The headline says it all. After Curren$y announced via his twitter that he was waiting on Young Roddy to come over to lay a verse before releasing something new, fans rang the alarm. You know Spitta’s game by now, the moment his last release nears leaving rotation, he drops another. This Here EP is just the first effort from what’s sure to prove another busy year for Curren$y.

Head over to DatPiff or MediaFire for the download.

If anything, Q is quick to establish himself as the antithesis of Lamar’s music, right down to flipping K.Dot’s meaningful “A.D.H.D.” into a one line gag about crack. Yep, he’s a clever guy. While opener “Sacrilegious” certainly displays Lamar’s fingerprints in its wispy guitar and lush musical backing, many of the tracks more fully represent what Q brings to the table. “2 Raw” is sloppily combative, Q and labelmate Jay Rock sporadically flowing over a revolving door of a Cali-beat, while the likes of “Oxy Music” and “Nightmare on Figg St.” offer the sort of delirious aggression one would expect from their titles. In these two statements, and many others, Q makes it clear that while Kendrick may worship at the temple of Makaveli, he’s more akin to Eazy-E or early Dre. The bouncing, jovial arrogance of “There He Go” (and much of the album) bring to mind that confidence once so representative of California, too long gone following Game’s relative downfall.

In fact, while it’s certainly a bold statement, the gradually rising collective soul of Top Dawg Entertainment – Black Hippy – four young friends against the music business, recalls the genesis of N.W.A. True, they had a Prince and Yella, but the relevance can’t be denied; TDE are, collectively, the most exciting thing to hit hip hop since Kanye decided to step from behind the boards. Due to that very man’s influence, the division of hipster influence and “real” rap has all but disappeared, blurred to the point of nonexistence. Bearing this in mind, Habits is everything a gangsta rap album should be in 2012. From the ballsy Genesis sample on “Gangsta in Designer” right down to Portishead’s “Cowboys” serving as the backing for “Raymond 1969,” the record is steeped in intriguing musical decisions. Party anthem “Hands on the Wheel,” boasting A$AP Rocky and a live sample of Lissie’s much buzzed about “Pursuit of Happiness” cover from last year, cannot be ignored, already becoming the album’s most commonly discussed track. Even Lex Luger gets in the spirit of the occasion: no record from an up-and-comer these days is complete without a Curren$y inspired stoner joint, and Luger provides the backdrop to “Grooveline Pt. 1,” with Dom Kennedy and Spitta himself coming in with the assist.

The album hits what may be its pinnacle in its final moments, with the emotional, dream pop influenced “Blessed” softly wailing while Q unravels some of his best verses to date, finally lowering the guise of an amused baller to reveal a tired, tried young man. Kendrick also finally pops in, silencing the ‘overhyped’ naysayers with an absurdly focused flow, following the drums with his every word. It’s quite impressive to hear, and in one moment Lamar’s reabsorbed the buzz that had begun to wander in the time since Section.80. The focus returns to Q for the final burst of “niggaHs.already.know.davers.flow,” over blaring synth, the MC takes one final pop shot for any and all comers.

With each song, Q perfectly outlines his fascinations: drugs, fashion (at least in so much as it helps him get laid), money, bitches, and a nagging concern that he’d rather have a real woman in his life. Perhaps these aren’t particularly original concerns, but they are Schoolboy Q’s concerns. In an industry over saturated with performers the last thing Q seems to be doing is playing a role. Rather, he seems to having all the fun playing himself, deciding how much of it is the character. Like the best rap lying in the specific niche Q has chosen, the fun doesn’t always come from what’s being said, the pillars of gangsta rap have long been in place, but from the way its said. Schoolboy Q certainly has a way of it.

Now that he’s got it, Rae’s not one to let the hype die. Unexpected Victory is 17 songs and 52 minutes of free music. From a godfather, that’s no small gift. Mixtapes, unless you’re Lil Wayne prior to Sorry 4 the Wait, are inevitably marginalized. Guys like Young Buck and Game stack tapes with album-worthy material in the hopes of getting some of that buzz back, but this sort of thing typically only leads to wondering why The Hangover was more stacked than The Red Album. However, this is The Chef.

Hardly one for mixtapes, his even releasing one makes it something of an event. The timing, too, cannot be ignored. Right at the start of the year, when he’s rumored to be working with the likes of Kanye and Just Blaze on an album more akin to West’s last than his own. Considering the title, Raekwon clearly thinks only bigger things lie ahead. While the next album may indeed turn out to be most concerned with harmonies, this tape finds itself somewhere in between a Kanye-inspired Rae and the Mafioso king we expect. 9th Wonder pops in, Scram Jones samples Genesis for a Mobb Deep spot, and so on. It’s musically a relatively diverse affair, but any fearful longtime fans can relax, it’s no great departure for Raekwon, at the end of the day, it fits in tidily with the rest of his catalogue.

Nonetheless, in the end a tape’s a tape, a few classic cuts tossed in with decent records; a fair number of the beats simply serve their function to the slightest, but rising above it all is Raekwon’s performance, lyrically strong as he’s ever been. He’s formed a significant mic partnership with JD Era this time around, who shouldn’t be mistaken as a newcomer, but inevitably will.

In fact, near all the tracks heavily rely on guest influence, with the 9th Wonder beat serving as essentially the sole solo offering. On that track, of course, 9th layers snares and a flawless soul sample, at this juncture, it’s simply what’s expected from the man. Despite its brief length (not even quite a minute and a half) the track serves Rae perfectly; his slithering, smooth voice saturating the beat. It’s the perfect example of the chemistry Raekwon has brewing, the meeting of the new and the old, the meeting of Cuban Linx and that “Gorgeous” verse. The production is consistently bouncy and smooth; CL Smooth spot “Silk” sounds exactly like its title suggests, while “Luxury Rap” both makes the most out of a Fred da Godson appearance and sounds something like a cross of that classic Wu sound and a No I.D. joint. Other tracks that make an impression include the insistent drums of “Soldier Story” and the complacent, boastful vibe of “MTV Cribs,” which again finds the Chef cooking with Busta Rhymes.

So, there you have it, Raekwon returns with material to please both generations of his fans: the long loyal and the growing. Considering the mess that’s resulted from countless other recent hip hop crossover attempts, this alone is praiseworthy. Unexpected Victory sounds at home in the new climate without Raekwon stripping away essential parts of his outfit. Considering this is, after all, a throwaway, one can only imagine what he’s preparing for late 2012. The world learned not to write Raekwon off in 2009, perhaps this year he’ll once again gain, well, victory.

A small price to pay for new material from the men who brought you Below the Heavens.

Suddenly, I feel old. Kids telling me my N64 is a “super old school” system is one thing, the looks of confusion at the mention of Lance Bass and Nick Carter are a blessing, but at Snoop Dogg and Wiz Khalifa’s stop in Atlanta, I was finally presented with that irrevocable curmudgeonly feeling. The two are touring together as The High School Tour, which is in turn support for a film they starred in together. It’s no surprise: beyond their mutual affinity for the ganja, Wiz looks to Snoop as an elder, a connection to respect, while Snoop mentors and benefits from the continued relevance.

I walked in, safely certain Snoop was the man everyone had primarily come to see. After all, I certainly had. Who in their right mind prefers Wiz over the Doggfather? Enter aging. A fair amount of the crowd were certainly Snoop fans, but the general tide – of a completely sold out show, mind you – seemed to be a bunch of tweens waiting on “Black & Yellow.” A decent amount of them trickled safely before midnight, sparking up, and then downtroddenly slipping out before curfew. To say the least, it was pretty funny.

The performers hardly seemed to take notice. They had little reason to, of the three floors composing the Tabernacle, all were packed with screaming, smoking fans. The tour offered three sets: first Wiz, then Snoop, then the two of them, with YG and others opening. By the time the smaller names had left the stage the audience was appropriately inebriated, and Wiz gallivanted on. Dressed in a torn American flag getup, Khalifa jumped all over the stage through tracks such as “In the Cut,” hardly able to sit still. It only lasted a moment, but he also used a neon green, glowing mic stand. The crowd ate it up, with damsels in the first few rows in more than just distress, and I had to admit: damn, these kids really love Wiz.

I have nothing against the guy, prior to his misfire of a debut, I played Kush and Orange Juice as much as anyone. However, even with his chart toppers, I’d never quite understood his significance. To many of us, he’s a more hipster friendly Snoop, but to the new school, he is the stoner rapper, the Doggfather’s just the old guy with him. He played through an incredibly energetic, if short, set.

Without ado, Snoop entered, boasting shades with his name on the lens, rapping “I Wanna Rock.” The audience’s other demographic flipped. Through a killer set, Snoop offered up “What’s My Name?,” “I Wanna Fuck You,” and “Next Episode,” among others. It was a perfect mixture of his near two decades worth of material. However, it was clear the two had saved the best for last.

Snoop never left the stage, instead beckoning his young friend to join him. The two lit a joint and chatted with the audience, before Snoop unleashed what many of us had been waiting for: “Gin & Juice.” Apparently the two would typically play scenes from their film, but without a screen, they simply suggested the audience cop the soundtrack and the movie. We won, as it led to more music. They mixed solo and collab songs, but offered inspired renditions of each other’s material, assisting the hooks or spitting their own verses. Wiz chose “On My Level,” while Snoop pleased with “Drop it Like it’s Hot.” As for their duo material, they offered “Smokin On” and the collab that sparked the movie, “That Good.”

It seemed to be coming to an end, and Snoop turned to Wiz, saying, “You know who had the #1 song of 2010? You, you Wiz, had the #1 song. You all know what I’m talkin bout? Our two favorite colors?” With all the events leading to this, I’d completely forgotten “Black & Yellow” hadn’t been played. The younger members of the audience certainly hadn’t. It was arguably the loudest moment of the whole show, with Snoop spitting his verse from the remix. Finally, they closed with “Young, Wild and Free,” which Snoop declared their “stoner anthem.” We’ll forgive the Bruno Mars chorus, it made for a feel good, triumphant closer, and with Wiz celebrating youth while Snoop recaptures it, you could dare to say it was a beautiful moment.

It was all a lesson in inevitable change. Snoop seemed to have a bit of a hard time getting the kiddies in the audience to rap with “Drop It,” shouting, “Somebody fuckin’ sing this!” Meanwhile, Wiz encouraged them to show respect to the West Coast king, explaining his importance to both rap and him personally. Damn, I never saw a world in which Snoop Dogg needed introduction from Wiz Khalifa. Yet, there’s some beauty in it. Khalifa thinks the world of Snoop, and forget the age difference, the two tear up a stage together. Their bond is more than a relevance and respect token, and in touring together, they bring two generations of rap fans together. So what if it’s a bit awkward, the kids’ll learn.

From the start of the flatline that serves as the album’s opener, this is the life and death of one Redford Stephens, one part entirely a fictional creation, the other memories of friend’s passed. Regardless, he is the manifestation of the unknown, the figures that make up saddening, but faceless, murder statistics. He is the Black Youth, misled. The album’s tale moves back from that flatline – Stephen’s murder – moving back through his life and times.

It’s both a daring move and where the album grows somewhat murky. It’s the inevitable challenge: how much story can you get across through the speakers? The usual Roots guest roster, along with the likes of Big K.R.I.T., appear as various characters, but its often anybody’s guess as to who. Ultimately, it doesn’t much matter. It’s the broader story through which Undun gains its strength; through the musings and rants of Black Thought and Dice Raw (who, this time around, has near as large a presence as the group’s leader).

The certainty of the opener gives the listener context, but for most of the record, it’s less about the story, but rather, its voice. Understanding it as the tale of a lost youth is all one truly need understand. After all, does life proceed as a perfectly styled storybook, or a series of images? It’s these that each track creates. Redford is a device to explore crime and punishment, more than a breathing character. His purpose is to consider the effects of the ghetto on a young mind, and vice versa. The tone is relatively consistent, harsh dialogues peppered over to the point production on cuts such as “Tip the Scale” and “Lighthouse.” Both are triumphs, The Roots combining their ear for music with strong penmanship as much as they ever have.

