Mafioso rap, crack rap, even gangsta rap: the coke rap subgenre has answered to many names in its infamously profitable history. It not only plays to our lowest common denominator — namely, our stereotyped notions of how urban black men live — but also our appetite for violent action movies and our empathy for the antiheroes that usually meet a bloody end in those flicks. In this world, the bad guy, not Tom Cruise, gets all the girls and the cash, and lives to tell the tale.
Anyone who pays close attention to hip-hop is familiar with coke rap. Artists like Raekwon and Scarface fuel intense yet favorable debates over their impressive rhyme styles and the moral quandaries their songs represent. Meanwhile, reformed drug dealers like 50 Cent, T.I. and Jay-Z dominate the charts. With the arrival of Teflon Don by Rick Ross, the Miami rapper that has earned increasing critical acclaim, it's time to revisit 10 albums that exemplify how, to paraphrase the late dealer-turned-rap-kingpin Notorious B.I.G., "the rap game is just like the crack game."
Andre
Nickatina: Conversation
with a DevilEschewing the usual zany verbal theatrics of hyphy emcees, Nickatina's rhymes are gritty and hard-boiled. The title track's stop-start production and Nickatina's declarative and quickly repeating statements ("My name is Nicky/ But you can call me Dre") are instantly addictive. But the centerpiece is his collaboration with San Quinn, "A-Yo." That song tackles the tragedy of cocaine addiction and how it permeates all of modern society. It's an unconventional approach to a very tired subject and is aided by its ridiculously catchy hook: "Let's go a-yo for yayo/ Walk around with yayo/ All in my nasal." — Sam Chennault
Cam'ron:
Purple
HazePurple Haze takes the gangsta mindset to its hyper-masculine logical conclusion, inadvertently uprooting any connection the music may have to reality and placing it squarely in the realm of ghetto fantasy. Crack anthems such as "More Gangsta Music" and "The Dope Man" can't — and shouldn't — be taken too seriously, which makes them comfort food for laptop hustlas. — S.C.
Clipse:
Hell Hath No FuryThe Clipse are back with a jittery collage of wealth porn and crack synonyms. Emcees Pusha T and Malice set out to rescue rap from those "dunce cappin' and kazooin'." You know, the "penny ante n*gg*z" and "Jo-Jo dancers" who line up 'round the block as our boys shuffle "snow" and "diet coke." Throughout Hell Hath No Fury, the mundane is made obscene, and words are twisted to meet the group's glistening white worldview. As they repeatedly remind us: "Keys open doors." Think about that while you "getcha nostrils clear." — S.C.
Ice
Cube: Death
CertificateSplit into "Death" and "Birth" sides, Death Certificate's mission seemed noble enough: showing "where we're at" and "where we need to go." It's what happens after the L.A. gangbanger who moves to St. Louis to sell crack in "My Summer Vacation" dies and is reborn with knowledge of self that proves problematic. Threats of violence against "Horny Lil' Devil"s, immigrant shopkeepers ("Black Korea") and MC Hammer-styled sellouts ("True to the Game") ensue. P-Funk has never sounded so malevolent. The interesting thing is, although Ice Cube has the gall to air his incendiary racial insights, the anger at the heart of Death Certificate can be found on nearly every crack rap epic, albeit carefully hidden below the surface. — Mosi Reeves
Jay-Z:
Reasonable
DoubtUpon release, Jay-Z's debut was considered solid if not revelatory. Raekwon had (re)invented gangsta rap, while Nas had redrawn the parameters of hip-hop lyricism. Jigga split the difference and threw in a something for the ladies. Scarface fantasies ("Brooklyn's Finest") are tempered by booty calls ("Ain't No N*gg*"), while coffee-shop displays of technical acumen ("22 Two's") and drug-land morality tales ("Can I Live") are cut with paeans to materialism ("Cashmere Thoughts"). This is a well-balanced and consistent album, and though it didn't reinvent the wheel, it made it a lot smoother. — S.C.
Killer
Mike: I
Pledge Allegiance to the Grind IIAlways the bridesmaid (though he'd probably disagree), Killer Mike has often been on the outside looking in at other artists' success, and perhaps that's alright: this peripheral and then ex-communicated member of Outkast's Dungeon Family and Big Boi's Purple Ribbon team sounds best on the margins, in the underground. Pledge Allegiance is the sequel to his 2006 mixtape, and it picks up where that one left off: gruff delivery over East Coast/ATL hybrid beats. Highlights include the Houston homage "Big Money, Big Cars," featuring Chamillionaire, and "Super Clean/Super Hard" with kindred spirits Eightball & MJG. — Chris Ryan
Raekwon:
Only
Built 4 Cuban Linx …Allusions to Five Percent Nation philosophy, esoteric metaphysics, La Cosa Nostra-inspired aliases and mountains of China white: It's all in a day's work for the Wu-Tang Clan's scrappiest emcee. Only Built 4 Cuban Linx… is rife with contradictions, from titling a song about holding down street territory "Knowledge God" to using "Ice Cream" as a metaphor for summertime girls. It's those seemingly incongruous metaphors and phrases — or the clashing of vocal "swords," in Wu-Tang parlance — that made Raekwon's debut such a stunningly inventive riff on the dope game. The RZA's insanely hypnotic production helped, too. — M.R.
Rick
Ross: Port
of MiamiNaked addiction meets violent self-determination for an album high on hustler voyeurism and hard-boiled tales of cocaine cowboy mischief. Ross is a self-anointed boss of "M-I-Yayo," and while he enjoys the small, simple things — Lear jets, machine guns — all this iron chef really needs "is baking soda, some pots and pans." The production is slow and at times plodding, and Ross' approach on Port is reminiscent of Young Jeezy both in form and focus. — S.C.
Scarface:
Greatest
HitsMuch like their street brethren, many coke rap purveyors yearn for the day when they can leave their deadly (and often artistically limiting) subject matter behind. Texas icon Scarface has struggled more than most. On this excellent primer, the Houston rapper evolved from Nino Brown-styled vendettas ("Mr. Scarface") to haunting eulogies to fallen soldiers ("I Seen A Man Die"). He grew from a suicidal member of the Geto Boys to a capable gold-certified solo artist. But that success must have not been enough: by the time 2002's classic The Fix was released, Scarface had returned to dealing lyrical cane. — M.R.
T.I.:
Trap
Muzik"I'm just doin' my job," explained T.I. on the song of the same name. Indeed, his seductive, effortless ode to Atlanta's poverty-stricken Bankhead neighborhood makes workaholic drug dealing, big-balling shopping sprees ("24's") and occasional R&B nighttime interludes ("Let's Get Away") seem perfectly noble, like clocking in for a nine-to-five at the factory. At least give him credit for portending his death in "Long Live Da Game." Though T.I. wasn't the first gangsta rapper to imagine that he's ready to die, he ended this Dirty South classic with a clear moral: the D-boy lifestyle is unsustainable. — M.R.
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