Diddy's bullshit pontificating aside, anyone with a brain knows that E. Ness got killed in this battle. After toying with him for the first few rounds (which Millz also won), Jae finally takes on the gloves and makes a chalk outline out of Ness. Even Diddy has his face buried in his hands after a while; it's that fucking bad. Anyone wonder no one knows who in the hell Da Band is anymore? Jae Millz killed all of those cats.
Consequence's verse from Kanye West's "Gone". He almost manages to steal the show from West's sheer brilliance behind the boards. Almost.
"I been pourin out some liquor for the fact that my pal's gone And tryin to help his momma with the fact that her child gone And since we used to bubble like a tub full of Calgon
Guess it's only right that I should help her from now on But since they got a foul on, what coulda gone wrong Now they askin Cons, how long has this gone on And maybe all this money mighta gone to my head Cause they got me thinkin money mighta gone to the feds So I ain't goin to the dread, but he'll go on up to bed And when I came the next mornin he was gone with my bread And with that bein said, I had gone on my instincts And gone to the spots where they go to get mixed drinks But lookin back now shoulda gone to the crib And rented "Gone With the Wind," cause I'da gone about 10 But I had gone with my friend, and we had gone to the bar And heard a nigga talkin shit so I had gone to the car And now the judge is tellin me that I had gone too far And now we gone for 20 years, doin time behind bars And since I gone to a cell for some petty crimes I guess I gone to the well one too many times, cause I'm gone"
You know, I was going to make a post about The Game's first album, but I stopped giving a damn.
Listening to the snippet of the unreleased--and presumably unfinished--song "A Place With No Name" makes me a bit sad inside. It's absolutely beautiful to listen to, featuring a great sample of America's "Horse With No Name." Mike's vocals are on point, and the hook is addictive. I'd venture to say that it's the best he's sounded to me in years. His death is sad for reasons for beyond the fact that he couldn't finish this song (no doubt he'd have had to had the sampled cleared before releasing it), but still, what could have been........
I've been pretty adamant in saying that DMX is a Tupac clone. I still think he is. However, that doesn't mean that he isn't--or wasn't, as the case may be--a good emcee. 1998's "It's Dark and Hell Is Hot" may not be classic, but it's damn close. Not only is it a defining album of the post-Pac Era, but it showed that the tortured thug persona that Pac had adopted later in his life would live on, for better or worse. The album is DMX at his best: sometimes brutal, sometimes reflective, all the time menacing. No track epitomizes this better than "X is Coming." Dame Grease lays the foundation for the song, first by interpolating Freddie Kreuger's "1, 2, Freddie's Coming For You" at the beginning of the track, and second by giving X an appropriately dark beat to spit over. (Listening to this song and most of "It's Dark," it's odd that Swizz Beatz is the producer most associated with X given that it was Dame who was responsible for most of the album's production.) Make no mistake, though: DMX is the star of this show, and his rhymes are chilling in their brutality, complete with a straightforward, no-nonsense delivery. For X, it's kill or be killed, and he intends to kill you; the second verse, featuring a bonechilling reference to rape, is especially shocking. As brutal as the song is, it's definitely one of the better ones in a catalog filled with commercial hits. Without the gift of hindsight, one would have to consider "It's Dark and Hell is Hot" to be the first step in a long and successful journey for DMX. With hindsight, it still stands as that; however, it also stands as a constant reminder that it never got better (qualitatively) for Earl Simmons.
Life is a funny thing. It has a funny way of getting you to think sometimes.
Yesterday, while I was at work, I had to unload boxes for a shipment we'd received in the morning. The guy who was with me, Danny, had his MP3 player with him. The first song that played was Game's "Hate it or Love It," but as the list played on, Tupac came on. As I carried one of the boxes, he looks at me and asks:
"You like Tupac?"
"Yeah," I reply.
He looks at me again and smiles. "Tupac or Biggie?"
"Pac," I say without hesitation.
The dynamic seems mundane, but for me it wasn't. I have a tendency to think of hip-hop as being a solely black phenomenon, so the fact that Danny liked it so--he's Arabic--left me a bit awestruck.
When I consider hip-hop on a global scale like that, it leaves me with a sense of amazement. This is was hip-hop, at its best, should be: not just a mode of communication for one group of people, but communication for various groups. Indeed, poverty and struggle are universal experiences, so it shouldn't be a surprise that Pac's music resonated with one of the poorest groups of people in the world.
So why, then, is it such a surprise? For me, living in a country where hip-hop is reduced to commercial viability and social scapegoat colors my view, and it's sometimes difficult for me to see how it impacts people worldwide. This isn't to say that hip-hop's on par with diplomacy, but I do think that many Americans sell it's potential short, for a various host of reasons. More on that later. First, though, I want to mull over Tupac; to the extent that he is still viewed as one of the greatest emcees ever, there is nothing new that I can sayabout the man. He is one of the best to ever pick up a mic. However, I do think that how he is remembered, and the songs that he is remembered for, are in some ways a disgrace to both the artist and the art form he so well represented.
