23. Dr. Dre - The Chronic

The Chronic is a paradox.

It was a mainstream pop success cobbled from the pieces of an underground sound. It paired the grooves of a dance party with the brutality and hate of a street fight. It emulated the meticulous design and studio proficiency of ambient composers, but was best heard as the passing thud of a low rider’s sub-woofer.

Yet, its wealth of contradictions only made its influence more profound. Never before had hip-hop sounded this grandiose, taking on the emotional heft and depth of a motion picture soundtrack, replete with cinema’s storied anti-heroes and penchant for glorified violence.

At the center of this story of revenge was West-Coast production wunderkind, Dr. Dre, rising from the ashes of N.W.A to dole out slanderous tongue lashings to his critics, contemporaries and ex-bandmates. His ideas unfurl as a tough guy shtick, spoken in choppy half sentences, but convincingly scowled and backed by an army of like-minded agitators, some of which are considerably more proficient on the microphone.

Dre’s best verbal passages come when he avoids keeping up with his teammates, instead relaxing and opining over his lustrous Chevy Impala and penile hubris. Honest about his lack of pretensions, Dre claims “No medallions, dreadlocks or black fists” here, just gangster rap, which lies somewhere between admirable and willfully ignorant. Despite this apolitical stance, many tracks do carry valid arguments for uprising against social injustice, specifically in relation to the Rodney King beatings and the living conditions of South Central Los Angeles. Even the melancholy “Lil’ Ghetto Boy” has a contemplative nature that seems to contradict Dre’s occasionally bleak posturing.

Accompanying Dre on a staggering 11 of 16 tracks is Snoop Doggy Dogg, a gifted and skillful rookie capable of picking up where Dre’s rhyming abilities leave off. Funneling each sentence through his fast and limber voice box, Snoop traffics in “sing-songy” inflection shifts, nonsensical slang and stoned indifference, vocally falling somewhere between reggae patois and schoolyard joshing. If it wasn’t for his diverse portfolio, his flow would come off as a gimmick, but his storytelling is strikingly authentic and one-liners indelible, exceeding the influence of a song and permanently infecting popular culture. 

Just as culturally significant was Dre’s pioneering production work, which more than makes up for any inconsistencies in his oratory abilities. Riding on a constant wave of a neon, squealing synthesizer, Dre weaves eerie and menacing tones from otherwise benign elements. His bass lines are tense and husky, reminiscent of the captured din of a boxing match, but slowed to a leisurely, drifting pace. As a contrasting element, exotic and suggestive flute floats into the mix, almost subconsciously, paralleling vintage sex jams from the bedrooms and massage parlors of exploitation cinema. As a binding element, piano pleasantly swirls from speaker-to-speaker, hammering the nail into vinyl’s coffin and solidifying CD’s stereophonic sound.

Taking advantage of these advances in high fidelity, Dre pushes his gassy, self-congratulatory bass lines to the forefront on “Fuck wit Dre Day…,” backing them with jovial organ tinkle and plucked guitar string. Posing as an electronic answer to Parliament’s big-bootied funk, Dre adds heavy doses of synthetic horn and orchestral atmospherics, which give the track a celebratory vibe, contrasting the decidedly spiteful and homophobic lyrical content.

This inclination to ridicule the competition into submission may be the only misstep of an otherwise brilliant effort, but where the message fails, the performers succeed. Dre and Snoop exude chemistry while excoriating their enemies and those willing to see past their childish bigotry will find a tremendous confidence in the power of the chosen sonic elements and the overall listening experience. The resulting hybrid of dark, delicate atmospherics and hyperactive soul bounce was jarring enough in its originality to forever alter the face of American music, heightening our expectation for ambitious and daring soundscapes.

24. Cypress Hill - Cypress Hill

Subverting hardcore hip-hop's stone-faced severity with gallows humor and inebriated indifference, Cypress Hill is more mischievous than dangerous, opting instead for a comedy of excesses, both in piercing sound wave and nihilistic subject matter. What they sacrifice in realism they gain in artistic freedom, allowing for a debut full of focused chaos, flailing wildly between exploitative killing spree, bleary-eyed parody and loose-bootied anarchy.

Acting as head agitator and primary vocalist, B-Real forces out each syllable with nasal drawl and arrogant sneer, both mimicking and embodying the tenets of a gangster rapper. Taking inspiration from the absurdist humor of Cheech & Chong and confrontational delivery of Jello Biafra, Real spins street narratives both strikingly vivid and playfully comic, nearly always ending with violent death bordering on caricature (i.e. "broomstick up your ass").

In contrast to his penchant for employing shock tactics, Real's moments of hallucinatory wordplay, usually relating to his passion for cannabis sativa, make for tightly-woven, meticulous poetry. "Light Another" finds him detailing the body's reactions to huge waves of marijuana smoke, moving from trembling lungs to scorched windpipe to cellular damage. His contemplative passages are just as striking, taking astute and informed stances on prison culture, government corruption (particularly in the police force) and environment influencing behavior.

Feeding off of B-Real's intensity, DJ Muggs constructed a sound scape of polar opposites, marrying gnarled, fun house psych loops with squeezed bass lines and woody, cavernous percussion. Further contorting the composition, his choruses are less hook than messy collage of word and instrument, comprised of sampled non-sequiters, ecstatic funk riffs and slurred record scratching. Muggs makes murder danceable and accessible, perverting chestnuts like Gene Chandler's "Duke of Earl" into brainwashed melodies, lulling the oft-stoned listener into full compliance atop a bed of bubbly static and upbeat high-hat.

"How I Could Just Kill A Man" is just as dichotomous, radically manipulating its samples into a piece somehow still firmly rooted in contemporary pop. Backed by a loop of whiny white noise, like a far off signal from a fading AM radio station, Muggs continues with his motif of coupling the shrill and the subdued, adding a layer of rich blues guitar pluck and thumping, low-end drum stomp to the mix. Jimi Hendrix's caterwauling guitar from "Are You Experienced" adds a heightened sense of menace to the proceedings, as does B-Real's postured take on the right to bear arms. Puffing out his chest and brandishing his "chrome" like a cop flashes a badge, B acts as an unsympathetic assassin, reveling in the cartoonish nihilism of his lyrics, with Muggs' grooves acting as an accessory.

Even more jarring than B-Real's moral vacuousness is the mid-track breakdown of warped flute and creepy carnival organ. As if impoliteness and anti-authoritarian attitudes didn't already align Cypress Hill to the Angelino hardcore that predated hip-hop's West Coast migration, the curious tempo shifts, horror flick atmospherics and penchant for Juvenalian satire are a direct link.

Concise and unwaveringly resolute, Cypress Hill single-handedly modified LA street rap just like they modified their shotguns, relieving it of its self-seriousness and replacing it with caustic wit and the macabre melody of a nursery rhyme.

25. Gang Starr - Daily Operation

Daily Operation is the sound of two performers (vocalist Guru and DJ Premier) merging their unique perspective with the influences of their predecessors and the history of their surroundings. Taking the melody and impact of jazz music, the “cultural awareness” of their Brooklyn homestead and a distinctly non-commercial sensibility, they fashioned an LP that expounds on the jazz platform and expands hip-hop's breadth of topic, digging deeper into what makes New York’s music culture great and castigating the violent aspects that seek to corrupt it.

Taking a conversational tone and rarely fluctuating pitch or sounding aggravated, Guru takes these corrupting elements head on, giving a singular and often controversial perspective on religion, government and record industry politics. His deliberately paced articulations act as the perfect vehicle for conveying complex ideas, particularly accusations of an anti-black sentiment in the media and governmental connection to crack cocaine distribution. His less serious diatribes even pack compelling dialogue, lending an air of gravitas to joint smoking etiquette and clingy ex-girlfriends.

