By Ian S. Port
By Cory Sklar
By Godofredo Vasquez
By Gil Riego Jr.
By Ian S. Port
By Ian S. Port
By Christopher Victorio
By Ian S. Port
All Eyez on Me
0f course it's too long -- but then, overkill is partly the point here. All Eyez on Me may not be the best rap album ever, but at 27 songs and more than 2 hours, it certainly weighs in as the most rap album ever, and it's an indispensable summary of the potential and problems of hip hop today. As exuberant proof that Tupac Shakur is alive and well after being shot five times and spending nearly a year in the joint, it's more than enough. "Prison ain't changed me," he boasts on "No More Pain." "It made me worse." He's right. Though there's almost too much to take in here -- a banquet of rage, defensiveness, misery, and recrimination against enemies who include old standbys like the police, bitches, hos, liars, and the media -- there's also a hollow feel: That list doesn't include Tupac himself, who bears more than a little responsibility for his predicament.
Still, you could almost forget that point if you let the music carry you away, as it's designed to. This is where Death Row definitively earns all those new-Motown accolades. Not just as a rap or black pop album, but anywhere in the landscape of contemporary music, All Eyez is a monument. Despite the all-star lineup (guests include Snoop, Dr. Dre, Method Man, the Dogg Pound, and the Bay Area's own Rappin' 4-Tay) and an army of producers, everything coheres, as top-of-the-line output from a single hit-making factory should.
I might have missed the odd kitchen sink somewhere, but I caught samples ranging from Richard Pryor to the backward section of Prince's "Darling Nikki," steel drums, and an a capella rap over what sounds like sonar pings, all set atop the West Coast's trademark earth-mover bass, ethereal choruses, and ghostly keyboards. Ambitious enough to sum up everything that's come before (there are allusions to "The Message" and "Sucker MC's") and endlessly inventive, this is a musical earthquake as powerful as PE's It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back.
But with it comes lyrical content that runs the gamut from A to, well, A. While Tupac sounds at home on Death Row -- on "2 of Americaz Most Wanted" his bellow slides off Snoop's drawl like they've been hanging for years -- I can't help feeling that the label's already started to stunt him. He never weakens, never cops to any mistakes, never lets the walls around him crack. "Don't get mad/ I'm only being real," Snoop explains on "All Bout U," but Death Row's "real" is so limited, so terrified of softness, that it's going to destroy whatever charity and gentleness survive inside Tupac. And that's a shame, because part of what's made his career interesting is his obvious and long-running indecision between being down with the fellas and in with the ladies, between boasting "I Get Around" and counseling black women to keep their heads up. A few albums on Death Row, and that won't be a problem anymore. As De La Soul never said, fuck being complicated. Tupac is hard.
Set the Twilight Reeling
After two albums of elegies -- plus a nonmusical one for Velvets bandmate Sterling Morrison in the New York Times Magazine -- Set the Twilight Reeling finds Lou Reed singing about rejuvenation and rebirth. As he puts it in "Trade In," he wants "a 14th chance at this life," a dryly self-mocking admission that he's remade himself a few times before, notably on The Blue Mask and Legendary Hearts, the albums inspired by his previous great romance, with his now ex-wife (and former manager), Sylvia Morales.
This time the muse is new girlfriend Laurie Anderson, who adds a crucial vocoder bit to "Hang On to Your Emotions." She's probably "The Adven-turer" and certainly the "woman with a thousand faces" of "Trade In." But the characteristically plain-spoken near-poetry she's inspired isn't as important as the humor she's sparked. The funniest (and liveliest) song here is "Hookywooky," in which Reed -- unconvincing and unconvinced -- promises not to throw any of her former lovers off a roof.
"Hookywooky" ends up soaring on a chorale of backup vocals, but it's not exactly "Sweet Jane." It's been a long time since Reed has crafted a melody that indomitable, and there are none on Twilight. Recitations delivered by a man who can still sometimes summon the spirit of doo-wop and Motown, these songs are spare, stripped, and barely melodic. Yet the best of them work the way great rock 'n' roll is supposed to, combining a few simple ingredients into something so much larger.
Though impeccably and even astonishingly recorded -- check the way "The Adventurer" guitar solo spirals in midair -- these tunes are essentially throwaways. Still, most of them are allocated one redemptive hook; whether delivered by vocoder, horns, piano, bass, or -- most likely -- guitar, these terse flourishes give shape to Reed's meticulously raw guitar and transform talk into music. Even when the lyrics are retreads, the words and vocals often achieve a similar alchemy: "Sex With Your Parents Part II (Motherfucker)" doesn't add much to the debate over NEA-bashing senators, but the casual authority with which Reed intones, "Hey ... motherfucker," is devastating.
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