However, it’s in the album’s last four tracks that the greatest intrigue arises. Simple instrumental pieces, they have received a range of interpretations, but this writer got something concrete from them. Seeing as the album begins with Redford’s death, they can only be seen as his youth, his birth. The tracks are earnest and, aside from “Will to Power,” sweet. For Redford, and more importantly for The Roots, this was life prior to the ghetto. Its an interesting conceit, to dismiss the focus of the album for its closing. Yet doing so only puts the album’s earlier, harsher, material in greater focus. Given too much scrutiny, the tracks could be seen as Redford’s mind prior to rap taking hold. Perhaps ?uestlove and folks are making some deep ‘love you, hate you’ gesture to their art form, but a simpler conclusion seems more likely.

These pretty little ditties were Redford before he gave in to the world around him, before he could understand it. It’d be a prettier story if the kid was a prodigy, but the man The Roots present is no hero, no champion. It’s an album grounded in dying about life. The tone is hence of course intentionally muddled, hopeful one moment, grim the next. There lies the greater, harsher, truth of Undun. No criminal is simply a criminal, and Redford hopes and dreams, but he is ultimately deluded. “A lot of niggas go to prison, how many come out Malcolm X?,” Dice wonders aloud. For every Curtis Jackson, there’s dozens of teenagers who never made it to their first mixtape, and many more who never even considered a way out, before bleeding out on the street. As the life leaves our protagonist in the opening moments, he is certainly one of them. So long as we’re listening, for a brief moment, we get some sort of insight into this, regardless of color or creed. If that isn’t what the greatest hip hop is meant to do, what is?

If any member of the Unit had a shot at longevity, last year it seemed to be Banks, appearing on a G.O.O.D. Friday track and corralling the likes of Kanye (Ye also declared Banks to be in his top 5, and the most underrated MC in the game), Eminem, and Pusha T for his album. Yet, Hunger for More 2, while a return to form compared to 2006’s tepid Rotten Apple, was relatively underwhelming. He still had a chance, but what would he do next?

He decided returning to his roots was the best tact, and so here sits Cold Corner 2, resurrected. It isn’t simply a mixtape. Banks is no simpleton, he understands his posse’s downfall, and this tape symbolizes an acceptance to the end of an era. In offering the free material to his fans, Banks explained: this was it, the last mixtape he intended to release. To any mixtape DJ, the age of mixtape dominance truly began with 50 Cent is the Future and the related releases, with Banks’ own output totaling 10 mixtapes. Sure, every cat releases a tape today, and interest in the Weezy tapes may well have exceeded the Unit’s, but there’s no ignoring the complete change it had on hip hop and the way in which newcomers arose. Right down to the likes of K.R.I.T. and Lamar, young MCs have Lloyd Banks and the Unit to thank for their shots at fame. Now, he’s bowing out of the game he helped create.

So, this isn’t just any mixtape. Will Banks regain a fraction of the fame that once propelled his debut to platinum? Almost certainly not. That doesn’t make this new material any less grounded in the moment or less worthy of attention. It’s no different than Prodigy’s unfairly overlooked bid at a return with Return of the Mac and H.N.I.C. 2: once a movement is out, it’s out, best of luck overcoming a hip hop fan’s impatience. Regardless, Banks has given his all for his last free effort, easily outdoing his latest album.

By recognizing the Unit as truly past, Banks can finally truly move forward. Neither 50 or Yayo are anywhere to be seen, sensation of the moment A$AP Rocky appearing instead. “No Love” is in part a dedication to his father, but can also be taken as a personification of the Unit, “R.I.P. my nigga … I’m holdin’ it down here, niggas still tryna be ya, but, there’ll never be another crew like us.” Leaving behind his past with this track, the mixtape largely looks forward. The title track has the audacity to sample Radiohead’s “Climbing Up the Walls,” and what’s more – Banks manages to kill it. This reflects a general truth of the tape: Banks has always had an ear for beats, but more than ever, he’s displayed an understanding of the increasing attention paid to musical feats on hip hop efforts. The production is by and large fantastic, comfortably balanced between nostalgia and risk. Opener “1, 2, 3 Grind” boasts a Prodigy guest spot and a frenzied piano loop, the borderline crunk of “Shock the World” has the potential to start an instant moshpit, while tracks such as “Make It Stack” and the stuttering, swaggering “Ice Box, Pt. 2” rely on a more recent, electro sound. “The Pulse” plays like a reimagined “Stroke of Death,” only more fleshed out. It’s all there.

With a mixtape he nearly didn’t bother releasing, the man has outdone his last two studio albums with ease. In fact, he hardly seems to break a sweat here; if anything, he sounds constantly assured and at ease here: the sign of a great MC. It may not be cool to say you’re with Lloyd Banks, but if this record receives anything nearing due recognition, the guy has a chance at keeping a spot as a king of the underground. He certainly deserves it.

So, where did one go from there? It’s easy to be caught in the glow of a seemingly promising new movement, not yet fully proven (Odd Future, looking at you), but we’re willing to take the risk: ASAP Rocky seems to be the answer. It’s not that everything he brings to the table is ingenious and new, following Drake and OF, Rocky seems to want to be UGK, and the screwed-n-chopped chats grow a tad tiresome. Instead, the strength of this effort extends from its boldness. Blessed by a friendship with current “it” producer Clams Casino, the lush music and ASAP’s carefree, snooty style elevate this effort near the highest platform.

With the year coming to a close, free releases have returned to the forefront. True, new artists find fame with mixtapes every year, but not since Wayne’s peak have they borne such significance. Between this, Section.80, and The Return of 4eva, a holy trinity of sorts has formed. Looking back on 2011, it doesn’t seem too unlikely that these will gradually be seen as the genesis for three great artists. Their ability to entrap the mainstream remains relatively unproven, but whatever happens, it’s certain hip hop fans have discovered new favorites.

Perhaps more so than either K.R.I.T. or Kendrick (although the post-Take Care K.Dot is surely a different animal), however, ASAP certainly has his sights set on widespread success. LiveLoveA$AP plays something like a grime-influenced Ready to Die on acid. Both hipsters and heads are sure to react, which is worth mentioning, considering the underground’s recent seeming focus on the former, rather than the latter. Tracks like opener “Palace” burst with the creative Clams sound, while cuts such as “Trilla” bounce with something nearing a Boom Bap influence, tailor-made for the new school.

As an MC, it’s important to note Rocky’s Harlem roots, growing up in apartments and shelters around Manhattan. So, while southern influences currently dominate much of current hip hop, Rocky places as much importance on the Wu as he does Three 6. The record generally gains strength from its mixed sound, something between the gliding, threatening vibe of Cuban Linx… and the so-smooth-you-could-die nature of Ridin’ Dirty. With Atlanta’s 2Chainz looking to Raekwon for advice, you could say globalization has truly taken over in hip hop.

Curren$y’s brainchild is clearly in the room as well. For an MC that will never rule the mainstream, Spitta certainly has undoubtedly become the biggest – often uncredited – influence in hip hop. From Wiz, to Drake, to this record, every MC in the game wants to capture the lackadaisical porch-music of the Jets, and many tracks reflect this. “Keep It G,” with its jazzy backing, would sound completely at home on Pilot Talk II, and so on.

This isn’t to take away from ASAP. At the end of the day, Spitta encourages worthy MC’s catch fire wherever they can. Rocky certainly has, boasting material far beyond simply Jet Empire standards. While Curren$y’s thick, relaxed flow simply coasts over his beats, Rocky’s clipped NY nature guides the productions found here. Neither is better, both are unique and fantastic. Too much of hip hop today relies on, for lack of a better word, biting. Whereas MCs once looked to one another for aspects they could flip, and make their own, today, many simply prefer to copy and paste the past. By reaching every-damn-where he could, ASAP Rocky both sidesteps this pitfall and becomes one of the year’s most exciting voices. This is his first full length, so to return to the comparisons: if this is Rocky’s K.R.I.T. Wuz Here, just imagine where he’ll go next.

While Marshall had been building the mainstream debut of Slaughterhouse for some time, the entrance of Yela was abrupt. Some called the signing an invention of the two’s shared parent label, and many wondered how the kid would fit in with “Shady 2.0.” The posse quickly released “2.0 Boys,” and the answer became brutally evident. Whereas Lil Wayne forged Young Money on flashy personas, Eminem had put his faith in sheer lyricism and talent. Still the question remained, only more apparent than before: how, exactly, would Slim market these guys?

For Yelawolf, the answer should have been relatively simple. Much in the same way Mathers had, the newcomer needed to unleash his persona on the world. The country-boy-meets-rap attitude had the potential to enthrall, at the least, White America. Herein lies the fatal flaw of Radioactive. Unsure of himself and wary of the charts, Yelawolf panders rather than creates. It’s a sad and strange development: sure, developed MCs, such as Em himself, can coast off a big pop chorus, but if the audience isn’t familiar with you, you’re just another voice between the hooks. If it’s a new world, make it notice you. Displayed on the album’s stronger tracks, Yelawolf clearly had a hick rock-n-rolla hit in him, ready made for the droves that buy any dirty South MC’s album to eat up.

Instead, Yelawolf attempts to jump between everything that everyone would want, leaving near anyone looking for something more inspiring – and fitting of his capabilities – in the dust. First single “Hard White” is too club-ready to grace the mainstream charts, while “Let’s Roll” both insists on featuring Kid Rock and is nearly the dullest version of the single Yela should have made imaginable. The beat wants to be something Southern, but its light fluff is too soft for even Yela’s smoother flow. Yela seems to realize it’s by the numbers as he snores through quips like, “A-L-A-B-A-M-A, I’m off / I might pee in a lake / I might go to Talladega and see me a race / and bring me a case.”

This isn’t to say it’s all bad. Rather, Yela seemed to lose his resolve about a third of the way through, as if the bigwigs finally got to him, six songs into recording. It all starts off promisingly, a mock government announcement warning of nuclear attack by North Korea, Yela slowly coming in with his trademark vicious, choppy flow. “Growin’ Up in the Gutter” boasts a jarring, aggressive beat, a solid guestspot from pal Rittz, and a frightening, possessing turn from Yela. It’s these sort of songs that come naturally to the MC, stories of the ‘gutter,’ and it’s these songs that should have composed his debut. It’s unfair to completely dismiss the album as a mess: Yealwolf revealed early on his intent to craft a record that could nearly universally play on the airwaves, with an eclectic mix of reasons as to why, hence the album’s title. The sporadic nature of the sounds found on the album stand by this concept, but the billboard standards fail to inspire.

Yela will likely face a fair amount of criticism for ‘popping out,’ but it’s in the process, not the act, that he stumbled. There’s nothing “wrong” with tracks such as “Good Girl” and “Animal,” they’re simply boring. “The Hardest Love Song in the World” manages to step it up a tad, the lazy groove of its beat fitting for a Yelawolf LP. “Everything I Love the Most” pulls off the same, and producer Willpower, who crafted seven of the album’s beats, deserves some credit to that end. The Justice League helmed “Write Your Name” would sound perfectly at home on Rick Ross’s God Forgives, I Don’t, but is suspect here, the gritty MC just sounds awkward over it, though he deserves credit for keeping the track’s woozy story afloat. On “Radio,” however, Yela simply sounds absurd, attempting to shrilly sing, “YouTube killed the video star.”