Premier's best asset is an uncanny knack for picking the perfect snapshot, whether it be a staccato drumroll, pinch of organ or bent guitar string. Not only finding a funky beat, but one capable of matching Guru's unique flow, Premier doles out flirty bass lines, clunky woodblock and jaunty bursts of horn, highlighting the plain-spoken vocals without overshadowing. The dustiest jazz nuggets stick to Guru's words like glue and Premier keeps things low-tech and nocturnal, as to not take away from the stoned monotone.

Nevertheless, jams like "The Illest Brother" demand full attention, building a loop from a messy coupling of cymbal clash, vague wind instrument and barroom piano, all bleeding together like paint spilled on a canvas. Guru takes a chance by going at hyper speed on the mic, but keeps the conversation discernible, especially when elaborating on his talents as a wordsmith and man of the people. Premier also tests his agility, cycling through a handful of choice loops, the best of which pits a jazz fusion passage against playfully chopped up break beats.

"Soliloquy of Chaos" has the drama and tension of a prize fight, reflecting Guru's range of emotions through stirring strings and vocal swoon, mated with a soft xylophone stroke and faint bongo as percussion. Ever the storyteller, Guru sets an exciting nocturnal scene, abuzz with anticipation for a packed live performance. His characterization is rich, expounding on the five-car procession, extra rolls of film, "beige Tims" on his feet and adoring fans at the club. You can almost hear his heart break as gunfire rings out and police cruisers approach the venue.

Never missing the big picture in the smallest of details, Guru exposes the corruption of violence as a domino effect, not only ruining a Friday night, but damaging the art form, its supporters and the urban community as a whole. It's rare to find a lyricist so perceptive and universal, but Guru manages to boast without being solipsistic and perceive without being subjective, bringing a wisdom to Daily Operation scarcely found in the 21 years since its first pressing.

26. Peanut Butter Wolf - My Vinyl Weighs A Ton

Amidst a sea of drunken Soul, disoriented scratching and mush-mouthed vocal fragments, Chris Manak has buried a thesis statement deep in his sprawling My Vinyl Weighs A Ton, correlating the hip-hop DJ's creative process to an archaeological endeavor.

Nestled in the center of the album and a mere 24-seconds-long, "Top Illin'" takes liberties with Audio Two's seminal smash hit, distorting its drum break into a vociferous clatter and pairing it with jagged cuts of funk guitar and vocal moan. Breaking a loop down and pasting it into a new composition has been fair game since the dawn of rap music, but recycling a work that is itself a collage of previously used elements becomes "meta" exercise, revealing the producer as both artist and historian.

Dubbing himself "Peanut Butter Wolf," a name equal parts childish and sinister, Manak deals in exhuming forgotten swatches of music and placing them in a familiar context: the hip-hop head nodder. All of the routine elements have been compiled: the cinematic strings, the jazzy organ, the sharp clap of synthesized drums. Yet, an off-kilter sense of humor and precocious enthusiasm has dragged the commonplace into the Twilight Zone. Queasy kazoos and waves of distortion pervert an otherwise danceable tune. Beats sound hollow and cavernous, as if pounded out on an empty barrel in a mossy, underground bunker. Bass lines thud along in a morphine-addled haze, dragging endlessly before getting throttled by record scratching so fast that it's reminiscent of squealing tires and active smoke alarms.

"Tale of Five Cities" is an epic length ode to turntabilism as sport. Loops of soul and funk are jarringly contorted into new shapes and milked to a snail's pace, spawning an oafish and mesmerizing warble. Coupled with the propulsive scratching and constant shifts in beat and tone, the experience is not unlike psychedelia or noise music, that is, capable of evoking physical response and mood. Wolf understands the entrancing quality of his work (and hip-hop as a whole), drawing sonic parallels between the soothing voice of a hypnotist and the rowdy demands of a hype man.

Adjusting to the lulling, narcotic quality of the grooves can be a challenge, especially when the tone can shift from placid to menacing at a moment's notice. Peanut Butter Wolf strives for this disparity, as it expands the range of sounds he can draw from, allowing him to catalog and interpret the art world en masse.

27. Black Sheep - A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

First impressions make Black Sheep out to be chauvinistic ne'er-do-wells.

Vocalist Andres "Dres" Titus and DJ William McLean fashion themselves as city dwelling Ferris Buellers, keen on left-of-center jazz, casual sex and cold Heineken. Superficial listens only corroborate their claims, but an attentive ear will reveal a crafty team of parodists, capable of lampooning the excesses of contemporary rap, while putting a magnifying glass up to society's absurdity.

Skillfully walking the line between earnest and glib, Dres' vocal flow is a cocky, conversational spoken word, accented by cool kid nonchalance and a penchant for vivid wordplay. His inability to show frustration, even when opining about race-related corruption and feckless rapper wannabes, reflects a deeply perceptive individual beneath the surface of sex drive and materialism. That's not to say that he won't "shoot you with the joint inside [his] zipper," he just won't break a sweat doing it.

His most interesting quirk as a writer is his unorthodox use of double entendre and metonym. Breasts become Vitamin D dispensaries, Nike goes from a sneaker to the verb for motion and the SAT exam becomes "the sad ass truth." His tour de force of figurative language is the verse-long symbol occupying much of "Black with N.V. (No Vision)," which aligns a hopeless and unmotivated life to a Sisyphean nightmare of endlessly washing dishes. Dres paints a complex portrait of the black struggle to find a role in American culture and uses the dish as a physical representation of forced labor, lack of opportunity and indifference.

Rhyme schemes of such a grand scale deserve equally elaborate sonic textures and the duo manages to construct a rich sound from maxed-out organ, unremitting bursts of muffled horn and deep, playful bass guitar groove. Drums are often low in the mix, lending an atmospheric, homemade quality to the affair and tone leans more towards the bouncy, jovial strut of genre pioneers than the sharp-edged sonic collage of East Coast contemporaries. The pool of samples smartly sidesteps sacred cows, instead favoring willfully obscure passages of Canadian prog, New Orleans R&B and contemplative, loose jazz saxophone.

They're even willing to modify their routine to match the targets of their sardonic genre spoofs. "U Mean I'm Not" mimics N.W.A's wah-wah funk guitar and machine gun chatter, while pushing their brutish physicality to the nth degree. It's all pure fantasy, but Dres murdering his extended family for botching breakfast and using his toothbrush is both hilarious and shockingly curt.

"La Menage" sets its sights on the other side of the hip-hop cliché coin: the sex jam. What starts as a racy provocation slowly degenerates into an unsavory four-way, complete with detailed descriptions of engorged genitalia, ambiguously gay gestures and enough prurient behavior to shock the Marquis de Sade. By the time Q-Tip starts his guest verse, we're too gobsmacked to realize how well it subverts the male-oriented sexuality of rap culture.

Though certainly more tongue-in-cheek than austere, a songwriting team willing to take on genre and social shortcomings right out of the gate is nothing short of commendable. It's this enthusiasm and anomalous comedic sensibility that sets A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing apart from the flock.

28. Ghostface Killah - Fishscale

Authenticity in writing is not necessarily based on one's personal experience, but the willingness of an author to bring real emotion to the fictional lives they put on paper.

A common misconception of the hip-hop songwriter is that they're constantly speaking from their own perspective, cataloging their life experience in diary form, avoiding creative license and the occasional white lie. Not only does this fallacy give the impression that rappers are all egotistical materialists (though some certainly are), it paints them into a corner artistically, forcing them to "keep it real," in lieu of making it innovative.