While I was unloading boxes and Pac continued to play, I took note of the songs that played. "I Ain't Mad At Cha," "Ambitionz Az a Riddah," "Hail Mary," "Heaven For a G," and "Can I Be Ya N.I.G.G.A." all played in succession. While they played, I thought about Pac, his career, his iconic status, and what it all means for hip-hop. He's remembered as one of the greatest ever for good reason: he is easily the most influential artist rap has ever had outside of Rakim, and he's also the most visible. Even now, his shadow looms large over the genre; conversations about it inevitably come back to him, and his absence permanently changed the course of rap. His death led to a myriad of imitators and copycats; aspects of his style can be seen in the likes of DMX, Ja Rule, and 50 Cent. However, while the overriding theme of Pac's music was nihilism and overcoming it, the aforementioned three merely managed to scrape the surface of his style, their lyrics lacking the depth and feeling that Shakur was able to inject into his songs with such ease. (and on a side note, it's this feeling that ultimately separates Pac from one Christopher Wallace. I'll always maintain that Biggie was far more technically advanced than Tupac, but Pac was infinitely more personable. Where Biggie was cocky and charismatic, Pac was conflicted, emotional, and unsure. Pac's willingness to struggle with himself and his surroundings is part of what made him the artists that he was. The listener always got the full picture with him: his optimism, his sense of hopelessness, and his paranoia. While Biggie occasionally showed flashes of that depth--particularly with songs like "Everyday Struggle" and "Suicidal Thoughts"--he by and large maintained his bravado, rarely revealing his inner self. Pac's ability to do so made him more human and more relatable to listeners.)
However, the ultimate tragedy of Pac's death isn't the stable of imitators, it's the misconception of his music. His double CD, "All Eyez on Me," dropped shortly after his death, and was immediately lauded as Pac's best album, and even as the best album ever by various publications. The bitter irony lies in two facts: "All Eyez On Me" isn't close to being Pac's best work (he's easily got three and possibly as many as five albums that are better), and the album is largely a betrayal of the body of work he'd amassed prior to his death. If "2Pacalypse Now," "Strictly for My N.I.G.G.A.Z.," and "Me Against The World" portrayed Pac as man who had demons and valiantly struggled against them, "All Eyez On Me" portrayed him as a man who ultimately succumbed to them. "Can I Be Ya N.I.G.G.A." is an artistic slap in the face to "Keep Ya Head Up." "Wonda Why They Call U Bitch" spits on "Brenda's Got a Baby." This isn't to say that Pac's humanity doesn't shines through at times-- songs like "Picture Me Rollin," "I Ain't Mad at Cha," and "Life Goes On" all show that Pac's depth didn't miraculously disappear--however, the good moments are buried between too many mediocre ones to justify it being considered as one of rap's best albums. The album has significant historical importance, but more than that, it stands as a dramatic artistic decline for a man who was loved and revered for his sincerity.
So, why, then, is "All Eyez On Me" considered Pac's best work? For me, it's because of two reasons, both of which have to do with timing. The first is because of Pac's death; it was the first album released after his passing, and as one Jadakiss would rap later, "You know dead rappers get better promotion." Indeed, "All Eyez" stands as Pac's most commercially successful effort to date, selling over 9 million copies to date. The singles that pushed the album, from "California Love" to the blockbuster "2 of Amerikka's Most Wanted," also undoubtedly helped with sales.
The other reason for the success of the album is a bit more complex. By 1996, rap was just into its Silver Age; while the preceding era saw hip-hop begin to take stage region by region, the Silver Age would see the genre begin to become mainstream. Jay-Z had exploded onto the scene with "Reasonable Doubt," and Nas, with one classic under his belt, aimed for better sales with "It Was Written." Additionally, commerical revolution would come to the South as well, with Master P founding No Limit Records and dropping his debut album in "Ghetto D." As rap became more viable in the mainstream, it would attract more fans. Hip-hop was no longer a black phenomenon, and it was no longer regional. People--mainly white teens-- from the suburbs had access to rap albums and took advantage of the opportunity. Unfortunately, the Pac they were exposed to wasn't the reflective, thoughtful one that had captivated fans in the past; instead, they got the vengeful, shallow Tupac who had largely betrayed his previous work. In short, most fans only got a small glimpse into an artist who had bared his soul for many years before. Given this, it's no surprise that this is the Tupac that is remembered and revered. Unfortunately, it is not the man in his totality.
This is the ultimate tragedy of Pac's death, and this is ultimately the tragedy of hip-hop in its entirety. The genre has never been the same in the wake of his death, and now, thirteen years later, rap has a hole in its soul, one devoid of thought, consideration, and raw emotion. Instead, false bravado and thoughtlessness fill that void. When Tupac Shakur died, a piece of hip-hop went with him.
