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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

“Return Of The Mac” > “American Gangster”

As is the slovenly custom of mine nowadays, I spent this past weekend lamping in my cousin’s basement with a couple friends, hunched over his 20-inch (ayoooo...) television and running through round after round of NBA 2K8. In between the random crude jokes about politics, women and Nollywood, the talk inevitably turned to hip-hop’s current rap du juor, Jay-Z’s “concept album” American Gangster. Interestingly enough my cousin – who’s Roc-A-Fella fanaticism is so extreme he once tried to convince me that Coming Of Age was a legitimately good album, not the audio rape it actually turned out to be – felt that the album, while better than Kingdom Come, was more or less flaccid than his pre-retirement releases.

While I’ll agree that Grandpa Simpson has definitely lost a step (or ten) since he decided to start playing for the Wizards, for the most part I’ve begrudgingly tagged along for the ride because a smidgen of me still holds out for some great music from his increasingly rusting mind. Perhaps due to my own inherent cynicism cultivated from years of abhorrence for today’s corn sauce material, I’ve simply refused to think that Jay couldn’t do anything wrong, Blueprint 2 be damned [1].

But after listening to American Gangster, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed despite the critical acclaim it’s received. For a supposed concept album, I couldn’t find (or follow) the concept at all. While there’s no “Beach Chair” type of bullshit on here, the album still lacks the punch I used to expect from before. In a sense, the album feels like a less-retarded, Mafioso version of Mr. 3000, where the old guy keeps coming out of his mason jar to try for one more score.

Ironically, the entire “rap album using blaxploitation beats” concept has been done twice this year, each with better results to boot: Camp Lo’s Black Hollywood and Prodigy’s Return Of The Mac. In the latter’s case, I never even thought that Sickle Cell P could ever make a decent album again, what with him preoccupied with being punched out on a daily basis. What makes it more intriguing is that his violent nihilism sounds at home next to The Alchemist’s murky, 70s-era beats, a stark contrast from the horny glitz of Mr. Proactiv’s Hitmen tracks bouncing off Abe’s sub-mediocre rhymes.

While Punching Bag P will never be able to reclaim that past glory (or his old skills. Or his manhood. Or my respect for him), he can at least lay claim to the fact that he was finally able to outdo Jay-Z for once. Granted it was the same way Trevor Berbick beat up on an old, out-of-shape, out-of-prime Muhammad Ali, but whatever. With his impending date with some dry butt service, he needs all the wins he can’t afford right now anyways.

[1] Sorry J, but “Hovi Baby” was, and still is, my shit.

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