Ghostface Killah has always put the composition before the image, treating Fishscale more like a compilation of short fictions than a commercial rap record. A willingness to indulge artistic flourishes has yielded the richest of character development, breathing life into the paranoid crack dealers, septuagenarian assassins and strung-out strippers that occupy the dark alleys of Ghost's noir-influenced street poetry. Through these minute details, Ghost has created a body of work that demands attentive listening, packed to the gills with the subtle footnotes and cultural references that beg for an annotated dictionary and scholarly attention.

What makes these words so worthy of dissection and different from the work of contemporaries is the ambiguity of the narrator. Moving from a gritty tale about an agitator getting fitted for false teeth to an unflinching look at memories of childhood abuse, Ghost is capable of playing the audiences' emotions like a master manipulator, particularly by giving the impression that he may have doled out or received the aforementioned beatings. The actuality is besides the point, especially in relation to his talents as an author. What does matter is his ability to envelop us in the mood and setting of a story and shade in enough detail to make each lick of the belt sting as much for us as it does for the protagonist.

His production team wisely saw the vivid, filmic quality of his prose and backed it with the heavy bass lines, blaring horns and squealing guitar solos synonymous with 70's Blaxploitation cinema. Despite a legion of producers on hand, there's a water-tight continuity to the piece as a whole and the sound never deviates from the theme, despite mild tonal shifts and the occasional surreal passage. High-profile beat conductors like MF Doom, Pete Rock and J Dilla all step up with multiple entries, but politely give Ghost most of the spotlight, backing him with a combative drum kick when he's aggressive or the angst-ridden wail of female vocals when he's feeling introspective.

One such moment is "Beauty Jackson," which finds Ghost pouring over the female form, while Dilla repeats and repositions keys elements of Philly Soul by way of The Three Degrees "Maybe." As swirling strings and a quick snippet of downtrodden bass fidget and repeat endlessly, Ghost reminisces about a bus stop belle, capable of turning heads with just the puff of a cigarette or the downwind scent of her perfume. Every aspect of her look and personality are fetishized, rolled up in an eloquent stream of superlatives that note a cute birth mark, name check the Cover Girl lipstick and express genuine surprise when she actually listens to the petty advances. He daydreams of every jealous passerby, disappointed by their inattentive spouse and dated fashion sense. He even briefly lets his guard down, only to accidentally drop his handgun from his waist, sending his object of affection running for the bus.

If this story is pure fiction, Ghostface may be subconsciously exhibiting embarrassment about his early dalliances with a life of crime and depicting the common public perception of criminal offenders. Showing vulnerability and regret is beyond rare for songwriters, but unprecedented for a rapper. On Fishscale, Ghost broadens the scope of what it means to be a storyteller and MC, birthing an expansive fictional world constructed from bits of his real life, further shaded in by a versatile wordsmith far too talented to be sequestered to the ghetto of "real" MCs.

29. Quasimoto - The Unseen

Under a plume of smoke and fogged by a head full of mushrooms, avant-garde producer, Madlib, took his passion for exhuming jazz obscurities and married it to the social consciousness and surreal wordplay of Melvin Van Peebles. The resulting tapestry of beats (The Unseen) built an army of sound from hundreds of samples, each overlapping the other to the point of frazzled disorientation. Unfortunately, the deep timbre of Madlib's voice didn't match the frenetic pace of his ideas or their accompanying noise. As a replacement, he sped up his most arcane rhymes to a chipmunky squeak, creating a Frankenstein's Monster (aka Quasimoto) as vibrant and radical as his symphonic collage.

Where most rappers turn alter-ego into artifice, Madlib uses Quasimoto as a counterbalance, both sonically and lyrically. Childish wordplay about javelin tossing and the violent disposal of antagonists better suits the helium-voiced Quas, allowing the actual Madlib to step in as the responsible and thoughtful alternative. The high-pitch even adds annunciation to peculiarities like "Droppin' shit like some horses," which can be seen as sophomoric or a wonderful moment of the figurative meeting the literal.

Socially pertinent topics like black-on-black crime and police corruption make appearances, but most of the content leans toward tribute, boasting many a reinterpretation of or knowing nod to past musical masters. Well over 50 jazz cats and MCs are called out by name, often coupled with a snippet of their work or muffled echo of their voice. This fandom goes beyond hero worship, stubbornly residing in a world of pure nostalgia, occupied by dusty record bins, analog sound and hydroponic marijuana.

The sound is equally as stubborn, building steam from legions of samples that fade in and out perpetually. Drum beats shuffle between thudding, low-tech drone and soft, spacey water droplets. Xylophone samples add a psychedelic ambiance, especially when juxtaposed with choppy jazz organ and hyperactive turntable gymnastics. A familiar beat or vocal sample will drop in, mid-thought, only to fade into the distance, moments before you can pinpoint the source material.

"Goodmorning Sunshine" capitalizes on this dizzy blend of wonder and befuddlement. Moving from the calming tone of Augustus Pablo's melodica to the wavering nausea of hissing dub resonance, the track never settles on one sound, throwing in drum stutters and vocal samples to further elaborate on its lack of structure. Quasimoto and Madlib rhyme in unison, allowing their vocals to blend together and co-exist with the samples, rolling endlessly over themselves like an aural Mobius strip. It's incredibly chaotic, particularly when coupled with the hypnagogic street poetry of Melvin Van Peebles, whose words act as guide, referencing everything from religious hypocrisy to untimely death to Swedish erotic cinema.

For all of its anarchic, purposely messy abandon, The Unseen is anything but a failure. The end result is a massive, complex quilt of influences, channeling 70s urban America and record store culture through the mindset of an oft-stoned, but undeniably brilliant, curator. Hearing Madlib rip the art from the museum walls, dissect it and implant his own ideas is an exhausting and transformative experience.

30. A Tribe Called Quest - Midnight Marauders

Everything about Midnight Marauders, from lyrics to beats to album art, is about community. Building steam from the massive praise showered upon The Low End Theory, A Tribe Called Quest expanded on concepts that record only glazed over, taking a closer look at the urban social climate and adding complex layers of samples to their previously stripped-down sound. Experimenting with a sure thing was risky business, but, like the jazz players that preceded them, Tribe refused to cement themselves to one approach. Marauders is the product of this growing confidence, reflecting artistic maturity and positioning them as spokespersons for the party of rappers that adorn the liner notes.

Lyrical content has taken a "day in the life" approach the third time around, putting the superficial and the severe into perspective. Q-Tip and Phife Dawg postulate about everything from violence to sex to Knicks basketball, taking a progressive, thoughtful approach to hot button issues (racial epithets, HIV), while still maintaining a light tone and avoiding the sophistry of rhetoric. Q-Tip plays both of these parts well, alternating between college professor and smart aleck, as dictated by tone. Vocally, he swoons like a poet or doo wop singer, flowing like water over a jazzy note, stopping only to pose a question or pass the mic to his wily counterpart.

No longer playing second fiddle, Phife has fully developed into a witty comedic author, throwing out playful boasts and hysterical similes with high frequency. Riffing on Barney and comparing inferior MCs to "cheese grits" is only scratching the surface. Repeat listens reveal a perceptive storyteller capable of exposing how day-to-day disappointments can lead to an attitude of blind complacency.

The vocal duo and DJ Ali Shaheed Muhammad handled the bulk of production, creating a dense layer cake of unearthed jazz elements, ranging from the standard to the obscure. Big brass bands and groovy organ lie in a bed of atmospheric and warm static, jaunty bass and driving drum beats. Inorganic sound effects and dark, cinematic keys lend a nocturnal feel to the piece, draining the manic energy of previous releases and leaving behind the molasses-sticky, sonic personification of hot asphalt.

