Today's release of the anticipated third albums by hip-hop superstars Kanye West
and 50 Cent has prompted a much-publicized race for No. 1 on the Billboard
albums chart, even if some observers believe country star Kenny Chesney may top
both rappers.
On one level, this latest hip-hop feud is a useful marketing tool devised by
two master pitchmen, though Fiddy's been much more aggressive in hyping the
showdown. He has even threatened to quit making music if West outsells him this
week.
But the competition has a deeper meaning. Since the early '90s, gangsta rap
has been the dominant sound in hip-hop, with lyrics full of misogyny and the
glorification of drugs and violence and music powered by
lowest-common-denominator party grooves and simplistic hooks. The sound has long
since become a tedious cliche, but the more inventive music and
thought-provoking messages of what was once called alternative rap continue to
be dismissed by some fans as "soft" and inauthentic.
With the 2004 release of his debut album "The College Dropout" and its 2005
follow-up "Late Registration," West signaled an overdue sea change. His everyman
tales of growing up as a middle-class African American on Chicago's South Side
and his musical mix of altered samples from dusty soul classics with lush
orchestral strings connected critically and commercially, providing a welcome
alternative to gangsta-rap cartoons such as "Get Rich or Die Tryin' " (2003) and
"The Massacre" (2005), the first two releases by New Yorker 50 Cent.
Born Curtis Jackson III, Fiddy began selling crack on the streets of Jamaica,
Queens, at age 12. That career ended after a stint in prison and an infamous
incident in 2000 in which he was shot nine times at close range. Still, the
rapper never grew tired of boasting about these exploits -- or of dissing women
-- while simultaneously criticizing peers who tried to say something more
meaningful.
Overlooked in coverage of the beef between the two 30-year-old rappers is the
fact that it started in 2005, when 50 Cent took issue with West's infamous
"George Bush doesn't care about black people" comment. For this fan, the most
tiresome aspect of West's big mouth has been his penchant for whining whenever
he loses an award, as he did again after Sunday's shutout at the MTV Video Music
Awards. But one of the freshest things about "Graduation" is that he addresses
this topic head-on, humorously owning up to his mistakes ("I feel the
pressure, under more scrutiny/And what I do? Act more stupidly,"), his
rampant egotism ("My head so big, you can't sit behind me") and the roots
of both in his insecurities about not being gangsta enough.
" 'Cause they want gun-talk, or I don't wear enough /Baggy clothes,
Reeboks, or A-di-das," West raps in "Everything I Am." "So say/They'd
rather give me the nigga-please award/But I'll just take the I-got-a lotta-cheese
award."
This kind of self-deprecating honesty is rare in a rap world obsessed with
fronting, but it permeates West's new disc, whether he's offering a cautionary
tale about the allure of groupies in "Drunk & Hot Girls," or frankly examining
the mix of admiration and jealousy in his relationship with his mentor Jay-Z in
"Big Brother."
Meanwhile, just when many listeners thought West's hitmaking formula was
carved in stone, he reinvents himself by injecting the exciting new elements of
electronic drums and synthesizers and ranging far and wide to find some
surprising hooks in samples from fusion legends Steely Dan, forgotten folkie
Laura Nyro, the French techno duo Daft Punk and Can, the German psychedelic-rock
band of the early '70s.
It all adds up to one of the most invigorating, inviting and startlingly
creative hip-hop releases in years -- and the third unequivocal masterpiece of
this career.
The contrast between "Graduation" and "Curtis" couldn't be more dramatic. In
the past, one of 50 Cent's strengths has been his own unerring ear for hooks,
updating the basic West Coast sound pioneered by Dr. Dre with a darker, East
Coast edge. But the melodies and beats powering new tracks such as "My Gun,"
"I'll Still Kill" and "Fully Loaded Clip" are as lazy, mind-numbingly repetitive
and thoroughly played out as the gun fetishism hinted at in those titles (and
driven home in the lyrics).
The violence and sexism were already pathetic on "The Massacre," but hard as
it may be to believe, 50 Cent stoops even lower here while cynically bragging
about his own greed and nihilism (and giving shout-outs to mentors Dr. Dre,
Eminem and label chief Jimmy Iovine) in "Straight to the Bank": "When I made
50 mil, Em got paid/When I made 60 mil, Dre got paid/When I made 80 mil, Jimmy
got paid/I ain't even gotta rap now life is made ... I'm laughin' straight to
the bank with this/Ha, ha-ha-ha-ha- ha/Ha, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha."
Unlike West, 50 Cent isn't laughing with the fans who listen to his records
-- he's laughing at them. But regardless of which album wins the race to the top
of the pops, the biggest joke here is on anyone deaf or deluded enough to think
that the future of hip-hop is in the crass, corrupt and hate-filled direction
championed by Fiddy rather than the boundlessly creative and deeply rewarding
path being forged by West. Ha-ha, indeed.