularly alienated after he came to St. Louis during his farewell tour and cursed out the crowd for two hours. Since his release from jail, the loose tracks and guest verses have been mixed. This, though, was a perfect comeback for him. He got to play with his flow. He got to move from island to island as the the music streamed by and collect himself, emphasizing the negative space with Jigga-like presence. Something about T.I. has always felt like a projection, a ruse. On "Hard White," the charade was perfectly apt. And Slaughterhouse, forever better as an idea than on record, came in a single serving that satiated whatever appetite remains for the experiment.
Blu + Peter Rock = straight dope. Pretty sure Pete Rock made this for something/someone else, and I know I have heard it before, but I can't place it. Anyone who can help gets a prize. This sort of basic, well-executed hip-hop will always hit my ears in a special way. Could listen to this forever.
After Freddie Gibbs, Action Bronson is my favorite technician. He is not as versatile or as commanding as Gibbs, but he has his strengths beyond an astounding verbal dexterity. For one, his verses are dense and rich with references and jokes that only register on repeat listens. Or sometimes in the shower, on the way to work, in the middle of a meeting. You know. And for another, he can't help but keep the lights on. While many hear Ghostface's rhyming style in Bronson, the two MCs are probably linked even more closely by the energy both exude. Like Ghost, Bronson's presence is never understated because his personality will not allow it. Bronson is not as colorful as Starks, but he has undeniable charisma and enough eccentricity to rightly command a devoted following. "Larry Csonka" shows it all off.
Things a rapper can do to curry my favor: a) invoke Scottie Pippen; b) get Freddie Gibbs to rap on your song; c) pick beats as well as Curren$y. Q.E.D.
Yet another track that just sounds the way hip-hop should. Admittedly, there are some corny lines on this track, but it deserves some latitude because it is a brooding, engaging posse cut that hits way more than it misses.
More vintage Gibbs, so much so that he compensates for a middling Smoke DZA and a worthless Chace Infinite. Freddie is aided by a smooth, soulful soundscape that is pristine enough to be under glass. The beat has an aching to it that heightens the sexuality of the lyrics but also feels out of place given the way Gibbs raps about women. Whether that contrast was deliberate or not, it helps to bring the track further to life.
6) Killer Mike, "That's Life 2"
The hardest track of the year, without question. A song that all but retires the concept of "real talk" and holds everyone who should be held accountable so close to the fire that they surely incurred some burns. Killer Mike spits venom, crippling verses that cut to the core of what's on his always-political mind. Clowning political rappers became a sport long ago, and there are many who embarrassed themselves, facilitating the dismissals. Further, rap's power as a social medium, and a medium for change, is invariably overstated by those who want to believe it. Yet "That's Life 2" rises above the cynicism by refusing to compromise and sparing no targets, even if it would be easy or excusable. Probably the most overlooked record of 2011 given the fodder for meaningful discussions that it provides.
Second hardest track of the year? The drums on this record would make Black Milk proud, and the pyroclastic flows are appropriate for anything from RZA's younger brother. (Imagine if it were GZA's.) It's not entirely clear whether this track is better for the eve of a death match, a football game, a job interview, a marathon, or a bar exam, but it would surely suit any of them.
Did anyone else hear this song? It wasn't on the radio very much and I heard no other rapper use it for a freestyle.
For those who missed it, Meek Mill raps with the intensity and urgency of someone running on a hamster wheel that keeps the Earth spinning. The production accommodates him by sounding as though the world is ending and that looking back as you sprint away from the destruction will do you in. It is a monster track. I couldn't help but love it. Nor could I avoid mimicking Meek Mill's exaggerated fake yelling when grocery shopping: "Thank god all these yogurts I got/All this lettuce I've been getting/All this popcorn I popped."
One lingering question, though: Why "I'ma" instead of "I'm a"? The former turns "boss" into an action word: "I will boss later when I get dressed"; "I am bossing as we speak"; "I didn't get enough crab meat at lunch so I bossed." Is that deliberate? Has boss become a verb with specific meaning? Does it owe to Meek Mill's Maybach Music Group affiliation? Perhaps Rick Rozay has insisted upon it in recognition of all that he's done for the word "boss." It that context, "I'ma boss" might mean "I will do what Rick Ross does." Is there clarity on this? Just a thought.
2) Nas, Nasty
"Sit back and roll a mean Swisher/For my G's/Tell these clowns make room for the king, n***a." King indeed. Nas raps so well on "Nasty" that to explain it with a common hip-hop vernacular would be inadequate, and to describe its technical merit would obscure the forest with an endless series of trees. "Nasty" is the difference between Blake Griffin and Timofey Mozgov dunking, one so appreciably better than everything else in the same category that casting it in those very terms is almost an insult.
If you're still alive after watching that, let's just agree that Nas is a beast.
Rarely does a song so effortlessly make clear that you're in the presence of greatness, but "Body Work" accomplishes that most difficult task.
To start, the Dream is a truly gifted songwriter. Beyond composition basics, he exercises a flair for alternative phrasing that expresses his ideas from thirty degrees to the left, sixty-four to the right, and so forth. On "Body Work," he articulates a sensual, conflicted vision that is derived from common themes. Yet the details he conveys and leaves out, like the scenes he arranges, are captivating because we may know what will happen, but we have never before watched from this particular vantage point. In other words, the Dream is not unique for being a lothario; he is unique for being this lothario.
Dream also is distinguished for assembling a sweeping musical landscape that is, by movement, post-industrial concrete and steel, then gauzy R&B, and then guitar-driven funk of the sort that commonly dresses in purple. Lining up these styles is one thing. Uniting them is another, but he pulls it off, and the result is dazzling. "Body Work" is viscerally exciting for being so different, so creative, and so good.