"Electric Relaxation" drips with softly-strummed guitar and spacey electro bleeps, acquiring body and texture via a liberal dose of stand-up bass and the clip of a snare drum. Words unfurl as calm poetic exercises, stressing the female physique and the healthy libidos of our narrators. They collectively preach discreet sexuality, halting these chivalrous advances only for the occasional off-color joke or passage of patois riffage. The most pleasing aspect of their gambit is the effortless integration of two distinct voices, illustrating similar ideas through different inflections. In essence, this shared viewpoint and collaborative spirit reflects the very idea of community.

31. The Notorious B.I.G. - Ready to Die

Playing patron saint to drug dealers and pickpockets, the young and reckless Notorious B.I.G. brims with witty dialogue about a variety of transgressions, pushing boundaries for laughs and shock. He's successful in that sense, but does best when he's baring his soul, expressing anguish over his own poverty and mortality. This macabre fascination with death hangs over most of the album, lending a welcome and honest bleakness to the occasionally pedestrian production.

Vocally, Biggie Smalls is both high-pitched and baritone, coming off as laid-back when necessary or packing an aggressive punch when bestowing disciplinary action on enemies. It's not hard to hear KRS-One's influence on his gruff delivery, yet, his content leans more towards the personal, focusing both on his rage and depression. His violent side provides some of his most quotable dialogue and it's fun to hear him execute the opposition with a playful aside like "touch my cheddar, feel my Beretta." The more stridently anti-social elements of his song writing are most likely efforts to provoke disgust, whether they be physical threats towards pregnant women or boorish sexual puns. It's his perpetual references to suicide that are harder to shake off, reflecting a deeply troubled individual incapable of distancing himself from his past faults.

Alternately, his compassion for his mother is noted often and with particular gravity when relating to her struggle with breast cancer. He often comes off as sympathetic to the victims of violence, referring to a murdered lover gracefully, stating, "they killed my best friend." Despite the occasional grotesque turn of phrase, Christopher Wallace is a canny rapper and talented writer, capable of spinning an amusingly gross metaphor or a touching truism. It'd be hard not to be shocked and touched by his work, often during the same song and in that order.

The accompanying beats are slick and well-made, but only match Big's vocals in quality half of the time. There are no less than 8 producers on the album, with multiples occasionally sharing credit on an individual track. Too many cooks in the kitchen can make for a scattershot meal and certain efforts feel phoned-in and generic. The best tracks mirror the content of the vocals and Lord Finesse's work on "Suicidal Thoughts" rewards Biggie's bravery with suitably dark tones and an ominous drum stomp. Also of note is DJ Premier's fast-paced, jazz-inflected "Unbelievable," which matches the steady stream of sharp descriptors and snarky provocations perfectly. Otherwise, the production, overseen by Sean "Puffy" Combs, sinks or swims based on prominent drum beat, jazzy wind instruments and faint keys. Most do a serviceable job, especially when taking queues from reggae or utilizing deeper textures (organ, hissy synth, strings).

"Juicy" finds the perfect balance between vocal and musical brilliance, taking soft, echoed keys, staccato synth beats and strolling funky bass from Mtume's "Juicy Fruit" and throwing in syrupy, trippy flourishes. This canvas gives Biggie room to sketch his road from gift less Christmases and empty stomachs to diamond jewelry and paid bills. His story also ingeniously parallels hip-hop's rise from the underground to the mainstream, honoring what came before and injecting his own perspective. It's no surprise that the first verse may be the most well-known in rap history, echoing childhood dreams that relate easily to the collective human experience and reflecting the stunning abilities of the storyteller.

Ready to Die doesn't succeed through a unified production aesthetic, but through the power of the narrator. Wallace's melancholy laces his passion for sex and crime with a vulnerable desperation. He may seem bold and brash on the surface of his radio singles, but the deep cuts bleed with tension, paranoia and regret. Knowing that he would be dead within two years only adds to the all-encompassing somberness.

32. Gang Starr - Moment of Truth

Adapting to the sonic terrain of late 90's hip-hop, Moment of Truth saw Gang Starr abandoning their jazzy influences in favor of a rugged and atmospheric sound. When Guru states "we have certain formulas, but we update 'em with the times," it never comes off as a plea for commercial acceptance. A paranoid and aggressive work would be the only way to honestly portray the MC's current head space; a state of high stress and anxiety resulting from gun possession charges.

Using his plight as a springboard for discussion about the urban social climate, Guru constructs a compelling street narrative, drawing parallels between the violence on the streets and corruption/jealously in the music industry. Though saddled with a gruff monotone, he hopscotches through rhymes nimbly, capably weaving together a complex metaphor or acerbically placing irony into his crime sagas. His direct diction breeds an unforced eloquence, one capable of stretching an individual rhyming syllable far beyond its intended shelf life (see "Triple beam dreams and drug schemes of mad cream/could be a sad scene when you go to that extreme").

DJ Premier's style of production matches the vocals in function and vigor. Beats are tinny, lo-fi drum blasts, coupled with sovereign horn and piano jabs, rearranged by Premier's own blend of twitchy scratching and sequencing. Choral loops get permanently lodged in the brain, as a dizzying array of vocal samples and film clips elaborate on the track's themes and express dominance. Strings and piano are brought in sparingly, mostly for ominous intonation, but the lion's share of the soundtrack focuses on quick cuts of memorable jazz and soul, compressed for highest potency.

The crux of this collaboration is the title track, showing Guru in a moment of reflection, wrestling with his own vulnerability and the spiteful behavior of his supposed confidants. Although he initially chose rage as a means of release, he's abandoned violence and self-medication, instead realizing that everyone has their own cross to bear ("actions have reactions, don't be quick to judge"). This deeply insightful bit of catharsis is accompanied by lush strings, ringing triangle and constant synth clap.

Moment of Truth was seen as a comeback album, but rarely do artistic endeavors intended to reintroduce an artist have such a multifarious body of ideas. It lyrically exceeded the group's already high standards and reinterprets their sound for their current lifestyle. It might feature a few too many guest appearances and the occasionally long skit, "but it's still Guru and Premier... and there's always a message involved."

Hip Hop Top 50 Vol. 1. Playlist

A sampling of tracks from the first 18 Hip Hop Top 50 entries. All apologies to Company Flow, since "Funcrusher Plus" is not currently available on the supposedly encyclopedic Spotify. A shoutout on the first Black Star track will have to do for the time being.

C

33. Boogie Down Productions - Criminal Minded

To call Criminal Minded trendsetting would be a grave understatement. Not only did it bring street crime into the conversation, it merged the bass-heavy tones of Jamaican dub with New York City hip-hop, made disrespecting your contemporaries a sport and provided a frame of reference for the socially conscious rap to come.

Though the debate over hip-hop's birthplace is far from an underlying theme, Bronx's own Boogie Down Productions endlessly lobby for the title of rap's first and finest. Focusing his energy on besmirching the clumsy writing and stale production of the en vogue Queens figureheads, sole vocalist KRS-One brilliantly illuminates the power of creative thinking and socio-political brainstorming. Often affecting a playful growl or menacing patois, KRS stresses the importance of acquiring knowledge at his most serious and goofs on crackheads and DJ Scott La Rock's promiscuity at his most whimsical. His style focuses on a potent conveyance of rhyming words. That's not to say that his songwriting is basic, he's just perfected simplicity, which is much harder than hiding flaws in forced complexity.

