Monday, January 10, 2005


"this ain't that jamaica avenue shit, hand me my cufflinks." after the g-unit album he was still the greatest rapper alive, that real billion dollar flow and all the just-below tricks and talent waiting to bubble up subtly and unexpectedly and with the resources of entire new york empire to call upon, money and history, wipe anyone off the map, industry blacklist and testing hands in studio brawls, and buying out every market, fifty million dollars-- but i still expect him to retreat further and further, rapping in 1988 time machine over alchemist beats or, on the mixtape, who shot ya with beanie kidnap-sodomize raps, get reactionary. but sticking to purring hooks and rapping about how to hustle in the abstract, don't grind/don't shine, and big guns but never too specific, and smooth and perfect and ahistorical. and first offical single, candy shop, biting magic stick hook, robotic on fire beat, painting himself into a dark, dark corner,
you can have it your way, how do you want it?
you gon back that thang up or should i push up on it?
temperature rising, okay let's go to the next level
dancefloor jampacked, hot as a tea kettle
i break down for you now, baby it's simple
if you be a nympho, i'll be a nympho.
bizarre to hear in silky new york accent instead of through dirty platinum or gold and-- shit, as extra illustration of shifted balance of power: 50 and buck on still tippin, 50 ripping off mike jones flow and simplifying the hook to just busting .44s and pimping an unspecified number of hoes, and and 50, yayo and banks on three kings, yayo ripping it in bun b's close-out position (actually, he's outshining on every track he's on here with more of those rough, specific verses about cocaine on the amtrak, hypeman shoutalong energy).

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