With “Slumerican Shitizen,” its strong Killer Mike spot, and the intimate, moving “The Last Song,” Yelawolf manages to conclude things on a high note. In particular, the last track is sure to speak to any listener that dealt with a neglected childhood (apparently becoming the Shady Records standard), Yela repeating a heartfelt “Hope that you’re proud now” of a hook, with blistering lines such as, “Ya see I’ve been lost, ever since I could walk / lookin’ for my daddy and any one of my mamma’s boyfriends who would talk.” It’s on songs like this that the frustrating potential of Yelawolf shines through. This kid may not have the voice of a generation, but there’s certainly a demographic he could mean the world to. Once he figures out that it’s what he has to say that should guide his singles, rather than what he imagines we want to hear, there may well be a great artist in Yelawolf. For now, however, he has a way to go.

As I neared The Masquerade for the 2011 Smoker’s Club tour stop in Atlanta, Georgia, I couldn’t have imagined anything much closer to amusing perfection. In case you hadn’t noticed, hip hop has long been a bit steeped in weed culture, and played a significant role in the ever-increasing acceptance of the arbitrarily illegal substance. Now, we’ve come as far as to market a tour around a red-eyed marijuana leaf. In a sense, it was no different than any show: at least a third of the audience will be smoking, and the security will conveniently miss any goings-ons, save a display of true stupidity. However, I couldn’t help but laugh at the thought: how were they going to kick kids out, with a straight face, at a show named after the damn thing? It was a comical display of the stupidity of the whole facade.

This is year two for the tour, expanding beyond Curren$y and the Jet Family to add tourmates Method Man and Big K.R.I.T., making it more of an event for hip hop fans. Now, the Masquerade is divided into two floors: Heaven and Hell, and the night’s performances occurred in the former. However, little to my surprise, security was continuing the ruse of “avoiding” smokers: one stoner entered the room, already lit, and a member grumbled, “all smoking should occur in Hell.” You had to laugh, both at the wording, and the fact that plumes of smoke whisked around the beleaguered guard as he said it. During the pre-show, with acts such as Fiend and Marcus Manchild (friendly career advice: change the name) making their appearances, I traveled about the audience, finding the “Club” members to be living up to their name, almost all in unison.

I moved up to the stage as the show started to pick up, Smoke DZA appearing. I quickly realized either a grand kindness, or mistake, was taking place: security didn’t intend to move the media from the stage after the traditional three songs. Miscommunication or relaxed standards due to the nature of the evening, I’m not sure, but it sure made for a crazy night: as surprise guests entered, the press was right there, creating a frenzy. It made for one of the more memorable shows of my life: the artists were completely unafraid to interact with both the press and the audience, and vice versa in all respects. Method Man questioned the new generation of rap listener’s ability to have fun, saying, “since when were rap fans too cool to have fun? Shows aren’t about having fun anymore…well, if anyone in here tonight has fun, I’m going to.” The audience responded by giving Meth what seemed like the highlight of his tour. The crowd was ecstatic, and he responded in kind.

The entire night possessed a funnier quality than I’d even expected: the room quickly grew smokier than a Sphongle show, with each and every rapper that performed smoking away on stage themselves, but each time they asked how many in the audience were smoking, the expected grand reply was muted, playing by the rules. Method Man was left to laugh in confusion as he received no response from a crowd out-fuming a steam engine. He shared blunts with the audience members brave enough to pass them up, crowd surfed, stole a hat from a random fan, throwing it off into the audience – only to give him his own, in return. Of all the performers that evening, it’s debatable who gave the best show, but Method Man, beyond of a shadow of a doubt, gave the fullest. He played old favorites, such as “What the Blood Clot” and “Ice Cream,” along with a tribute to Ol’ Dirty Bastard, for which he brought out the fallen comrade’s son to rap the verses from “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” and “Got Your Money.” The audience ate up every moment the Wu had to offer, shouts of “Wu Tang Clan ain’t nuttin to fuck wit!,” predictably arose. Then he was gone, and it was time for the return of forever.

Big K.R.I.T. entered with hardly a delay, another endearing aspect of the tour: not a moment was wasted between shows, creating a fluid, ceaselessly entertaining experience. You hardly had time to catch your breath from one powerful performance before the other began. Of the main performances, the rising Southern MC’s was certainly the most packed: while both Meth and Curren$y are established rap mainstays, K.R.I.T. is what’s hot now. He hit the audience hard with a barrage of recent staples, such as “Rise and Shine,” “My Sub,” and “Time Machine,” going back for “Just Touched Down,” along with the Spitta collab “Glass House.” Smoke DZA reappeared for a collab, and at one point, local favorite 2Chainz emerged, and the audience flipped. It was the second time in the last few months the rapper popped in for a show in Atlanta, and both times, his massive presence exceeded his limited MC’ing ability. The person most excited to see 2Chainz was 2Chainz, and his gleeful exuberance could sell the greatest hater. Despite the grand nature of K.R.I.T.’s show, everyone was expecting it, waiting for “Country Shit.” What we weren’t expecting, was what happened. K.R.I.T. paused, smiling, and said, “Being where we are, I thought tonight we could do something special, have someone else tell you about some country shit.” And Ludacris strode in. If 2Chainz had caused a frenzy, this was delirium. Atlanta gave their all for their own, and the bass went so high up for the man’s verse that I legitimately felt the stage was in danger of collapsing. There was no topping that, I thought, but he proved me wrong again. K.R.I.T. closed with a moving rendition of “The Vent,” which only gained more power in a live setting. As the Mississippi rapper closed with the “Hope you understand what I’m going through” refrain, the feeling was palpable.

Of all the performers, I’d most been looking forward to Curren$y, but now the poor guy had two incredible performances to follow. I recalled the plentiful tweets the rapper had posted about breaking his foot at Rock the Bells, and wondered if he’d had the cast off. As it turns out, he hadn’t – and it led to one of the better shows I’ve seen in some time. The rapper had brought his house with him. A background display was set up, with a fancy couch and what bordered on a king’s chair, all sitting on stage. Entering, Spitta declared, “the doctor told me I should stay off my feet, stop touring. But I figured, why not bring home with me, and kick it with y’all.” I’d long imagined a Curren$y show to be a unique experience, but this was something. He brought out his buddies, some of them rappers (including Freddie Gibbs), others just sitting on the couch, rolling him and themselves weed, passing champagne and other booze. It made for one hell of a time. Spitta was just kicking it, smoking and rapping away. I crawled in the photo pit, stationing myself right in front of the MC, now stationed in the chair.

Then my personal highlight occurred. Spitta was fumbling about his pockets, clearly in need of a lighter. I caught his eye, nodded, and handed him mine. He lit his entertainment, and then eventually hopped back over to the couch, leaving the lighter. “He’s high,” I thought, “No reason he’d remember some random like me handed him a lighter, and I want that back.” It was now a prized possession, after all. Then something took me completely by surprise: “Before we keep going, I need a lighter, this guy over there took his back, sneaky bastard, I was gonna give it back.” Shocked, I did the first thing that occurred to me: I threw the lighter at him. It bounced off his leg, hit the floor, and he reached, grabbing it, saying, “Now you’re throwing lighters at me?? Rude mutha fucka!,” laughed, “Naw, we good though.” You could call it the highlight of my night.

This may have been a special event for myself, but it reflects something true of the entire show. Unlike a performance simply billed as an appearance, the Smoker’s Club Tour, however silly, has a purpose. Those present are all in it for the fun, there was no hesitance to join the artists in any movement, no angry pushing to the front, just a bunch of rap fans enjoying their favorite artists having a good time. For that’s what it was like, more than a performance, the MC’s were simply galloping around the stage, finding something they clearly valued: a true connection with their fans. The appearances of the likes of Ludacris was simply explained, it wasn’t a pressured show, but rather, a show of love from both sides of the stage. Out of those performing, there was no clear dominant set, rather, all the artists genuinely seemed to enjoy each other’s company, happy for each other’s successes. Between the headliners, we were presented with the past, present, and future of hip hop, all giving it their all. Don’t be fooled by the slogan, this tour is about far more than marijuana.

The truth, of course, is that rap has entirely left behind its birthrights. Much of the music being made today under the name of “rap” attracts an entirely new audience, and the old demographic stubbornly — and futilely — resists the invaders, leaving rappers to entertain a bickering, divided audience. People considered So Far Gone either the future or completely offensive, and it was both of those strong reactions that helped catapult Drake to the forefront of the rap game. Then things got confusing: Thank Me Later simply wasn’t very good, whichever way you looked at it. Drake seemed afraid of his potential power, caught between a hunger for genuine respect he at least claims to seek and the massive audience he had created with “Best I Ever Had.” The result was a muted, half-hearted attempt at a “Drake sound”, smothered by polish and dull punchlines. Even Drake himself recently came out against the record.

So, Take Care was supposed to be it. The “real” Drake album. He began by creating goodwill with a series of self-leaks. He even took it to his label for taking down the links. The best thing was, for the most part, they were good songs. “Marvin’s Room,” still a highlight on the finished product, presented a Drake we hadn’t seen before, at least since he signed with Young Money. Rather than the trite, “Shooting stars all around her, fire, comets” class of lines from the last album, the listener is faced with a drunk, pampered star desperately slithering words out on the phone, trying to woo the girl he wants from another man. She’s just a fascination, Drake desires her, but that’s where it stops. “Fuck that nigga you love so much,” he sings, and unlike the usual Drake quip, it meant something: he wants what he wants, and he’ll harm those he intends to care about to get it. In other words, true substance seemed to have entered his music once again. The mission statement for album #2 was clear: to create an actual piece of music, rather than simply entertainment.

Yet, fear struck again with the release of the first official single, “Headlines,” and only rose with the second, “Make Me Proud.” The former was as dull an “I’m Drake and I’m really cool” song as he’s made, while the Nicki Minaj collab couldn’t have been a more obvious pander to his female audience, right down to its silly hook. Aubrey Graham seems to think anything nearing a good song will ruin his chart chances. There’s nothing wrong with a, err, cutesy verse. “Best I Ever Had” nearly topped the charts for a reason, after all. It was a successfully sexual song, but Drake seems to have tired of them, because all his efforts in that direction in 2011 turn out tepid.

In short, a great mystery was created: just how the hell would Take Care sound? The leaks were promising, the singles far from it. In the end, both shed more light on the album than one ever would have guessed. Take Care is a record unsure of itself, certainly more focused and interesting than its predecessor, but still far from the classic Drake had hinted at. At every turn, Drizzy seems unsure of what he wants: to be the squeaky-clean lady’s man that Bieber fans can love, or the unraveling, confused young man he is. He spends half the album bemoaning his shallowness (something the fantastic Kendrick Lamar and Andre 3000 brilliantly, unintentionally underscore), wishing he were a better man, and then turns around and snarls, “Know that I don’t make music for niggas who don’t get pussy / so those are the ones I count on to diss me or overlook me,” on “Lord Knows.” Drake apparently felt he needed to match the bravado of guest Rick Ross, and felt powerful with that jab, but only stabbed himself. Drake’s long battled his detractors, and in finally responding on record, he’s conceded his music to be just what his haters declare it to be.

Does this take away from the music? Well, you’re getting two voices on one album. When done intentionally, sure, it’s interesting. Drake, however, is partially a walking facade, and another part an attempt to address those some fallacies. Being caught between the two is a muddling experience. On his standards, Drake is hardly present, simply droning across perfectly composed music. Which is worth mentioning: by and large, Take Care is quite nice musically. One has to raise an eyebrow to Drake suddenly occupying House of Balloons like it was his dwelling to begin with, but the music still sounds pleasant. While he’s scattered throughout the album, The Weeknd only prominently appears on “Crew Love,” which is, unsurprisingly, a highlight.