The production follows suit, concentrating on high-pitched funk breaks, fragmented bits of James Brown's vocal wail and Scott La Rock's accelerated turntable work. Though uncomplicated by modern standards, it's suitable for the commanding thrust of KRS' voice, adding an authoritative drum blast on diss tracks and a bassy synthesizer to their reggae-leaning crime anecdotes. It's a sound that packs confidence far beyond their years, reflected in the effortless genre hopping and tonal shifts. Additional studio work provided by Ced Gee (of Ultramagnetic MCs) may be responsible for some of the manic energy, but the duo's ability to play off each other is the record's strongest virtue.

This partnership is well advertised on the title track, which opens with a jovial "Hey Jude" interpolation, followed in striking contrast by one of the most ferocious displays of linguistic power ever put on record. "Criminal Minded, you've been blinded, lookin' for a style like mine, you can't find it" is the crushing opening statement; so simple in its delivery, but so profoundly expressed. KRS' rhythmic verbal composition is backed by a powerful synth thud, high-stepping drum beat, disembodied moans and spastically disassembled horn samples.

What could have been a chaotic mash of opposing sonic elements and themes is reigned in by the scholarly intonation of KRS-One, a dauntless MC capable of verbal malevolence to his subordinates without sacrificing positivity or the desire to elucidate the power of poetry. His pairing with Scott La Rock is at once effortless and boundlessly exciting, marred only by the fact that Scott's untimely death would make it their only collaboration.
 

34. Raekwon - Only Built 4 Cuban Linx...

Picking up where Enter the Wu-Tang left off, Only Built for Cuban Linx... elaborates on the esoteric universe of the Staten Island collective, particularly their penchant for collaborative narrative. Raekwon and co-host Ghostface Killah are so comprehensive in their phrasing and word choices that they've expand on the group's mythology, injecting their own inventive street slang, colloquialisms and a cineaste's passion for dialogue and characterization. The characters prowling through their pulp narrative may take Tony Montana as spiritual advisor, but they aren't afraid to show pathos or express regret, which brings a uniquely human touch to an often apathetic genre.

The highly-evolved coke rap interplay between Ghost and Rae is itemized to the point of compulsion. The food on the plate, gun in the holster and scene of the crime are all cataloged like an Elmore Leonard novel, rife with atmosphere and pedal-to-the-medal fast. Ghostface is excitable, capable of expressing dominance and humanity at brisk pace and equal measure. It's chilling when he paints a gunshot victim's terror as "open flesh, burgundy blood colored my Guess." In contrast, Raekwon struts instead of runs, adding flourishes in place of clichés ("Mega ice on, chips ahoy") and an urgency to the close of each bar. The bleakness in Rae's tone perfectly mirrors the ominous nature of the production.

Curating the entire album, RZA has coated each track in a cavernous, low-tech wall of sound, propelled by heavy bass stomp and sunk deep beneath queasy, seasick tonal shifts. The film influence goes far beyond The Killer and Scarface samples, lending a foreboding eeriness that will strike a cord with Ennio Morricone buffs, particularly those attracted to warped strings, nuanced piano roll and screeching soul vocal. Blaxploitation horn and sax even find their way into "Criminology," a track that echoes like it was recorded in a tunnel and slowly hypnotizes with looped tubular bell. Avoiding a clean, manipulated studio sound has given the track a noticeable hiss, which contributes a rich warmth and uncommon depth. It stands in opposition to the mainstream sound of the time period, truthfully aligning itself to the content of the lyrics.

It's rare to find a solo effort that's both interested in furthering the concept of the group, while flaunting the talents of the individual. Cuban Linx continues the Wu-Tang story, but from the perspective of a street-wise storyteller, consumed with filing through the elements of the drug underworld. It's this attention to detail that separated Raekwon from the rest of the pack in 1995.

35. Kanye West - The College Dropout

Kanye West's strong suit isn't his ego or his cultural cache, but his insecurity. The College Dropout compellingly finds him struggling for an identity in post-millennium hip-hop. He's both "Benz and backpack," clinging on to pleasures of the flesh, while striving to bring God back to popular music and accurately portray city life. His product is perpetually subjective, as is anything released by a man willing to rap through a wired jaw. What makes him so fascinating is his eagerness to wear his heart on his sleeve, while still clamoring for the amenities furnished by a successful music career.

Though his failed collegiate aspirations may seem capricious, his mission to portray commonalities is steadfast. He's certainly adept at conveying ideas, spiked with only the slightest hint of ego (he's saving most of that for future LPs). These concepts are often dispatched through joke or pun and even his works of the least gravity possess effortless rhyme scheme (silhouette/cigarette, mocha latte/Pilates). I dare the listener not to laugh when West spouts, "Got a light skinned friend, look like Michael Jackson. Got a dark skinned friend, look like Michael Jackson" on "Slow Jamz."

His propensity for goofing off is only the half. He's capable of owning up to his contradictions, something that alludes MCs with experience beyond his years. An "everyman" quality makes it easy to look past his fledgling flow, which seems to be Talib Kweli's with half the adroitness, allowing one to revel in his command of language and songwriting capabilities. His finest works even take on the best aspects of spoken word and carry a satiric bent, particularly on "The New Workout Plan," which plays like an infomercial for the unfettered male libido.

Not only a showcase for his verbal brilliance, The College Dropout is a canvas for West's production, which leans towards a highly orchestrated, neo-soul collage. This energetic amalgam relies on the best snippets of 70's staples and amplifies/repeats them ad nauseam. Despite following a formula, it's compellingly diverse, adding acoustic guitar, paramount female vocals and slow bass groove to the already infectious rhythm. The sound can veer from emotional climax to "beers and blunts" party track (see "Get Em High"), showing off West's grasp of a multitude of genres. Yet, his most cogent moments stem from a strong gospel background, depicted in the group dynamic of the album's choruses.

"We Don't Care" bases its strength on community participation, inspired by Kanye himself and followed by a group of lively school children and female crooners. Heavy doses of funk organ lay a base for West's argument, which draws parallels between poverty, education and the job market. His role as spokesperson is never better than at this moment, where he confirms the inevitability of crime in a society of dire circumstances.

His arguments for equality make it impossible not to root for him. He's constructed a debut that is both intimate and innovative, coasting off of personal experience and a wealth of impassioned melodies. Though his public image would certainly change after this release, 2004 saw him as everything to everyone: thoughtful narrator, braggadocious baller, artful producer and astute civil critic.

36. Slick Rick - The Great Adventures of Slick Rick

Walking a thin line between classy and crass, ribald English dandy Ricky Walters is at once an exceptionally eloquent lyricist and an egotistical misogynist. Overlooking his more insensitive material will be a strong task for most, but those with a stomach for "blue" lyrics will be compensated for sticking around. Slick Rick's brilliant vocal harmonies and talent for painting detailed-oriented portraits of sex and crime are funny enough to demand multiple listens and as transgressive as a limerick. His specificity, both in his words and the way he vocalizes them, transformed the role of MC from party starter to poet.

Emphasizing the last word of each bar with a sarcastic snarl, MC Ricky D's singy-songy lilting and "Queen's English" pack a playfully facetious tone and precise comedic timing. Playing nearly every role in his tales of verbal and sexual dominance, Rick adds in high-pitched squeals for female counterparts, a squire's exaltations for "The Ruler's Back" and "boings" to accompany every implied boner and pelvic thrust. What may sound like a superficial gimmick actually imbues each chronicle with a sprightly tone, not far removed from a Benny Hill sketch, watering down the inherent offensiveness. He's also capable of leaving the role of comedian, dominating as a battle rapper or playing lovelorn child on "Teenage Love."

