The Game - The Documentary
Hip-Hop is dead to me; I feel nothing for 50 Cent and his incessant misogynistic pandering. I don't care about Run DMC, A Tribe Called Quest, and other venerable pioneers of said genre. Perhaps it's foolish for me to completley write-off a brand of music on the pretense that the composition has debased itself to an all time low (unless you're from the South, in which case you're probably thrilled with such a Renaissance), but with bland acts like Clipse and Young Jeezy shouldering the load, it's easy to feel let down. Hip-hop music is the two-car accident on the shoulder of the 101- you can't help but slow down to take a peek, but after feeling unsatisfied by your look, you speed off towards your inevitable destination.
Alas, I do have somewhat of a bias towards the Rock genre, and I am the first to admit it. But, I have my merits for aligning myself in such a fashion. You see, not to long ago, I was knee-deep in the antics of the Rap game, spending midnight hours beat-boxing and jumping in freestyle cyphers that taught me, if anything, than an Indian boy from LA is not intrinsically blessed to compete with fellows from the D. But I persevered, because there some intangible element about being apart of the Hip-Hop scene that made me feel 'cool'. I honed my love for the Rap world through Dr. Dre's Chronic 2001, which was unquestionably the seminal record of my high-school insecurities. My west-coast background amplified my love for Dre's production and overt lyrical barbs, which I memorized in turn, and spit out in defiance whenever an opportunity presented itself. But with age came a greater understanding of the truth- that Hip-Hop was not satisfying. Underneath the candy-coated layers of production were people, just like moi, with genuine problems that I had no way of relating to. I have no alimony concerns, no drug-trafficking charges pending, and have yet to be arrested for a generic weapons violation. Disillusioned, I left the music behind, and had turned a blind eye to the Rap game, until January.
Enter The Game. A couple of months ago, Vibe published an article lamenting the decline of New York hip-hop. With Southern and Midwestern rappers rising to prominence over the past few years, the birthplace of hip-hop has only constituted about a third of rap radio playlists. But the article's unspoken question was: What's going on with the West? The Compton MC made a name for himself on the mixtape scene that made 50 Cent a star; it made perfect sense for him to become the first West Coast representative of G-Unit. And having spent the past few months embroiled in pointless beefs with also-rans like Joe Budden and Yukmouth-- and getting hammered from all sides-- Game needs more than ever to deliver a debut to back up his talk.
Now he has: The Documentary is the best West Coast street-rap album since DJ Quik's 2002 LP Under tha Influence. All of the G-Unit solo albums thus far have been aesthetically unified, a rarity in hip-hop; the tracks on The Documentary actually sound like they belong on the same album. Dre produces five of the album's 17 songs, applying his recent stripped-down cinematic style, and many of the record's other producers follow his lead. Superstar beatmakers like Timbaland and Kanye West hold back on their signature tics, fitting their usual approaches into the album's fabric. The end result is a rich, triumphant sonic tapestry; you can hear every dollar that went into it.
Hip-Hop is dead to me; I feel nothing for 50 Cent and his incessant misogynistic pandering. I don't care about Run DMC, A Tribe Called Quest, and other venerable pioneers of said genre. Perhaps it's foolish for me to completley write-off a brand of music on the pretense that the composition has debased itself to an all time low (unless you're from the South, in which case you're probably thrilled with such a Renaissance), but with bland acts like Clipse and Young Jeezy shouldering the load, it's easy to feel let down. Hip-hop music is the two-car accident on the shoulder of the 101- you can't help but slow down to take a peek, but after feeling unsatisfied by your look, you speed off towards your inevitable destination.
Alas, I do have somewhat of a bias towards the Rock genre, and I am the first to admit it. But, I have my merits for aligning myself in such a fashion. You see, not to long ago, I was knee-deep in the antics of the Rap game, spending midnight hours beat-boxing and jumping in freestyle cyphers that taught me, if anything, than an Indian boy from LA is not intrinsically blessed to compete with fellows from the D. But I persevered, because there some intangible element about being apart of the Hip-Hop scene that made me feel 'cool'. I honed my love for the Rap world through Dr. Dre's Chronic 2001, which was unquestionably the seminal record of my high-school insecurities. My west-coast background amplified my love for Dre's production and overt lyrical barbs, which I memorized in turn, and spit out in defiance whenever an opportunity presented itself. But with age came a greater understanding of the truth- that Hip-Hop was not satisfying. Underneath the candy-coated layers of production were people, just like moi, with genuine problems that I had no way of relating to. I have no alimony concerns, no drug-trafficking charges pending, and have yet to be arrested for a generic weapons violation. Disillusioned, I left the music behind, and had turned a blind eye to the Rap game, until January.
Enter The Game. A couple of months ago, Vibe published an article lamenting the decline of New York hip-hop. With Southern and Midwestern rappers rising to prominence over the past few years, the birthplace of hip-hop has only constituted about a third of rap radio playlists. But the article's unspoken question was: What's going on with the West? The Compton MC made a name for himself on the mixtape scene that made 50 Cent a star; it made perfect sense for him to become the first West Coast representative of G-Unit. And having spent the past few months embroiled in pointless beefs with also-rans like Joe Budden and Yukmouth-- and getting hammered from all sides-- Game needs more than ever to deliver a debut to back up his talk.
Now he has: The Documentary is the best West Coast street-rap album since DJ Quik's 2002 LP Under tha Influence. All of the G-Unit solo albums thus far have been aesthetically unified, a rarity in hip-hop; the tracks on The Documentary actually sound like they belong on the same album. Dre produces five of the album's 17 songs, applying his recent stripped-down cinematic style, and many of the record's other producers follow his lead. Superstar beatmakers like Timbaland and Kanye West hold back on their signature tics, fitting their usual approaches into the album's fabric. The end result is a rich, triumphant sonic tapestry; you can hear every dollar that went into it.
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