As for Drake’s own crooning, that notion is more suppressed this go-round. It’s not the sing-song nature of his raps that are irksome, but the way he sleepwalks through them. More recently, he’d found a better balance, such as his appearance on DJ Khaled’s “I’m On One.” Here, yet again, he seems caught between the two poles. He snores through the pointless “Doing it Wrong” (a total waste of Stevie Wonder) and the painfully obvious, “You got that shit somebody will look for, but won’t find / you must’ve done this before this can’t be your first time,” on “The Real Her” before Andre 3000 sleepily walks circles around him and Weezy. Then, on tracks such as the aforementioned “Marvin’s Room” and “Good Ones Go Interlude” his voice couldn’t pack any more regret or meaning. The rapping is no different. The whole affair opens to a beautiful 40 beat that’s lost among the clouds, but rather than smoothly top it, Drake fights the beat with a choppy flow and the painfully dumb “I think I killed everybody in the game last year, man fuck it I was on though.” Then on tracks such as “Underground Kings” and “HYFR” (just wait till he surprises you with that speed) he couldn’t be more alive.

This is ultimately the issue with Take Care. Drake’s made it clear from the beginning that he’s in it for the riches, and who can blame him? Yet he now seems trapped between the desire to create a product and a piece of music. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be the pop star, but Drake no longer seems certain it’s even this he desires. If it is, he’d benefit from going back to the Prince and Michael Jackson playbooks: if you’re going to craft chart toppers, make them genuinely fun. There’s a difference between a groove that can make it up Billboard, and one that genuinely stays stuck in the head. Isn’t it the latter that all pop stars should aim for? The simple, “How you mean, how you mean, thought you knew about the team” hook from “Cameras” goes a longer way than much of the pop material on the album, simply because Drake decides to deliver it with some sense of making it easy on the ears. Take Care drops at an interesting time: Drake is now undeniably a superstar, here to stay. The rap world is gradually, and somewhat begrudgingly, making room, and all will eventually settle. The most spiteful hate has largely come and gone, and this album is certainly a step in the right direction. Yet, before Drake wins over his foes, and truly can lay claim to true rap dominance — altogether separate from chart success — he must figure out just what it is he wants.

All this is obvious to a longtime lover of music, but some younger fans are sure to question: just what’s the big deal, in 2011? It’s 1966, The Beach Boys are high on the release of the greatest artistic accomplishment of their career, the differences that would drive them apart were already festering, and above all, now they had to do it. They had to top Pet Sounds. Brian Wilson wanted to record the perfect “teenage symphony,” and had started off without fail with “Good Vibrations.” Wilson had never been one to go about creation with ease, and with The Beach Boys’ first million-seller, he created a brilliant obsession that would grow into the monster that strangled his ‘perfect symphony.’ He had begun doing something then entirely unorthodox: recording each section of music – essentially, each sound – with an independent, long running session, all later pieced together, to create the nebulous concept of a flawless single that surely only existed in Wilson’s head. It all sounded crazy (and expensive), but it worked. The powers-that-be surely raised eyebrows at the price tag, but would endure anything for an entire album’s worth of “Good Vibrations.” Wilson even found the ideal writing partner in Van Dyke Parks. So, where did it all go wrong?

The popular, cool answer is Mike Love. He had been a voice of uncertainty during the increasing artistry of the Pet Sounds sessions, and had only grown more agitated at blowing budgets on Tannerins and the like, when those involved in the sessions recall them, they’re quick to point blame: Mike hated the album. He’s an easy target, and not at all an unfair one. However, considering The Beach Boys’ own prominence in the very culture that supports such a lifestyle, it’s important to note: Wilson had gone a tad off the deep end. Mary Jane had long been a friend, but Wilson had grown increasingly close with Lucy (we mean acid, folks). This both allowed for the extreme insights he had during recording and began to dissemble the already overworked and paranoid Wilson. He became convinced the “Fire” section of ‘Elements Suite’ was responsible for local fires, ceasing recording of the material, had his band dress in firemen hats, and so on. Parks avoided even entering the studio.

Yet, it reached beyond even this. Most musicians described Wilson as respectable during their sessions, saving his transgressions for outside the studio. It was resistance that broke Brian Wilson, the same resistance that turned what may have been his proudest moment, “Heroes and Villains,” into an afterthought. His own band member despised the album, but it was ultimately the music’s own brilliance that unraveled it. This is the strange tragedy of SMiLE, had it been released when it was intended, it may well have changed music forever. Yet, it just may as well have been overlooked, a recording destined for recognition long past its creation. So, perhaps, this painfully gradual release has only ensured its legacy, unleashing it on a generation of listeners trained to understand it. Despite all the bootlegs, the newer version, and all the material released on other albums across the years, the resurrected SMiLE still commands force. Somehow, allowing it its true moment on the shelves has solidified the record’s historical importance. In 1966, Brian Wilson and friends recorded an album that could have changed the world. The truth is, Wilson had thought the record would be a classic, every bit as worthy as many now consider it. Alas, the droves had wanted more surf music. While British musicians were warmly embraced for their new, burgeoning ideas, America suffocated one of its idols with their expectations, a complacent, dull desire for the one thing our country has never seemed to object to: more of the same. So, perhaps SMiLE did change the world, perhaps we can learn from it, and not make the next poor genius in line with an idea suffer for it.

Some just don’t see the point in festivals – to the avid attendee this seems unfathomable, but it’s true. The performance’s details inevitably fade from mind, only the general euphoria of the experience will remain. It’s this itself that those who ‘get it’ come time and time again for. For the serious musical mind, live music presents a different perspective. The recorded album is one thing, a cohesive puzzle to pull apart and consider. A show, ultimately, is the artist unfiltered, with all gears directed towards entertainment. After all, it’s one thing to make an album, it’s entirely another to entertain a rabid, potentially (moreover, probably) inebriated crowd with full intent on getting their ticket’s worth. Hell, in the age of Pirate Bay, it’s just about the only thing the kids are paying for.

So, with the ever over-saturating number of festivals looking to hop into the big leagues, how does Moogfest stand out? It turns out the young event had quite a lot. Firstly, there’s the lineup: the likes of The Flamings Lips, Moby, Crystal Castles, M83, and many more. Yet, it’s what brought these artists together that’s of more interest. For those not particularly invested in electronic music, Robert Moog was the inventor of the synthesizer that essentially gave birth to what we consider the makeup of the genre. All the artists playing weren’t just appearing at any festival, they had been invited to the namesake of their art. Each and every one of them seemed to genuinely take pride in this, and the music no doubt benefited. It’s this same distinction that attracted Brian Eno, who offered a separately ticketed conversation, dubbed “Illustrated Talk,” along with his display of his own “77 Million Paintings.”

Of the several festivals I’ve attended this year, Moogfest was perhaps both the most chaotic and the most personable. The growing festival didn’t quite seem to know what to do with the increased media presence, but through it all emerged more heart than I’ve found at any of the larger alternatives.

The acts all unleashed their best, across several venues – all inside but one. I was surprised by and initially hesitant about this, being generally of the mind that shows of this magnitude are best served outdoors, but was pleased to discover it added generous intimacy. Crowds milled about historic Asheville, essentially a hippie haven, littered with record stores, a Mellow Mushroom, and other indie kid-ready fare. The largest venue was inside the Civic Center, and going between this and the other venues was nearly surreal: leave a darkly lit rave one moment, emerge into beautiful downtown, walk by the good natured townsfolk, then hop into the next self-contained storm.

When it all ended I was left with something grand daddies like Bonnaroo and Lollapalooza hadn’t: an actual purpose, an intent. The best and brightest electronic music had to offer had gathered, played to the best of their ability, all in respect and admiration of the same principle. In its infancy, Moogfest still has a ways to grow, but it’s safe to say Robert would be proud.

And the negativity had an inevitable effect. Cole had brought hype and genuine respect to Roc Nation, but now the proud son’s debut didn’t seem to be creating the waves it was intended to. While Hov certainly must care about his employee to some extent, he hardly played a true mentor, largely skipping out on the process, finally dropping in for a verse on “Mr. Nice Watch,” all swag and fluff. Compared to the dramatic, star-ensuring verse he offered Drake last year, Hov’s true apprentice seems left with a pittance. No one seemed to be giving the poor kid the props he seemed guaranteed when The Warm Up dropped. You could call it a lack of ability to create hype, blame the kid.

Yet, he just hit the chart with a bullet, 218,000 units out the door. True, those aren’t Young Money numbers, but, then, it’s also true that Jay-Z is no Birdman, he doesn’t buy half his people’s records. The point is – Cole did those numbers in the face of the lack of shine he’s been given. Imagine the units he’d have pushed if Jay had genuinely backed him from the start, thrown him at the airwaves with a debut buzz track with Hov bars: nothing less than the treatment the ever-delaying Jay Electronica received.

Nonetheless, the lack of love hits Cole World. Had the album been treated by his superiors like Thank Me Later, it would have been an event, instead the record nearly plays like Cole figured out he was getting zero from headquarters and locked himself in the studio until it all sounded as perfect as it could. There’s a reason for that: Cole produces practically the entire album, and he’s clearly vigorously stepped up his ability. Here’s where the limitations hit: Cole had produced a solid album, all on his lonesome, and he had nary a thing to market it with. To get the album out, a generous amount of recycling occurs. Last year’s “In the Morning” reappears to take advantage of that “ft. Drake” sales boost, worse, Drizzy bested Cole then, it doesn’t sound any better on his own album. Even “Lights Please” returns, despite being the track that got him on the Roc in the first place. “Lost Ones” is also hardly new, but its brilliance easily justifies its presence.

It’s understandable – Cole simply needed those tracks to get the album out the gate. And he makes a relative riot out of the whole one man show thing. Missy Elliott nails a sing-song hook on “Nobody’s Perfect,” which – like much of Cole’s production here – captures a both smooth and bombastic sound that hasn’t been presented so effectively in mainstream rap for some time. “Some nigga asked me why Jay never shout me out, like I’m supposed to give a fuck,” Cole declares early on. It’s true; Cole is a man to himself. He was faced with ignorance, and cranked out a hit album in its face. It’s a rather small affair for an MC debuting at #1 on the charts in 2011, not every guy with a mic and a potentially falsified criminal history gets a deal from Puff anymore. It’s easy to forget: selling is everything, and most guys these days just don’t sell. Let’s get it clear: put Cole’s 218,000 up against B.o.B’s debut week, 84,000. Without a “Nothin on You,” “Airplanes,” or Eminem verse. One hopes someone at Roc Nation gleans the importance of those figures, or that Simba gets more love from his Mufasa, but this time out, we got an album entirely thrown on the shoulders of the cub, and like a growing king, J. Cole actually pulled it off, but scope, cohesiveness, and focus couldn’t help but become somewhat lost in the disarray.

That’s right folks, more Spitta. Curren$y and Alchemist both took to their twitters to announce the approach of Re-Coversionalize, a sequel of sorts to Covert Coup.

That’s the good news. The bad news, if one can call it that, is in contrast the typically rapid and sporadic release pace of rap’s hardest working stoner, Spitta appears to intend to build real hype for the record. In his tweet, he declared 4/20/12 as the release for the record – the same date their first collaboration released this year.

On the way to see Raekwon, Ghostface and Mobb Deep. Say no more – you could drag me to Mogadishu for a double-bill of that caliber. Much more conveniently, I was headed to the Tabernacle, in my hometown of Atlanta. Among the records paramount to my musical upbringing, Only Built 4 Cuban Linx… and The Infamous certainly hold places of honor. Both have seen their day atop my GOAT list, and when the mood strikes, they still find themselves back there.

As I sat in the car, I wondered aloud how the audience would be split. It’s a controversial truth, but record rap sales have been made since the days of Public Enemy by curious white kids. Yet it persists as an uncomfortable fact for some, and is often still brushed under the rug. See what The Roots have to say about the matter for another perspective. Still, this was a ’95 special, Mobb Deep and Wu, dusty ass rugged rap, playing in Atlanta. This whole line of thinking isn’t something I’ve always dedicated much thought to, but as I continue to attend shows such as this, friend after friend asks me: “How’s it feel to be the white kid in the room?”