Despite the aforementioned token R&B track, The Great Adventures of Slick Rick embodies the 80's Def Jam sound profile. Hissy, low-tech 808 thump and clash are accompanied by kitschy game-show theme piano, a bevy of jokey sound effects and dexterous scratching (thanks Jam Master Jay). It's not hard to notice a certain propulsive chaos to the sound collage and atmospherics of early compositions from the soon to be dominant Bomb Squad, but Rick's personal handiwork splendidly accompanies his vocals, reacting to his punch lines and the creeping paranoia of his cautionary tales.

The finest of these parables is "Children's Story," which starts as a bedtime fable, but quickly devolves into a nightmare about the death of young crook who's more scared than dangerous. The fact that its empathy is untarnished by the wanton tone of the album is a testament to Rick's talents, making his derogatory remarks seem more like the work of a provocateur than an sexist. Whether you buy that argument or not depends on your ability to respect the craft over the content.

37. Jurassic 5 - Quality Control

Falling somewhere between nostalgic and progressive, Jurassic 5 blends the house party energy of hip-hop's first wave with a heightened social consciousness and disinterest for mainstream success. They stress fundamentals like a high-school basketball coach, interested only in the core elements of a genre currently too enamored with narcissistic greed to rock a party or have a positive influence on their audience. Quality Control cuts away the gristle, leaving behind a lean and agile work built for repeat listens and perpetual head nodding.

Treating rap like a schoolyard singing game, the group's quartet of vocalists bounce off each other's bars with masterful precision, spilling forth an endless current of words and numbers. Their whimsical verbal interplay is a delightful tightrope walk, carefully constructed more for rhythm than political astuteness. That's not to say that they don't have valid points concerning music industry corruption and hip-hop's place as role model, but they wisely don't let that overshadow the album's boisterous tone. Not once are they jaded or combative, always sounding youthful and excitable, which perfectly fits the hyperactive and poppy soundscape.

Sharing production duties, Cut Chemist and DJ Nu-Mark's sound has a few obvious reference points (Prince Paul, in particular), but they make an effort to vary the proceedings with off-kilter bebop and swing band samples. Their focal point for each track seems to be an infectiously looped hook, whether it be by wind instrument, guitar riff or horn section. Couple that with a kinetic drum beat and some fancy turntable work and you've got a cartoonish and playful oeuvre, perfectly capturing a placid West Coast sensibility. A critical ear might notice that each track shares nearly the same arrangement, but that may have been an effort to maintain consistency and not conceptual laziness.

"Monkey Bars" is a testament to the potency of J5's formula: big, stomping drums, damn funky guitar, four MCs melding into one. As they catalog their genre forefathers, words roll one over another with amazing precision and fluidity. Numbers and elements become things of obsession, juxtaposed over a sound collage filled to the brim with mischievous kitchen sink samples and drum-circle bongo. An exuberant and momentous track like this is usually forced into the lead-off spot, but a product this consistent has classics left over for the B-side.

Quality Control is a unblemished specimen of economical songwriting. It's charming, brisk, relatively skit-free. All participants play well as a team, creating a group dynamic that hearkens back to days past, without falling into the creative black hole that is "retro" rap. Social issues are hinted at, but never over analyzed for fear of contaminating the steady wave of good vibrations. It's a solid LP in the truest sense, dependable over 15 tracks without an uncomfortable shift in tone or uncharacteristic clunker. Why would they want to risk a deep three when a layup is a guarantee?

38. OutKast - ATLiens

It's hard to imagine Antwan Patton and Andre Benjamin as anything but household names. In contrast to their current fame, 1996 saw them low on cash, fearing a sophomore slump and struggling to fully realize a unique identity. They certainly had the opportunity to dive headfirst into the mainstream, but they wanted to develop their ambitious Southern blend of rap beyond the canon of commercially-accepted urban music. Their creation would become the first major work from one of hip-hop's most distinct and empathetic collective voices.

Bringing along the quick-witted verbal quips and playful banter present on Southernplayalistic... (see "cooler than a polar bear's toenails"), Big Boi and Andre 3000 have tempered their fanciful dialogue with a sober wisdom, due in large part to hip-hop's coastal feuding and the stale shallowness of the commercial rap game. The group sounds defensive on occasion, protecting their hometown and message from being slandered or misconstrued. They've even developed a sound influenced by their environment, which perfectly matches their ever-expanding social awareness.

This warm, contemplative sonic profile, built around live instrumentation and soulful vocals, makes for a rich listening experience in stereo. Ace production team Organized Noize (with contributions from OutKast) utilize clean and crisp drum hits, delicate piano and the occasional bluesy guitar lick to craft a joyful noise worthy of a church choir. That is, if your church band jammed on trippy synthesizer, sleigh bell and low, slinky bass.

The overall tone is measured, having as much of a drawl as the vocals and shrewdly leaving some breathing room between chorus and verse. These ambient moments make narrative driven tracks like "Elevators (Me & You)" and "13th Floor/Growing Old" flow more organically. Dre and Big Boi are superb storytellers and a hurried tempo would overshadow complex and emotional topics like the progression of time, poor health, lack of self-confidence, violence and community division (black, hip-hop or otherwise).

Confronting the demons of gangster rap and life below the poverty line, ATLiens comments on pre-Y2K tension and violence with a rare verisimilitude. OutKast heightened their message to mirror the times and what came of it is a record of striking clarity and social conscience.

39. Clipse - Hell Hath No Fury

Hell Hath No Fury is materialism incarnate.

Pusha T and Malice fetishize porcelain showerheads and European two-seaters like de Sade ruminated over sex, fanatically cataloging their financial conquests and proudly laughing at those they've corrupted in order to attain wealth. Their blank amorality and epicurean compulsions would bring to mind the teachings of Anton LaVey, if only they didn't half-heartedly reference the Christian deity on occasion.

Insidious characters like these can be compelling, if handled properly. Thankfully, Clipse control their listeners like they manipulate their strung-out customers, through quick-witted pitch, premium product and devil-may-care bravado. The conversational tone of their rhymes is enthralling, especially at the speed they're delivered, which only allows brief pauses for emphasis of the last syllable or mimicked crack head onomatopoeia. One can't help but be hypnotized as Pusha rapidly links the same suffix together seven bars in a row on "Trill," showing how a gifted scribe can concoct poetry from elements that most MCs would rehash as cliché.

The Neptunes are equally interested in putting a spin on familiar elements, turning their usually jumpy pop tracks into steely, subterranean tones that mirror the bleak lyrical content. Think pulsating steel drum, synthesized cowbell and woodblock, queasy science-fiction sound waves and hollow preset percussion. Every song slinks along like a snake, updating Giorgio Moroder's electro-coke jams for modern audiences, but injecting them with a poisoned, dystopic mindset. The peak of this sonic conspiracy is never more evident than on "Ride Around Shining," which depicts the exploitation of innocent college girls over a nicked Wendy Carlos sample that would sound positively beautiful, if it wasn't so damn frightening.

It's these disturbing elements that make for such a cohesive, fascinating listen. The frankness of this brutally capitalistic vision is rarely watered down with second-guessing or remorse. Clipse are carnal beings, not apologists.

40. Del the Funky Homosapien - I Wish My Brother George Was Here

Teren Delvon Jones defies categorization.

He's not a gangster rapper, despite his zip code and family ties. He's too contrary and antagonistic to fit in with the Native Tongues Posse. His affection for George Clinton makes for ass-shaking grooves, but don't dare ask him to dance. He'll point fingers at mainstream, derivative rappers ("crumbsnatchers"), but will never revert to violence or jealousy. If only one thing is certain on I Wish My Brother George Was Here, it's that Del the Funky Homosapien is completely content being himself.

