Album Review: The Game - The Documentary

Discourse this morning with Panama Muthafuckin', editor in chief and HNIC at my mama's music:

LNU (for the unititiated "little negro underling"): The Game Review ain't ready yet.

HNIC: What do you mean it ain't ready, nigga i'ma whup yo ass.

LNU: Man, I know 'bout your discriminating taste (who ain't a fan of Jackson G. Tickle), and I'm just tryin' to meet your standards

HNIC: Negro, fuck your compliments, get my review done. You bitchin' up. Don't be no punk, if you gonna say it then say it.

so without further ado...

The Documentary.

Jayceon Taylor has arrived. The Documentary is a certified classic, a 5 mic album (yeah, I know we don't read the source, but it'll do until we come up w/ some different). I'll let y'all marinate on that one for a minute. Yeah, I said it; it's classic. Vibe Magazine, Rolling Stone, Spin, hell, Entertainment Weekly, you name it, they've said, all hailing Mr. Taylor the west coast savior, the man to resurrect your interest, not in the left coast (for all y'all pharcyde, dilated peoples and weird del the funky homosapien fans), but the W E S T. This man is supposed to resurrect the homages to pimped out 64s, sunshine, gang bangin, crip walkin', set trippin', juice and ginnin', khaki suits, chuck taylors, and jheri curls (well, not quite that far, but you get the point)

Does he do it? Does he live up to the LeBron-sized hype? Does he bring back the West? Yes and No. But before I get to his cd, we gotta examine this whole fve mic thing for a minute. Why is hip hop culture so afraid of awarding the classic status to today's albums? It's a simple answer really. Rap is shit today. I mean, whereas it used to be about integrity and presenting your environment, warts and all, it has become a corporate wasteland of 'artists' that we shouldn't be listening to, but bang our collective heads like crazy to when their crap comes on in the club. With the attenuation of value and the onslaught of cookie cutter, pop rappers, it isn't rocket science why we're so scared to elevate an album to legendary status amidst an inundating flow of music excrement. (Damn, that was a lot right?) Backpackers complain about commercialism, but succumb to the same steretypic ideals that the media feeds off by labeling anything that's commercially viable as sellout music. Further, relying on the strength of previously released material, they'll excuse their legends for dropping shit albums because they still want something to believe in, something that they can tell all of their elitist friends is vestiges of when music was still good.

And now to Chuck Taylor. Yes, he saves the west, but not the way that some were hoping for him to. While deciding what I was gonna write about this album, I scanned some stuff that people have been saying for inspiration. Some West Coast loyalist were deriding the album, saying that if it were truly a west coast album, then it wouldn't be choc-full of east coast and midwest producers (Hi-Tek, Kanye, Just Blaze, Timberland, etc.) There is some validity to that argument, but the Game doesn't save the west by making revisionist music. This is very much a 2005 album. He saves the West because he makes its stories relevant again.

What The Game does is plain and simple. He tells his story, his whole story, devioid of any lapses, as articulately and effortlessly as any of those that have come before him. From the outset, "Westside Story" abrasively reintroduces us to the West Coast that we all remember, but, wait a minute, there's something different. What is it? It's the flow, son, it's the flow. The Game's rhyme structuring is as intricate as most East Coast rappers that are out there. (For those seeking further evidence of his complexity, take a listen to the track off of the Alchemist's joint featuring Prodigy and Game). Does that mean better? No, it doesn't. He isn't the first one either; Exhibit, Chino XL and Ras Kas have all been recognized for the same rhyme display, but what makes the Game so markably different is the hard core/ NWA/ Ice Cube frame of reference from which he draws his stories.

The halmark of a classic album isn't recognition of the artist's forward potential and talent (Panama, please tell us about the John Legend reviews), it's the strength of its tracks. Like it or not, a rapper is only as good as the soundscapes upon which he crafts his message, and The Game has enlisted a bevy of producers to give him the updated sound perfectly complimenting his raspy, well-crafted lyrics.

Without delving into each of the songs, suffice it to say that the entire album, with exception to like two or three, isn't merely listenable, it's enjoyable. From the 100 miles and runnin' feel of "No More Fun and Games", to the Al Green-inspired funk of "Hate It or Love It" (please beware of the insanely in-the-beat flow of 50 cent on the first verse-big ups to Panama again), the Game delivers an impressively varied display, with equal parts lyrical acuity and gully-ness. He transitions from unapologetic accounts of gang banging on tracks like "Church For Thugs" to exceptional rhyme demonstrations, such as the borrowing of Eminem's flow on "We ain't". The album gives deference to all things west coast, from the laid back Doggystyle/ DJ Quick vibe of "Where I'm From" (you can't have a West Coast song with out the inimitable Nate Dogg) to the Chronic/ Parliament Funk sounding "Runnin". On the album's closer, "Like Father, Like Son", the Game delivers the most contemplative, emotive thug joint since Pac's "Dear Mama", elaborating on the birth of his child, his fears of fatherhood and the values that he hopes to instill.

The Documentary is compelling music; the album's title track appropriately frames its strength. The Game is not your big brother's west coast rapper. Just as his lyrics on "The Documentary" and throughout the album suggest, The Game is a product of his environment, the most visceral of hip hop emcees, seamlessly blending westcoast sensibilities, east coast rhyme display and total hip hop reverence.