Truth is, the debate as to the “realness” of a dedicated whitie in an art form largely indebted to racial tension is both long running and cannot be simply dismissed. The image of the white boy that knows every word, holding his tongue for the N-words is an inevitably enduring one.

We walked towards the venue, and my friend announces, “I’ve never been to a rap show.” I outwardly revel in the new energy he’ll find, inwardly hoping that he wouldn’t embarrass himself. We certainly weren’t the only caucasians in the room, but we were certainly in the minority. My friend’s uncertainty made me begin to the rethink the whole thing again; if ya ask me, it’s a matter of perspective, race in no way should limit culture, let alone music culture. There’s no simple black and white in hip hop, no matter confused old white America’s perspective.

An opening act of three kid Wu worshipers (11, 13, and 16, if memory serves) had been spitting impressively for their ages for a while, preceded and followed by a hype man that either believed that only berating his audience excited them, or had simply consumed a bit too much cocaine. We’d hopped out to the porch for a reprieve, surrounded by a bunch of guys trying to make joint’s look like cigarettes for a clearly disinterested security guard.

In true fashion, Mobb wouldn’t hit the stage until an hour and a half had passed since their intended start time. We were pelted with another opener, my friend had wondered off in search of alcohol, and I’d gratefully slipped away to the front. If there was one criticism to lob at the Tabernacle, it’d be of their dance floor. The damn thing was inclined. Try bumping to three hours of live rap on deck on a slow moving treadmill. You get the idea.

A guy behind me started yelling, “Where’s Mobb Deep?,” and, “We want Mobb Deep, nigga!,” followed by, “We don’t wanna see you nigga! Mobb Deep!” He just kept going, advancing on the stage, and in the defining moment of his performance, the young opener quipped, “I wanna see Mobb Deep too, my nigga.” Everyone gave him the biggest cheer he’d get and we got it: he was just another kid waiting.

Then shit got real. Alchemist came on out, began setting up, and popped on the beats. Next thing I knew, Havoc and Prodigy were belting rhymes at me. Thanks to that troublesome prison sentence, this was the first time I’d been able to see P perform. They started right off with “The Start of Your Ending,” but I soon realized the albums wouldn’t be played in their entirety. It was understandable, out of the Rock the Bells flow, and it made more sense to present a typical concert. Not that it mattered, Al threw on “Outta Control remix” and I felt like I was living in the G Unit era all over again. In a cute bromance moment, the duo went back and forth embarrassing one another with sincere compliments. I hope the record eventually shows I was the first journalist to describe anything related to Mobb Deep as “cute.” P, if you read this, don’t end me.

For one track, they brought Alchemist out from behind the boards, and he spit a surprisingly voracious verse. Finally, it came down to the last song, and P looked at the audience, declaring, “You know I couldn’t get outta here without doin’ my shit.” Al let the beat to “Shook Ones Pt. II” stutter, and the crowd flipped. Then it dropped in earnest, and Prodigy began what can only be considered one of the genre’s greatest verses. Respect to The Infamous.

And then it was Wu. I won’t lie, I’ve spent my time worshipping at their temple, and simply seeing Rae and Ghost bust out onto the stage was a thunderous moment. They set it up just right – with that Cuban Linx… dialogue playing, and then the verses crashed in, the two MC’s simply emerging.

Their performance was truly titanic. Ripping through the Wu discography, they performed essentials and a few unexpected choices. Tity Boi was even randomly present for a single song. After an hour or more, Ghostface asked,

“Y’all tired?”

“HELL NO!”

“Well shit, aight then, just checkin….what do yall wanna hear?”

I bellowed my opinion in vain, but at least the man was taking requests. Always a good move.

After finishing a song near the end, Raekwon said, “Yo, I wanna talk to all the white people in here tonight. If you’re here, you’re hip hop.” – he got a few catcalls – “I’m serious. To all my white niggas, you support real hip hop, that’s my heart. You a part. You, and now I’m talkin to all of you here, help us feed our families, and I’m thankful for that. We all thankful for that.” It risks sounding cheesy in print, but it was all a great moment.

He brought a little boy, declaring, “This Lil’ Raekwon.” The kid shyly looked out at the audience, and friends and family of the artists – as well as a reemerging Tity Boi (or 2Chainz, whatever he fancies these days) – joined them on stage for an encore of “Rock Star,” off Rae’s latest disc. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected, frankly, I’m not overly fond of the album version, but live, it’s thrashing beat gains an entirely new energy. Each MC rode over it perfectly, and they were out. I clambered up the treadmill, my friend sitting in wait, completely exhausted. Looks like he discovered the power of the rap show, and it was one hell of a performance to be tossed in for. For a show intended as a tease for a larger event, the evening at the Tabernacle had been a massive one.

With Rebirth and I Am Not a Human Being Wayne began using up his platinum plaques, slowly depleting the fanbase that moved over a million copies of Tha Carter III in its first week. That was one hell of an accomplishment, one that led a whole bunch of titles to be heaped on an artist who would have seemed at the start of a promising career. Yet, he wasn’t at the start. III was his sixth album, and his first to push big numbers. By brilliance of persona, perfectly blessed timing, and an ounce of luck, Lil Wayne had somehow simply stepped into superstardom.

It makes him a very interesting case: artists like Eminem and Kanye West blew a crater into the game with their entrance, competing with their own records throughout their careers. On the dawn of the mania that came from Tha Carter III Wayne was standing atop, arguably, a decent record, a great one (that’d be C2, folks), and three turds. He had almost nowhere to go but up. No flawless Marshall Mathers LP to tarnish with an Encore. How little we knew.

Two terrible albums and a jail sentence later, Wayne’s career is in question, overshadowed by his own Canadian soap opera of an apprentice. So what is it with Weezy? Perhaps the sudden weight of superstardom was too much, but whatever the reason, on Carter IV he is reduced to playing showtunes versions of himself. If you’re a fan, incensed at these words, stop and think of ol’ ‘Weezy F. Baby.’ Now ask yourself how many things that “F” has stood for. Apparently he’s still unsettled; on “Nightmares of the Bottom” – alone – it takes on four different meanings.

To peer into the details of any given track would only worsen the score: you get a bad John Mayer forgery of a single (“How To Love”), beats that shouldn’t have made Sorry 4 the Wait, and a halfhearted, attention-seeking diss track (“It’s Good”). As for what came before, it’s truly Carter II that stands atop the series as the best entry, but it was the third chapter on which Wayne reached his most delirious highs. The mixed bag was topped by production extravaganza such as “Let the Beat Build,” which no material here begins to reach. The best tracks on IV are tired afterthoughts: half of them stunted attempts at recapturing “A Milli” while personal tracks fall feebly short of “Playin’ with Fire.” Even “President Carter” is a sleepily reimagined “Bill Gates” – and that was off Human Being. We won’t even bother going through the litany of flubbed lines; this critic has, quite literally, three pages of them in his notebook. That wouldn’t be a review, it’d be a punishment.

Yet, punishment is about what Weezy deserves. The act is up: Lil Wayne is weird. He’s a Martian, gets in skateboarding accidents and disses and befriends Jay-Z at his convenience. The people get it by now. Either they’re bored, or Wayne is. Whatever the reason, Wayne is so tired throughout this album that he often hardly bothers to string together words that have any cleverness or sense whatsoever. He lifts lines from Odd Future and, frequently, himself. It’s inevitable: an artist begins to mimic the incarnation of themselves that brings the most success when they grow comfortable (someone phone the irony in to Babyface), but Lil Wayne seems to have taken a crash course. Perhaps he was never meant for the level of importance he attained, but something has certainly taken it out of our little Martian.

He doesn’t even bother to appear on the tracks with his most able guests, avoiding the “Interlude” (with Tech N9Ne and Andre 3000) and “Outro” (Bun B, Nas, Shyne and Busta Rhymes) completely. It’s as if Wayne knew his meal was too undercooked to present alongside real chefs. He struggled to find a single with legs: we’ve heard four since December, all of which still appear here. Typically, singles so long exposed are left behind in favor of newer material, it seems poor Weezy struggled to find much of anything worth putting on his album. This coming from an MC who typically records so much material that it seeps out with relative constancy. No less, the single that finally sold entirely hinges around a Drake hook. This says plenty for Weezy’s labelmate, but nothing for himself. This guy did a milli in a week, and now he’s relying on his friends to get a hit?

It’s all these things that make this album so damn sad. Last year’s disappointments were only blips on the radar. This, this, is Tha Carter IV: the next installment in the series that brought Wayne to both fame and acclaim. Fans are quick to point it out as superior to Rebirth and Human Being – and it is – but isn’t that in itself sad? Did the positive response to American Gangster rely upon holding it over Kingdom Come? Of course not; they focused on its merits. With Tha Carter IV, that’s impossible. The best that can possibly be said for it is ‘barely better than,’ perhaps ‘inoffensive’ and ‘bland.’ And, from an MC that would call himself King, shouldn’t we all have hoped – nay, expected – well, better?

One can’t help but wonder if the record would have been stronger had it dropped 2 years earlier. It’s not a popular – or even accepted – fact with the fans of the movement, but the “gangsta” resurgence has died, consumed by punchline rap, which is currently falling by the wayside in its own right. So, instead of the once promised reformation of the West Coast, Game is forced to play catch up. He’s no exception, just like any rapper in or before his generation, he has to reassert himself in this new climate.

Problem is, he’s not too good at doing it. Rather than find his own identity amidst the riptide, he’s pulled under by it. This isn’t to say this is a terrible album, far from it. Nonetheless, it does sport a very confused Game, as if he were sprinting around after the album’s guests in a rigged game of musical chairs. On the highly hyped Tyler, the Creator collab “Martians vs. Goblins” Game is on his best Slim Shady trying to match the clever ne’er-do-well, while Lil Wayne simply babbles on the chorus to excuse the ‘Martians’ portion of the title. While on “Paramedics” one can hardly tell the difference between Game and Young Jeezy. The list goes on.

Nonetheless, the album has its strengths. Recently crowned West Coast hope (by Snoop Dogg and Game himself) Kendrick Lamar guests on album intro “The City,” utterly consuming the track with his hunger. Game’s clearly proud of getting killed by his chosen one, and the track’s a great hip hop moment. “Born in the Trap” boasts a nostalgic Premo beat, while The Neptunes’ contribution “Mama Knows” sports one of their better beats in recent memory. Finally, “Ricky” is perhaps the album’s proudest moment, inspired by Boyz n the Hood, the track is a bittersweet reminder of the sort of storytelling fans had hoped would comprise the majority of the record.

So what happened to that album? Game made noise about returning to Aftermath, and you couldn’t blame him: he was back with the Doc, where he was supposed to be. R.E.D. was to be a joint effort, with primary input coming from Dre and The Neptunes. Well, Pharrell is the executive producer, but both he and Dre only provide a beat each, and by Game’s own admission the latter is a Detox leftover 2 years aged. Frankly, the fact that “Drug Test” still bangs says more for Dre (and his latest protege DJ Khalil) than this whole album does for Game. Instead Dre provides a series of dramatic interludes which, to be fair, add more cohesion to the album than much anything else, but it’s a far cry from the true successor to The Documentary fans had hoped for. The truth is, this was an important album for Game: did he have longevity or was he a side note? With this mixed bag he’s likely cemented his reputation as a MC that was blessed with a sack of classic beats for his debut, now just a rapper like the rest of ‘em.