Despite barely being out of high school, Del's storytelling flows organically, stressing his passion for authenticity and capacity for internal rhyme and playful alliteration. Words roll off of his tongue in an eloquent, nonchalant Californian sway, with punch lines delivered through delicate shifts in vocal tone.

Much like his cousin and production partner, Ice Cube, Del is a laconic orator, explicating complex ideas in an economical fashion. He's even capable of allowing counterpoints to his more controversial opinions, particularly on "Dark Skin Girls," where he chides light-skinned women for their superficiality, despite Cube's call for impartiality.

That isn't the only moment Ice Cube makes his opinion heard. With the help of DJ Pooh, he immerses every track in subwoofer-destroying bass, synthed-out organ and flirtatious female choruses, birthing a sound that wasn't chic in 1991, but would become the establishment by 1993. The result is a pacifist's G-funk album, free of the hedonistically violent dialogue that would eventually swallow up the sub-genre.

"Sunny Meadows" is the antithesis of G-funk to come, providing Del with a base of smoked-out saxophone and gently-strummed guitar to wax poetic about while scrawling in his notebook at the park and languishing for a more pastoral life. His thoughtful discourse seems better suited for the genre than most of those who followed, but we can't expect them to have such a singular vision. His is a stridently particular viewpoint that can't be strapped down to a genre, crowd or status quo.

41. Company Flow - Funcrusher Plus

Company Flow's labyrinthine lyrical content is so rich, listening closely and at high volume is a necessity.

Polysyllabic words are thrown out at high speeds, referencing everything from obscure sci-fi literature to outsider politics to popular music's lack of integrity. El-P and Bigg Jus stand firmly as opposition to the superficial, playing contrarian to the sacred cows of radio rap by packing every verse with as much abstruse substance as possible. Hell, even when they say nothing, "it's a beautiful use of negative space."

Musically, El-P's multi-layered, low-tech soundscapes are just as mysterious, evoking dense, static-laden field recordings. Eerie, distant piano, horn and sitar are juxtaposed by glitchy and skittish digital blips, disconcerting film clips and water-logged echo. A tone of paranoia cloaks every track like a veil, making for an unsettling, but unified sonic experience.

The culmination of lyrical and musical ingenuity is also the most personal. "Last Good Sleep" is El-P's harrowing portrait of domestic hell, depicting a frightened child whose adulthood is haunted by an abusive stepfather. Film noir horn, jarring tonal loops and ominous "'til the day I die" choral snippets speak volumes about the haunting terror that is the human memory.

The lasting impact of a violent household may seem like serious subject matter for self-financed musicians, but Funcrusher Plus is no tempest in a teacup. This is a full-fledged masterpiece, responsible for expanding hip-hop's umbrella to allow high-concept, introspective and esoteric work.

42. Prince Paul - A Prince Among Thieves

As the unofficial fourth member of De La Soul, production wizard and pioneering sampler Prince Paul invented the hip-hop sketch, cracking wise in carefully placed 20-second blasts of childish glee. Paul and De La's skits were delightful confections, fitting perfectly between songs and rarely overstaying their welcome. Sadly, their passion for play acting would inspire every half-wit to fill their lackluster LP with lame boasts and absurd sexual escapades.

Despite the over-saturation of rap record fluff, Paul would try to reinvigorate the concept with a 70-minute skit about an up-and-coming MC who enters the world of crime in order to finance his demo. It's a brilliant story that holds a mirror up to the current state of hip-hop, impolitely skewering late 90's clichés.

Leading the ensemble cast is Breezly Brewin', a deft vocalist and likeable narrator capable of showing a range of emotions while effortlessly rolling out the lyrical tongue twisters. His counterpart, Big Sha, takes on a grimier, baritone flow, which allows for two distinct opposing viewpoints. Guest appearances range from the bizarre (Kool Keith) to the menacing (Everlast), with each reflecting a specific hip-hop persona amplified to a point between sincerity and parody. It's no small feat that Paul's sonic composition also delicately walks this line.

At its most serious, the production takes on a cinematic air of suspense, layered with strings, subtle guitar loops and heavy-duty bass, particularly effective on "Other Line" and the bitingly ironic title track. Yet, a certain playful whimsy permeates "Steady Slobbin'," which repurposes Ice Cube's ode to gang violence as a snickering dirty joke, basking in its own degeneracy. These moments of levity make a potentially self-indulgent project feel complex and imperative.

Ultimately, A Prince Among Thieves is both loving tribute and discerning satire, so spirited in its execution and earnest in its delivery that one can forget every bloated concept album released before it. Its enthusiasm and narrative drive are infectious, particularly due to the collage of quirky, danceable beats that have cemented Prince Paul as one of contemporary music's finest producers.

43. N.W.A - Straight Outta Compton

"Life ain't nothin' but bitches and money."

With that fateful line, Ice Cube and his partners in crime (Dr. Dre, DJ Yella, Eazy-E and MC Ren) beget 1,000 impostors. Their crime-obsessed, profanity fueled, lyrical Molotov cocktails would enrage parents, provoke the government and influence the masses, so much so that the sub-genre of hip-hop they actualized would become status quo.

Yet, they've still managed to separate themselves from their offspring nearly 25 years since the release of their seminal debut. It's not that the subject matter or production style is any different or more complex, but that the creators were more inspired. Beneath their front as provocateurs, they were actually diligent craftsman, capable of building narrative and diversifying their sound to broaden influence. They also wisely never hid from a little bad press, wearing their troublemaker persona as a badge of honor.

Cube was the most outspoken of this group of agitators; brazen, hostile and chauvinistic. He'd be easy to pass off as brutish enfant terrible, if he wasn't skillfully crafting compelling characters. With Eazy-E, he constructed a devilish anti-hero, both comedic and carnal, packing a drunken bravado that matched his high-pitched vocal wail. "8 Ball (Remix)" is their collaborative apex, bringing the smart-ass rebelliousness of Licensed to Ill and Van Halen to the streets of South Central.

These incendiary voices are backed by low-tech 808 clash and bass line thump, buoyed by skittish horn and guitar that wouldn't be out of place in a Blaxploitation montage. Despite the relatively primitive construction, the conceptual aspects of Dre and Yella's production are quite brilliant. Each track is built to fit a certain niche, whether that be rallying cry ("Gangsta Gangsta"), club jam ("Something 2 Dance 2") or, dare I say, sanitized inspirational anthem ("Express Yourself"). They're casting a wide net in hopes of attracting multiple demographics, possibly to counter any controversy inspired by aberrant and anti-social lyrics.

Ultimately, Straight Outta Compton benefits more from this pop sensibility than its sensationalism. Emotionless violence is a hard pill to swallow, but N.W.A manage to temper it with enough smirking and song craft to make us forget... if just for a moment.

44. Black Star - Mos Def & Talib Kweli Are Black Star

Mos Def and Talib Kweli want to advance hip-hop. They've seen what the genre can be, taken the pieces worth saving and left the materialism and violence behind. Their mission is to promote black culture without leaning on hypocrisy or stereotype. As Black Star, they attempt to redefine the genre they love before it fades from glory into a tired cliche.

Sonically, Black Star traffics in the jazz and hip-hop of New York's past, deeply inspired by Gil Scott Heron's soulful spoken word and KRS-One's outspoken politics. Thankfully, they temper their austere influences with a spirited verbal interplay that can be unbelievably quick-witted, meticulous and jocular.

