It is blasphemous to argue that Nas’ 1994 debut Illmatic is not one of rap’s most towering works. This much is agreed upon. But since that release, few things about the work of Nasir Jones have been non-contentious or straightforward.
From 1996’s It Was Written to 2004’s Street’s Disciple, the output of the Queensbridge slinger has been heatedly grappled over. Is it gritty enough or does it make too many overtures to slick pop-rap? Is Nas too removed from street life to recreate its mood, texture and ethos or are his inner-workings permanently gauged to the thug swagger? In the end, who cares? It’s all a heap of indulgent claptrap. Without question, Nas has proved exasperating with his inconsistencies, but it’s infantile to weep every time he doesn’t approach the Illmatic gold standard.
Nas’ eighth LP Hip Hop is Dead is not on par with Illmatic, but damned if it’s not his second or third best release (possibly behind 2001’s Stillmatic). The provocation of the album’s title styles its 16 tracks as a lament of hip-hop’s tumbling decline. But this is a mere ruse, a cagey stratagem by which Nas ultimately offers tribute to his art’s vibrant history and makes an insuperable case for its current appeal based on his own work. The title simply provides the thematic context. Nas provides all the thrills, vitality, bravado, and penetrating intellect that make him a still dominant force.
Hip Hop is Dead features that quality usually discarded by rappers in favor of kitsch and excess — consistency. Nas has never idly tended to his craft, but this seriousness cannot automatically yield the best of results. Consider the double-disc Street’s Disciple.
Contained within its rubble was one solid CD, but it remained badly overblown. HHID doesn’t have to battle with such shortcomings. Nas’ gifted lyricism and rhythmically restrained beats bless almost the entirety of his work here.
The opening five entries almost amount to a mini-clinic on sober, efficient, but still enlivened hip hop. “Money Over Bullshit” leads the parade like a number straight off Illmatic — baritone bounces and skittish hops meld into a slim backdrop over which Nas rhymes on the rules of the street and the plight of his celebrity (“King poetic, too many haters to count”).
Indeed, much of HHID centers specifically on Nas’ endangered state, not that of his art form. The narrative of “You Can’t Kill Me” envisions a night of threatening encounters throughout NYC (“Niggas always on that bullshit / To make a nigga wanna open up a full clip”). Whereas many rappers compromise their attempts at street realism with glitzy sonic bombast, Nas adroitly conjures it up with dark minimalism.
A shift in tone occurs with “Carry On Tradition” and “Where are They Now?” On the surface, both implore rap conveyors to heed their roots and not sully hip-hop’s past with personal vendettas and a bastardized form of its artistry. But, in reality, Nas himself also remains a subject in the limelight. On “Tradition,” he calls out those who question his stature and then challenges, “Let’s see who can quote a Daddy Kane line the fastest.” “Where Are They Now” churns to a ramshackle sample of James Brown’s “Get Up, Get Into It, Get Involved” and a piercingly thin guitar line. Nas lists off a spate of “lost MCs” and then explains, “This ain’t no dis record / This is for some of my homies that was misrepresented.” Like Jay Z, in essence, he fashions himself as hip-hop’s Jesus Christ, willing to take on its sins and resurrect its fallen art form. Finally, the scorching lead single “Hip Hop is Dead,” with its Iron Butterfly sample, plays like the “99 Problems” of 2007: The crunch of guitars and stomping progression make for a lively grind.
2006 witnessed the much-ballyhooed reconciliation of Nas and his fellow rap-great Jay Z. Their rivalry reached its most vitriolic stride in 2001 when the two exchanged killer disk tracks. Jay’s “Takeover” clearly bested his counterpart’s “Ether” but, evidently, the feud is over (Nas can take solace in how monumentally superior HHID is to the tepid Kingdom Come).
The music-loving members of the public are the profiteers of this resolution because of its near-classic collaborative result, “Black Republican.” It’s beautifully stylized and grand, sampling “Marcia Religiosa” from “The Godfather” to create a swelling thrill ride. It contrasts the opulence of rap stardom with the impoverishment of ghetto life and unwittingly distinguishes the current styles of its two participants — Jay as the “black Republican” and Nas as the “black militant.” Regardless of its loaded imagery, it’s a knockout.
Unlike the majority of current rappers, Nas stays tastefully moderate in his use of collaborators. When they are involved, the results are largely sterling. The Kelis tag-team on “Not Going Back” packs more unsentimental maturity than the whole of Kingdom Come. Nas stakes an assertive position — he won’t return to the banger life and holds no desire to. He also brings in big players for numbers that, surprisingly, don’t collapse under the force of unwieldy egos (Kanye on “Still Dreaming,” Snoop on “Play on Playa,” and the superior “Hustler” with the Game). On the latter, the upstart Cali-rapper memorably labels himself “the only Compton nigga with a New York state of mind.”
None, however, come close to the classic beauty of the nostalgic jaunt, “Can’t Forget About You.” The sampling of Nat King Cole’s “Unforgettable” combined with Chrisette Michele’s lucid Motown vocals provide the perfect flow for Nas to reflect on aging gracefully, first lovers, and even Robert Horry’s ever-clutch play for the Lakers. It’s so expertly delivered with touches of soul, pathos and breezy charm that it’ll make you weep.
You will not encounter a throwaway song on Hip Hop is Dead. Even the slightly hackneyed “Who Killed It?” is a moment for pause because it reveals Nas not taking himself seriously. That is rarity on this album. Nas fully, and perhaps painfully, grasps the gravity of his position as hip-hop’s best living godfather. Hip Hop is Dead is an affirmation of that role.
Grade: 4.5 out of 5