All Photos by Cody Bralts

Friday August 5th

This year’s festival began with the threat of rain and the hope of avoiding it. The usual exciting mix of big and “indie” names artists was present: the likes of Eminem, Coldplay, Deadmau5, and Muse headlining, backed by a strong group of smaller acts such as Lykke Li, Best Coast, and The Mountain Goats. The Cars reunion tour passed through, Nas & Damian Marley tried to start a revolution, and Foo Fighters were the brunt of every hipster’s joke. By the last day, the luck ran out, and it poured down on sets by Best Coast and Deadmau5, neither of whom faced a discouraged crowd. In true Lolla form, it only made people go harder. Personally, I can honestly lay claim to starting the shouts of “Marshall” that led to an encore (I cheated; I knew he’d do “Lose Yourself” from Bonnaroo). Nas also grew even closer to deification: the seemingly endless torrential rain ceased nearly as soon as he took the stage, giving way to a double rainbow, no less. It was three days of music, the fun only limited by the lines for the bathroom and the muddy venue fields (although even this ceased to bother concertgoers sliding across them the last day), ending in nights worthy of Romero as a beleaguered police force attempted to contain the brainless masses shuffling home. Much like Deadmau5’s set, it all ended too soon, but upon the festival’s 20th anniversary, its performers can be proud to have crafted a genuinely memorable weekend.

Tennis:

Tennis must be doing something right: against all odds they’ve overcome the usual indie bias against the typical smarminess of husband-and-wife duos. Of the two, Alaina has unequivocally emerged as the more charismatic, and it was her presence that made their show what it was. She affably connected to the audience, joking that her keyboard was on the fritz and sharing her suspicions that airport security was responsible (something we certainly can all relate to). Clearly the damaged equipment had little effect as they kept their audience invested for a set that included all their musts. Nonetheless, the show couldn’t help but be something of an afterthought: Tennis rose on the wave created by the last year’s obsession with beach pop, and despite their fondness of the open water, by festival’s end they were left in the doldrums by the presence of Cults and arguable queen of the movement, Best Coast. Still, they’re a band on the upswing, and their show offered a fine diversion early in the day. We can only hope for more from this duo.

The Naked And Famous:

Delta Spirit:

How rare and kind is the band playing a big stage that acknowledges requests. Delta Spirit did just that, and on their second song, no less. Yet, it was perhaps their intro that was most memorable: it began with crashing drums, seeming to end as the singer thanked the audience, only to return with a blast of a riff. It was quite a salvo. They continued their show with just as much fervor, putting on an impressive set for hitting the stage so early in the day. Personally, I’d never listened to their material prior to this performance, and still found myself bobbing my head as enthusiastically as the audience members who seemed to know all the words. That has to say something.

Smith Westerns:

I didn’t have to look at the schedule – I assumed Smith Westerns would appear. As Chicago natives with a buzz-worthy record released in 2011, they were the most obvious of choices. I’ve never really understood the divisive effect of a band so inoffensive, and if you ask me, the Westerns are neither the most interesting indie rock to spawn in recent years, nor the worst. This is why I was so pleasantly amused by their show. As it turns out, the band works better live than in the studio. After only their first song song they quipped, “We’re so excited to play Lolla, so excited we’re gonna play some more songs.” That they did, and bless their sound system, they had one of the crispest sounding shows of the festival. For a band so young they had quite a live presence as well, making for a performance that transcended their material – whether you found the band to be a revelation or just another indie band, it didn’t much matter once they got on that stage. They delivered.

Cults:

When I think of Cults, I can’t help but regard them as something of a New York-tinged Best Coast. Well, that’s not a bad thing to be, and they don’t reject the comparison (in fact, the two bands are friends). The band consistently made sure to engage their audience, perhaps best of all with a grand rendition of “You Know What I Mean”. Noticing the enthusiastic nature of their audience, a band member declared, “It’s hot out, but if you want to dance, no one will judge you.” Singer Madeline Follin took the stage in a flowing black shirt and shorts short enough so that it seemed she wasn’t wearing any. I hadn’t seen her perform before, and had no idea she was so pretty. This may seem arbitrary in regards to her performance, but three bros in the audience couldn’t seem to stop yelling, “I love you!,” so this factor clearly had some effect. She reacted bashfully, laughing pleasantly at them between songs. She’s also a superb performer: early on in the set, the guitarist’s volume was too high, somewhat drowning her vocals. She didn’t flinch, continuing to sing as she motioned for someone to turn him down, receiving no notice, leading her to occasionally repeat the gesture. It was an interesting moment, revealing all the concerns an artist faces when expected to put on a great show. And that it was.

The Mountain Goats:

John Darnielle helped me discover what I would call “good music”. Hell, his early lo-fi recordings were such a revelation for my younger self that they may well have helped form my perspective. So, you might imagine I was excited to finally see him live. I wondered to myself, will he primarily play his recent material? I hoped not, and he must have heard my prayers, as The Mountain Goats – at this particular show, John with his band, rather than alone – played material from across his career. As an Atlanta native in Chicago, I couldn’t help but feel personally considered when he broke out, “Going to Georgia”, not to mention “Lion’s Teeth”, among my favorite selections from The Sunset Tree. At 44, Darnielle isn’t young anymore, and the maturity shown through his performances of his more youthful material. A more contained, graceful artist didn’t turn out to be a bad thing, as he played what’s best described as a heartfelt set. Even with his longtime presence in the indie community, you could still see John was moved to have reached such a point of success to be playing at Lollapalooza, of all places. It’s sure a long way from his tape recorder days, and you couldn’t help but feel happy for him. He returned the gesture, providing a show that satisfied this longtime fan – and I don’t mind telling you, I had some high expectations.

Crystal Castles:

God damn, Alice Glass is a crazy mother fucker. Do you know how many injuries she’s sustained? The girl just puts herself in the way of danger, and that’s just the way she likes it: from performing on crutches to ignoring doctors’ orders to take it easy, she’s one hell of a punk chick. Both she and Ethan (if that’s his real name) are more than a bit elusive, grand presences while on the stage, shadows in the dark when off it. This adds something to their shows: it’s as if a mystery briefly graces you. The enigma is enshrouded when they hit the stage, and Lollapalooza was no exception. As it happened, I wasn’t feeling well at the time of their performance, and was initially disappointed that I wouldn’t be raving among the rest of the fans. However, lying down throughout, I discovered an entirely new way to appreciate their music – in a resting state the music manifests itself in your mind in the most natural of ways, flowing through as it will. The band played a variety of tunes, exciting me most by remembering the material that got them started – the Alice Practice songs – creating what was perhaps the most inspired electronica show of the festival. Alice didn’t disappoint either, crowd surfing her way through “Baptism”. Crystal Castles sure have come a long way since they were dubbed one of the “worst” acts of Lolla ’09 by critics who simply didn’t understand what they were doing. Let’s hope those guys caught on this year.

Ratatat:

Coldplay:

As I walked towards the stage for Coldplay, I was a little more than quizzical. Once dubbed “the next U2”, down talking Chris Martin and company has practically become a national pastime for the music community. While I still enjoy their first two albums, nothing they’ve done since has interested me as much, and the single for their new record only sounded another step down, so I couldn’t help but be incredulous. I shouldn’t have underestimated their sheer showmanship. They opened with a possible track from their upcoming album titled “Hurts Like Heaven”, and while it hardly topped their best material, it’s certainly a step up from the current single. It was the second song that lulled the audience into eating out of their hands – who doesn’t love “Yellow”?

Say what you will about him, but Chris Martin knows how to entertain an audience. He constantly tried to entrance all present, reaching out to those stuck in the back, declaring, “don’t think we don’t care about you.” Despite their longevity, their excitement was still palpable, as Chris explained this was both their first “proper American concert” amongst the promotion for their new record and the fulfillment of their longtime aspiration to play Lolla. It shone through in their performance. As giant balloons released into the crowd and bounced about (amusing most of all when spiked too hard, popping), they played near as many essentials as one could hope: “In My Place,” “Lost,” and “Shiver,” among others. Upon playing the latter, Chris noted it was the first song they ever played in America, and tidbits such as this were of genuine interest. They also played other new material, but reached me perhaps best of all with “Amsterdam”, a personal favorite, and not a song I expected to hear. Perhaps it doesn’t say much for their future, but the band’s willingness to revel in their past glory made Coldplay’s show a surprisingly good one.

There’s quite a lot to envy. The antithesis of the only young hip hop artist to lay claim to the sort of significance he’s seeking – that’d be Drake – Lamar didn’t have soap opera fame or big name artists leaping out of the woodwork to create his career for him. Alright, so Dr. Dre’s given the kid props, but Lamar’s hardly relying on the good doctor. Instead, with ever-increasing vigor, K.Dot has been uprooting the sleepily comfortable scene.

Like any young artist, he was playing by the numbers on tapes such as Training Day, but Kendrick Lamar began to be something far greater than the norm on his audaciously lengthy self-titled EP. Then he dropped O.D., and folks really began to take notice. Lamar found himself in that awkward position: on the precipice of buzz, nearing genuine fame. Rather than hobble towards an awkward debut a la the Thank Me Laters and Finally Famouses, Lamar made the bolder choice: remaining independent to gather a larger following – on his own terms. No less, he hooked up with J. Cole, dropping “Hiii Power.” It paid off, and the bandwagon began sagging under the weight. In a matter of days, Section 80 grew from a release exciting to some, to the very top of many 2011 anticipation lists. That sort of hype can cripple an artist, but here it sits, Kendrick Lamar’s victory. While the likes of Jay Electronica (and Cole himself) continue to struggle to match the impression created by their earliest material with a debut, Lamar just keeps going. If there’s anything that will allow for the MC’s success it’s his understanding of buzz: it’s all about the moment, and Section.80 is about as relevant as it gets.

Lamar himself is quite the character. As any artist grows, an inevitable juncture is reached, a change, and the longtime fans begin to mildly gripe that they are altering their presentation to reach a wider audience. 80 marks that point for some, as Lamar expands his considerations to focus on the political, both in regards to the government and its people. It’s an unfair criticism. As one begins to reach more and more listeners, should they not strive to make some sort of impact? While the majority of his contemporaries produce countless tracks about, well, not much of anything, Lamar insists on substance, and he’s selling out? There’s certainly something wrong with that concept.

To the contrary, this is precisely what makes Lamar so invaluable. His music lives and breathes both in the past and present, forever striving forward while constantly recalling what brought us here. Kendrick Lamar is a Compton MC aware of his art’s history, what could be more appropriate than an opinionated upstart? The days of ‘crazy mother fuckers named Ice Cube’ have come and gone, that level of abrasiveness is out the window. While recent self-obsessed records have done their best to conceal it, all that tension needed somewhere to go. By taking a stand on this record, Lamar fashions himself a one man N.W.A for the information age, grasping the hell created by our society as it stands for all people without a stuffed wallet.

In fact 80 nearly plays as a narrative, a journey through this “Section 80”; the marginalized, forgotten, and ignored. He doesn’t shy away from much, toying with the threat of a rich, young African American on “Hol’ Up,” somewhat reminiscent of Mos Def’s “Mr. Nigga.” Generally, however, as intro “Fuck Your Ethnicity” makes painfully clear, Lamar is far more interested in his entire generation. This record is a playlist of the 80s babies, most explicitly explored on “A.D.H.D.,” on which he declares himself, the girl he’s pursuing, and – by extension – all of us hailing from his age bracket, “crack babies”. Even on ladies’ anthem “No Makeup”, he still appears genuine, attacking the standards of beauty we’ve emplaced on our women. He doesn’t shy away from much of anything, calling out many of the gangsta absurdities present in the industry, dryly sniping with quips such as, “Ya like to mistake a street nigga for a real nigga / the same nigga that kill witcha ya will squeal witcha.” It’s also here that he’s hit his greatest storytelling game, “Keisha’s Song (Her Pain)” is perhaps the quickest a song will bring a tear to your eye since Andre 3000 began hiding from the mic.