The storytelling is evocative, utilizing vivid imagery that seems more at place on the page than the turntable. Tongue twisters abound, as both MCs strive to fill each bar with as much meaning as possible, yet they never sound winded or over stuff their verses. These vocal calisthenics are admirable, particularly when expressing complex themes like martyrdom, record label tyranny, inferiority complexes and social stratification.

"Thieves in the Night" takes on these matters brilliantly, chiding pity and striving for individualism, despite the fact that "captors own the masters" to everything Black Star writes. They understand that, as musicians, they'll have to cooperate with the record industry, but that doesn't impede their goal, which is to go beyond music as entertainment and expose society's hypocrisy. It's a noble and thoughtful effort that would sound highfalutin if its spokesmen weren't so ardent and astute. 

45. Ultramagnetic MCs - Critical Beatdown

As described in Paul Edwards' How to Rap, rapping, in its simplest terms, is a blend of content, flow and delivery. Basically, a musician would construct a rhyming poem detailing their emotions, which would then be conveyed through their vocal cadences.

Ultramagnetic MCs, led by chief lyricist, Kool Keith and part-time rapper/full-time producer, Ced-Gee, intentionally disrupted their content, flow and delivery, much like free jazz disrupted chord changes and tempo. What came from this break with conformity was both danceable and droll, a fully unique creation born from the deconstructed elements of hip-hop.

Kool Keith's odd delivery is like an off-kilter game of word association. As he barrels through verses at breakneck speed, he defames opposing MCs like a vivisectionist, chopping heads and dissecting bodies. He fashions himself a mad scientist, and he might be right, since his syncopated delivery and schlocky lyrical content may have given life to the gory absurdity of horrorcore and the abstract spaciness that would shape rappers like Del the Funky Homosapien and El-P.

Keith's partner-in-crime, Ced-Gee, produces the record with a similarly skewed vision. As chaotic as the Bomb Squad, Gee layers each track with tinnitus-inducing vocal squeals, hyper-kinetic samples and skittish record scratching. His take on funk has more in common with the "chopped and screwed" mixtape movement than Sly Stone, since an organ blip or random synth beat can explode out of nowhere and repeat endlessly, giving the LP an almost nervous energy.

It's this verve and sense of adventure that have made Critical Beatdown so timeless. Kool Keith and Ced-Gee purposely tried to subvert hip-hop cliché and reconstruct its language and sound. What they actualized was made of hip-hop's puzzle pieces, but alien in its construct and presentation.

46. The Pharcyde - Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde

A Bizarre Ride indeed.

The Pharcyde's debut is a cartoonish collage of mischief, unabashed libido and comically high-pitched vocal delivery. Interested more in making their audience smirk than inflating their egos, Fat Lip and company playfully walk the line between funny and over-the-top obscene, never to be taken to seriously, unless they're ridiculing your mother or hawking your girlfriend.

Sonically, J-Swift's lively production is forward thinking, while still digging deeply into the hip-hop and jazz that came before. Piano samples and celebratory horn point towards John Coltrane and ATCQ as reference points, but those boisterously shouted group choruses make me think Black Flag might have snuck onto the tape deck during group smoke sessions. Luckily, a little weed didn't distract from the goal, which was to gently rib sell outs and make dirty jokes.

Their most successful joke is "Officer," a hysterical take on Public Enemy's "Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos," transferring indignation concerning the American military and penal system to the palpable West Coast equivalent, the Department of Motor Vehicles. I know, it's rather irreverent, but civil unrest needed to be reflected through their unified voice, even if it is in relation to parking tickets.

Bizarre Ride's greatest feat is its depiction of that singular viewpoint. The Pharcyde are secure enough with themselves to be goofballs, skewering the cliché that rappers are infallible supermen. They smoke too much weed, get their licenses suspended and can't seem to pull the cutest girl in school. It's this relatability that makes them so compelling.

47. OutKast - Aquemini

Big Boi and Andre 3000 were dying to expand hip-hop's palette. They saw an opening for a distinctly Southern voice, one that loved Delta blues as much as it loved Detroit soul. A voice that wasn't afraid to show the cowardice of violent crime in an era when most rappers fashioned themselves as Tony Montana wannabes. Most importantly, a voice that was capable of making you think, laugh and shake your ass all at the same time.

Lyrically, both men are capable of nostalgia, whether it be remembering their humble roots or well wishing for a drug-addled childhood pal. This sentimentality seeps into their production, which has the scope of great 70's funk and the lush body that only live instrumentation can provide. George Clinton's influence is obvious, even beyond his readymade guest appearance. It'd be hard to imagine  "SpottieOttieDopaliscious" and its big horns and opening falsetto vocals without Funkadelic's musical thumbprint.

Yet, Aquemini is distinctly OutKast, down to the trademarked speedy, but fluent, vocal delivery and oft-hilarious turn of phrase. Whether comparing the cash game to the culinary arts or giving you a minute to marinate on their double entendres, Big Boi and Dre demand full attention from their audience and a willingness to see beyond the trappings of genre. Luckily, we wouldn't have it any other way.

48. Mobb Deep - The Infamous

Mobb Deep makes urgent, desperate music. Rarely do they relish the spoils of a life of crime, focusing more on the need to make money at any cost and the danger of getting caught doing it. Their world is a paranoid one, full of snitches copping pleas, police on the prowl and competition lurking in every alley.

They may paint a bleak picture, but Havoc and Prodigy are exceptional storytellers, layering each track with real characters, believable stories and even traces of self-doubt. One of their finest moments is "Up North Trip," an often sad depiction of how jail time affects the inmate and the family they left behind. It's these details that separate Mobb Deep from the bevy of faceless mid-90s "gangsta" rappers.

Their sound even strays from the status quo. Havoc handles the production brilliantly, maintaining a sonic continuity birthed from classic New York jazz and merged with menacing piano loops and a feverish sense of dread. It's to his credit that he crafted a focused piece with so many collaborators (i.e. Q-Tip's guest production, Nas, Ghostface and Raekwon verses), but with a crushing drum track in the forefront on nearly every song, most contributors are forced to coalesce with the beat.

The end result is an authentic slice of Queens crime "fiction." The Infamous is free of cheesy party tracks, pop hooks or moralistic backpedaling. It's completely honest about its intentions and depicts street crime at its most dehumanizing.

49. Big Daddy Kane - Long Live The Kane

Big Daddy Kane's voice is deep without being gruff. He's always in command of his prose, never stumbling over words or pausing for a deep breath. He's capable of being funny, suave and serious all in the same verse, never overstuffing his bars with an unnecessary syllable. His 1988 debut, Long Live The Kane, is a superb documentation of his ability as an MC.

Super-producer Marley Marl recognized Kane's speed and precision and matched it sonically. Whiplash James Brown samples, cymbal-heavy drum loops and lightning-fast turntable work compliment Kane at every turn. They even accompany him on the R&B loverman oddity, "The Day You're Mine," which feels out of place in '88, but would saturate BDK's later releases.

The pinnacle of this collaboration is "Ain't No Half Steppin'," a contender for the best single display of rhyming ever recorded. It's an endlessly quotable paean to Kane's ability to demolish the competition, layered over smooth piano and a Billy Squire drum beat. BDK effortlessly moves from slow, molasses smooth vocals to a syncopated, choppy fast flow. Despite shifts in speed and tone, he always goes out of his way to annunciate, even noting that he speaks "clearly so you can understand."

Rappers understood all right. It's hard to pick out an important MC of the past 25 years who hasn't stolen a page from Kane's rhyme book, whether that be emulating his flow or heavily sampling his archetypal lyrics.