It’s on “The Spiteful Chant” Lamar finally addresses his own life, snarling at the changing faces beginning to surround him as he gains notoriety. Considering K.Dot’s typical perspective, lines like, “I’m goin’ big, suck my dick,” are best read as satire, annoyance with an industry he hopes to transcend. Even ScHoolBoy Q drops in for a memorable verse – yet another of Lamar’s laudable actions on this release is his willingness, at this early juncture, to stand on his own. On “Chant,” he declares that he while he’s building a bond with Dr. Dre, he would never accept a handout. It’s easy to believe him. When most would collect as many recognizable names as possible for a release so important to their fledgling career; K.Dot stands essentially alone, without a big name guest to speak of. Why would he want them? Kendrick Lamar is not the sort to shy from collaboration, but this, this is his record, dare we say, his life, all on the record.

Section.80 nearly seems to live and breathe. It’s a political record and a personal record, a movement record – with good reason: Lamar is gaining power, and he’s getting on his Peter Parker. All in all, Section.80 is perhaps best described simply as a mission statement. Lamar made a bold and brilliant choice by placing the ever-hyped “Hiii Power” last. Even after its months of availability, the track still thunders, and all one can do is wait for what he does next. A buzz builder doesn’t come much better constructed. It’s said that Lamar’s goal here was to prove himself capable of standing alone. Well, in certainly one of the greatest critical understatements written, he’s done it. Amidst the decay of this new generation of MC’s, a bit healing goes a long, long way. Has a generation found its voice? Who the hell knows, but they’ve certainly found something.

If you ask the MC himself, you’ve got Aubrey Graham to thank. He’s relaxed recently, but Sean used to heave around quite a bit of hostility towards the Young Money star: the way he sees it, Drake stoles his style and ran with it, simply hitting the charts first. There’s no way of truly “knowing” who took what from whom, if Drake listened to Sean early enough to jack his swag, and so on. That said, it doesn’t seem unreasonable, considering Sean’s earlier display of it, that Drake could have made a meal from his cookbook.

Whatever way you look at it, this doesn’t say much for Big Sean. Claiming you birthed Drake’s style in 2011 is about as cool as claiming you cultivated the West Nile virus, and as hopeless as trying to point out Lady GaGa as Madonna reincarnate. Drake’s followers, both fans and detractors, have already set themselves to loving and hating, and Big Sean is only an afterthought. Is that unfair? Quite possibly, and yet, here we are.

Detroit’s the type of city that’s known for the harsh, insightful rhymes of Royce da 5’9”, Guilty Simpson and Elzhi (and, yes, Eminem, we know), making Big Sean a strange offshoot. Whether he’s an evolution or abomination, the city still seems unsure, and its presence on this album is noticeably reduced, compared to his series of mixtapes. Alright, alright, so Big Sean’s a polarizing figure, what about the actual music?

So far as debuts go, ironically enough, Finally Famous is Thank Me Later’s natural cousin. Hip hop heads are never going to be overly comfortable with the likes of Drake and Sean, but they both showed, at the least, some measure of self on their mixtape material, both sacrificing it out of concern for the mainstream. All signs of growth are forfeit in an attempt to mimic the simple appeal of the material that got him here, right down to the title of the album; another installment in the Famous series, simply with The Album tacked on.

Like margarine, it’s not terrible; it’s just the bland, bastard child of better material. Single “I Do It” has a catchy enough beat – in fact, this album’s No I.D. executive producer credit is by far its strongest asset – and Sean pulls his typical smarmily obnoxious flow, more chit chat than rapping. It’s just not particularly memorable. One has to wonder if label boss Mr. West considered Sean’s buzz past, as he only drops in for a sleepy guest verse on “Marvin Gaye & Chardonnay,” which is probably the album’s best chance for a chart topper. There’s something to be said for the trend of pop-rap records: there’s nothing wrong with a good time. However, purists seem to be turning, with increasing intensity, against the party anthem. What many seem to fail to remember is the prominence of the summer-time song throughout hip hop’s history. Did we forget that it all started because kids wanted to dance and didn’t want to pay for the disco?

The problem is, rappers seem afraid to do one simple thing: have a bit of fun themselves. With alarming frequency, hollowed-out shells are being released, without an ounce of joy behind them; simply calculated sales efforts on the part of a label executive manipulating some poor performer just wanting their debut to see the light of day. The one time Sean stops to enjoy the process a bit himself, on the Chiddy Bang-helmed “High,” he succeeds with flying colors. The jam is catchy, danceable, and generally blissful, instantly lightening the mood of any listener; a tongue-in-cheek Sean shooting off lines like, “I’m in the buildin’ like two planes, bitch.” The New Yorkers it’ll enrage aside, for a moment, Big Sean makes it look easy. It’s too bad he seems to have had such a hard time with everything else.

Working with the Alchemist on Coup extended beyond Curren$y’s usual bag of tricks. This time around, Spitta’s back where he arguably feels most comfortable: Burnie’s relies almost entirely on the production of steady collaborator Monsta Beatz. This is the duo behind the entirety of This is Not a Mixtape, a record many fans consider even stronger than the more widely recognized Pilot Talk, and they handled all of the work here, save a few scatter shot additions. It seems the makings of the perfect Curren$y album: his favored producers let loose across an entire album, all drawing inspiration from a classic stoner movie. What could go wrong?

Nothing, it turns out. The results are just about as great as expected. Perhaps more than ever, the rapper paints the world of the faded, the dense and the spacey are a labyrinth for Curren$y’s creation. Add to this Monsta’s likeminded production, and you’ve got a near guaranteed recipe for greatness. With his tireless output rate, Spitta makes himself a hard man to best. No other MC seems capable of stockpiling such a discography so quickly (at least, without watering down) making Curren$y’s efficiency both a gift and a curse. While he outworks essentially all comers, Spitta’s zealousness makes each release less of an event, with arguably less of an impact. Beyond this, with multiple great releases dropping a year, the MC cuts his own work against himself, forcing him to best a constantly expanding buzz. Unless a release manages to catch on – really catch on, with the mainstream – one can only follow the other, and the varnish will gradually wear thin. It could get a guy famous – or run him into the ground.

As of Burnie’s, there’s no reason to fret. Against all odds, Spitta’s done it again: outdone himself. This may not be Curren$y’s best album yet, it’s too early to call, but if it’s not it’s certainly the next best thing. Perhaps feeling at ease having returned to his own corner, perhaps freed by a movie concept closer to his life than fantasy – whatever the reason the MC has crafted what may be his most cohesive work to date. Not all of it is just weed and women, either. “She Don’t Want a Man” ranks among Curren$y’s harshest material, reflecting on a girl all too aware she’s making the wrong choices, Spitta’s tone straddling between pity, revilement and sadness, making it a unique offering. Needless to say, the vast majority of the material is far more, shall we say, vibrant. Tracks smoothly ooze into the next, creating an album that flows so naturally you’ll hardly notice the seams. The dazed, slow groove on “Televised” slides into the smooth, quietly jovial “This is the Life”, the equally chilled group effort “On G’s”, picking up slightly again for “Money Machine”, complete with borderline trance-inducing chanting. In short, pick any part of this record, pull it apart and you’ll result with a borderline flawless, shapeless mass, set to jump to the top of your most played list.

There’s not much Curren$y could have done better here. For longtime fans uncertain of Spitta flirting outside his circle, well, if the results of Covert Coup still didn’t change your mind, then here’s Weekend at Burnie’s. Most assume Curren$y releases so much material in a scattershot attempt at collecting buzz. Is he? Most rapper’s putting out as much material would have lost energy by now, or at the least compromised, but Spitta only seems all the more himself with each record. He’s been through the funnel, through the Young Money grater, and – thankfully – thought more of himself than the recent YM stars seem to. He’s said it himself; he’d rather stay in the underground. His reasoning isn’t too complicated: he wants to be able to make music he actually likes himself. Weekend at Burnie’s is perhaps the strongest evidence of this yet.

Plenty of people had forgotten – or, these days, never heard of – Rock, but that’s changed somewhat following his producing Kanye West’s “The Joy.” The masses may claim to hate him nowadays, but you still can’t beat kudos from Kanye. Of course, that’s unfair to Rock, who certainly influenced Mr. West more than the other way around, but such is life and the fickleness of buzz. The producer certainly didn’t let the slightly regained influence get to his head: these beats hit as hard as anything that’s followed The Main Ingredient.

Albums like this have been increasing in recent years: the super collaboration. As the mainstream continues to shift all the farther from the sounds and styles once treasured, rap names that once sold – and had an impact – simply don’t. In a gesture to combat this, respected names have been hitting the booth together with ever-increasing frequency. Duck Down in particular is fond of this technique, releasing both this effort and Random Axe (a collaboration between three younger but equally adored talents) this month alone. These efforts are strange by nature: to the rap fan, these collaborations turn heads and are even occasionally earth shattering, hence a title such as Monumental. Yet, despite this ostentatious presentation, the album won’t even begin to attract the attention of a record by the likes of Wiz Khalifa. You could call an effort such as this the smallest of massive events.

This isn’t to say anything whatsoever regarding the quality of the record itself. It goes without saying that in a world stuffed with Soulja Boy and Lex Luger, sales and worth have begun to commonly disassociate in hip hop as much as any popular genre. Nonetheless, this is still an album, it cost money to make; money that need be returned to allow for the next Duck Down offering. They have to attract the listener somehow, and more than those proud few that follow the label or artist. With an album such as this, one has few options. One can reach out to a younger talent looking for a respect token (think Bun B and Drake), and both parties leave satisfied.

However, this has a way of watering down the product (again, think Bun B and Drake). Another avenue is the feature: avoid the big-name drop-in in favor of collecting as many other “respectable” names as possible. This is sound in principle, but Smif-n-Wessun already comprises of a duo, two personalities vying across their tracks. In order to gain some buzz, whether it be themselves or Pete responsible, the likes of Raekwon, Styles P, Memphis Bleek, Freeway, and, of course, Bun B appear. This is not even to mention the host of Duck Down costars who were guaranteed to drop in. Not a single guest is a waste of space; each asserts themselves and offers up a worthy moment. Nonetheless, the cohesiveness is lost. The tracks consistently bump, some offering up the best production Rock’s crafted in years, but a focus is never apparent.

The two intended primary MCs never get out much of a mission statement, making this more of a grand collaboration between all comers, rather than simply the three names on its cover. Sean P arguably steals “That’s Hard” (the album’s single) while Raekwon’s always smooth flow out-slithers the duo on “Prevail.” This isn’t to depreciate the pair; they’re still perfectly capable of shining alone, as they prove on the eerie, ominous “Fire”; it’s the same intensity they’ve been bringing for years, weaving together a tale of power and murder, seething dialogue such as, “Don’t worry ’bout the police, that’s just one less nigger on the streets.” They simply aren’t given many moments to with space to explore their own territory. Still, in the collaborative spirit of Duck Down, the guests ultimately don’t take too much away from Monumental. It all could have been a tad grander with a bit of focus, but it’s still a refreshing piece of throwback rap, whichever way you look at it.

Drake may keep it relatively PG, but The Weeknd, as we’ve come to expect, is a tad more blunt. He had to take it just that little bit further in his re-thinking of the Young Money star’s recent track, “Trust Issues”. In a gift for the Drizzy haters secretly bumping the catchy cut, Abel has released the superior version whichever way you look at it, perhaps due to the difference between the two talents (hint: Abel can sing). Already having exchanged niceties, this only marks the beginning of musical commonality between the two young artists, with Drake recently revealing that The Weeknd will feature on multiple tracks on his sophomore effort, Take Care. For those disinterested in material related to the Canadian, Abel has two more mixtapes approaching, the first of which, Thursday, is expected to drop within the next few weeks.

In an interview with XXL, the rapper nonetheless teased his fans with the promise of his next studio offering, “I’ma make y’all be like, ‘Nooo!’, I ain’t leaving out this bitch when y’all be like, ‘Yeah, it’s about time, dawg.’ Carter IV might be my last one. I’ma make y’all be like, ‘Fuck!’ Yeah, nigga, I’m gone.”

Unless you’re entirely new to the world of hip hop, you know retirement claims mean next to nothing. Think of…why bother: just about anyone with a big name, and, yep, chances are they’ve made clear – and gone back on – intentions to retire. Nonetheless, if Weezy sticks to his word, one can only hope “How to Love” isn’t representative of his final Carter chapter.

Of course, it’s not just any producer. No I.D. is arguably the most underrated beatsmith working today, and his influence on Kanye West can be heard here as much as ever. The EP itself is a strange beast, you simply have to hear it. This is one of those rare, truly unique discoveries.

You can download it below by using their “Pay with a Tweet” link:

As this record strives to prove, it doesn’t matter. They’re back together now, and as the fable goes, were just so excited they recorded an album-length EP. Every aspect of this thing’s existence is designed to lull genuine rap fans, right down to its title. It’s a strange beast: by remaining devoted to their longtime name they knowingly sacrifice the sales boost of a “Eminem &…” cover. Add to this their reasoning for recording an EP rather than LP: to avoid the pressure of an Eminem CD and allow them to return “real rap” to the mainstream. That’s quite a lofty claim. Simultaneously and inevitably, the effort began being compared to Jay-Z and Kanye West’s Watch the Throne. It’s a bit ironic, seeing as the two projects couldn’t be much more different. Watch the Throne is a carefully calculated project with hundreds of man hours devoted to its perfection, arguably crafted as a crutch for a sagging Jay-Z; a prestige project with his greatest protégé.

Hell: The Sequel, on the other hand, was hurried to release as quickly as it is claimed (and genuinely seems) to have been recorded. There’s certainly something to be said for a creation process freed of obsession, but when the two say they just picked 11 beats and jumped on them, they mean it. You get exactly what you’d expect from two extremely talented MCs messing around: some heavy hitters and some relative duds. Also, despite its appearance as a return to raw rap, this as much an album designed to market Eminem’s new posse as it is anything else. In case you didn’t know, Royce is a member of Slaughterhouse, the new rap clique on Shady Records sans Yelawolf, and if you didn’t, you certainly will if you pop this in, they appear on “Loud Noises.”

Any leader tries to get his guys out there, and Eminem’s no different. However, the tact by which he attempts to achieve this – the Bruno Mars featuring “Lighters” – is a strange one. By all rights, it’s not a terrible song; the beat is decent and the two MCs do their “thanks haters” verses justice, but the chorus sounds more fit for the Mulan soundtrack than a Bad Meets Evil album. It’s simply out of place on an EP otherwise obsessed with maiming and sex. Following “Love the Way You Lie,” Eminem’s logic seems to have been, that it’s better to get good lyrics in a pop structure on the radio, rather than nothing at all. That’s all well and good, but at least Rihanna had the connection to abuse, what’s Bruno doing in Hell? In this day and age, a pop single is understandable, but if one is claiming to be striving to bring it all back, well, when’s it time?

This random interpolation aside, the rest of the material sticks to territory reasonable for Bad and Evil to be occupying. As was aforementioned, they essentially picked beats out of a hat, so a decent amount of what appears here comes from in-house: D12’s Mr. Porter – an able beatsmith in his own right – handles the majority of the production, and a few Recovery collaborators return. Just as with their prior collaboration, Eminem working with Mobb Deep’s Havoc is exciting, and his dense, thudding operatic starter “Welcome 2 Hell” is among the album’s standout material, with the two MCs brutally hurling as many one-liners as they can in under three minutes. It’s one hell of an intro (no pun intended), and followed by the bombastic single “Fastlane,” the EP starts off at an incredible stride. Next up is fan favorite “The Reunion,” boasting an Eminem back on his Eminem Show flow, spending the entirety of his two verses driving and berating the poor girl riding shotgun. Another highlight consists of the Bangladesh-produced “The Kiss,” whose trippy bell-based beat taps into an Eminem unheard for some time; he even takes the time to put Lady GaGa and Bieber on roast.

Be sure to grab the deluxe, leaks caused two of the project’s best tunes to be shifted to afterthoughts. Don’t miss them, the insistent drums and wailing chorus of the fully-mastered “Echo” behind two razor-sharp verses are among the effort’s most satisfying moments.

The rest is hit and miss; “I’m On Everything” is both silly and sloppy, “Above the Law” boasts rapid-fire verses, yet its simplistic beat makes it ultimately forgettable. That’s this effort’s greatest flaw: it’s a well made EP brought to life by two of the greatest MCs currently working, and gets instant extra credit for shedding some light on the perpetually underrated Royce da 5’9”. Nonetheless it ultimately plays like a grand mixtape: MCs showing off their A-game over some basic beats, all recorded and wrapped up in a matter of days. Nothin’ wrong with that and you’re sure to be thrilled for a few listens, but as for this lasting alongside the thought-out efforts of other artists, it’s unlikely. The lyricism is impressive, and it’s easy to get lost in it, but – some very noteworthy highlights aside – once that wears off, it’s unlikely you’ll return to Hell all that often.

On his first effort dealing with the increasing attention, last year’s bland The Gates Mixed Plate, the answer seemed to be a no. However, that effort nearly felt like a side note, the transfer record. On All 6’s and 7’s it’s a very different story. Tech seems to have grasped he shouldn’t abandon his style, and what results is a strange album drifting between the obscure and the mainstream. Considering Tech’s own label’s namesake and its expressed purpose (to get Tech and his posse out there, durh) this may be a feat of genius.

The album starts out with a bang, the electronic-infused “Technicians” hitting a solid stride, but things truly take off with “Am I Psycho?” The first example of Tech’s new, bizarre balance, it’s both produced by and featuring B.o.B. Say what you will about the Atlanta pop star, but he knows how to crank out a killer beat, and freed of Grand Hustle-sized expectations, he unleashes. It’s a tad strange to hear the young MC subliminally dissing Odd Future on a track that seems inspired by their sound and attitude, not to mention the oddity (no pun intended) of a rapper that makes songs such as “Nothin’ on You” playing crazy, but the truth is, the song still bangs. Relative unknown Hopsin also appears on the track, ironically, with much in common with OF, clearly idolizing ’98 Shady, and he destroys his verse. Even B.o.B goes in, snarling, “Can’t even see you niggas, y’all wish I was rappin’ to you, matta fact, act like I’m rappin’ to you if that gives you passion.” Truth be told, if the rest of the world cared about the B.o.B/Odd Future play-beef, the sellout would be winning.

That’s the odd thing about this album: it exists in two worlds. Tech has his world, represented musically on “Strangeland,” and the world he’s being allowed to enter, where guests B.o.B and Wayne reside. On this record, Tech seems more willing to flirt than actually join the party, so the album inevitably pulls against itself occasionally. B.o.B rolled in concerned with his own agenda, but Tech got a killer track out of it. Who’s complaining? This doesn’t always work, however, such as the messy “Fuck Food,” boasting both the Lil Wayne appearance and nothing less than a T-Pain hook. Labelmate Krizz Kaliko throws in his say in an attempt to balance things out, but it still sticks out like Eminem collaborating with Bruno Mars. It’s a funny thing; Weezy is indeed partially responsible for the fame Tech’s enjoying, but in the eternally shifting industry, his own name has massively sunk in significance in the time Tech’s has grown. On his appearance, he’s still fruitlessly imitating his former self, dropping duds like, “I float in that pussy like a cruiseship.”

All 6’s and 7’s shares something else in common with nearly every album Tech’s ever released: overabundance. One can’t help but wonder why the MC feels the need to overstuff his records so grandly that they inevitably flow over into the dregs. This album is 24 – you read that right, twenty four – tracks long, and begins dropping off after track 12. Like any of his records, the rest is hit and miss. Tech genuinely would have benefited for simply cutting off a bit of the fat. For every “Boogieman” – a gleefully bizarre track, as goofy as it sounds – there’s a lazy “Pornographic” (dragged down further by tired E-40 and Snoop Dogg verses) or, perhaps the must offensively dull track to be found here, “You Owe Like Pookie.” There are certainly other highlights; “Worldwide Choppers” hits you with so many flows – including Busta Rhymes, Twista and Yelawolf – you’ll struggle to keep up, and the laidback, Kendrick Lamar backed “I Love Music.” Nonetheless, the volume of the material is inevitably a detractor, and chances are you’ll end up doing the cutting yourself. That said, this album is exciting and promising: Tech N9ne seems to be filling his growing shoes gracefully.

Having departed Wayne’s label, Curren$y had a chance at something he hadn’t in years: a career – moreover, a presence – all his own. In some ways nothing changed, he’s still seeking a breakthrough, still hopping labels (he recently swapped yet again from Def Jam to Warner Bros.), yet Curren$y finally centered himself on Pilot Talk. It wasn’t necessarily his strongest effort, a title probably still retained by This Ain’t No Mixtape, but he’d found his stride. Freed of other concerns, Curren$y’s easy presence and peculiarities finally seeped through every note, and suddenly it wasn’t simply the hip hop heads taking notice.

Covert Coup plays much the same role as any of Curren$y’s efforts, a movement in his zealous campaign for wider recognition. The rapper’s rate of production is one to rival his former Young Money boss, dropping Pilot Talk part one and two in 2010, which followed a host of mixtapes, one in collaboration with Wiz Khalifa. The two’s mutual affinity for the sticky green aside, this is a prime example of Curren$y’s weakness. His desire to present material found him recording an entire project with a rapper below his own caliber. Think Jay-Z doing Watch the Throne with Waka Flacka. So, where’s this EP fall?

Never fear, a lack of talent is hardly a problem. To create some hype Curren$y hooked up with underground favorite Alchemist, as unjustly marginalized on Shady Records as his newfound partner ever was, as well as being responsible for past classic “smalltime” releases, such as Fashawn’s The Antidote. The collaboration made plenty of sense. Initially hyped as an album release, Curren$y instead announced its free release for (guess) 4/20. Alchemist is probably out some money, but the fans won. As for what Al brought to the table, you’d remiss to think he delivered something identical to the beats he sends Mobb Deep (although Prodigy does drop in for a fiery verse). His contradictory talent, crafting beats somehow simultaneously rough and smooth, a choked take on classic NY grit, is somewhat repressed here. This isn’t to complain: Alchemist is working with a different artist, and only proves his ability to fit another style by altering his game. In fact, he may be the tape’s strongest asset, the Alchemist sound still very much intact, only contained by the style Curren$y prefers to maintain. Alchemist turned up with beats that would feel at home on a chapter of Pilot Talk, still all his own. Coming in at 27 minutes, this is a smaller effort, but it’d be an injustice to ignore his accomplishment.

And there it is; just the thing with Curren$y. He’s dropped four albums since 2009, five if you include this EP, Weekend at Bernie’s is supposedly coming this month, and he intends to release two more albums in 2011 after that. Any fan would loathe complaining at a surplus of material, and we feel no differently, but if you release four albums in a year, how much individual appreciation do you feel they’ll receive? The answer is very little, but Curren$y has “the grace”: he’ll receive universal acclaim for any decent record he puts out, regardless of how much legitimate time gets put into those records. Yet, is that how people are remembered? Really remembered, rather than retained for that most appealing and deadly of things: the moment. This is a damn good 10 track record, boasting noteworthy turns by its guests and laudable production, but for how long will it spin until the next one comes around? Curren$y has finally found the following he deserves; one can only hope he preserves his moment, rather than squander it. Hell, in the meantime, the music’s dope.

Here we have it, the first genuine radio single from the massively hyped Bad Meets Evil reunion. If you were excited by the bombastic “Fast Lane”, well, this one’s a little different. It’s not difficult to understand: the artists are working in an industry watered down to the point of drowning, and it’s better to work within a system for change, rather than to reject it entirely. At least in the verses, the effort is there, but did they have to bring Bruno Mars along?

Check it out below.

Hell: The Sequel is out June 14th.

[via 2DZ]