7. J Dilla - Donuts

As an artist, James Yancey was more concerned with how sound is interpreted and how it affects mood than with his audience making a direct connection between his samples and their source material. Unlike the cultural collaboration of mash-up and its ironic pretense, Donuts is all cerebral exercise, emphasizing and expounding upon the commonplace just before stripping it of meaning and origin. Freed of context, individual sounds, even the most distinguishable, become pieces of a new framework, one sophisticated enough to satirize the old guard on one hand, while celebrating its influence on the other.

The sheer technical wizardry and innovation, evident in Yancey's ability to transform simple elements into knotty concertos, are enough to make Donuts memorable as beat tape, but his genius lies in the ability to convey compassion without lyrical accompaniment. Moments of profound warmth lurk beneath the layers of twitchy drum and disorienting vocals, providing an emotional connection between performer and audience in defiance of the intentionally shrouded meaning and subliminal use of samples. It's personal, surprisingly sweet and occasionally rather forceful, reflecting a clear vision and vulnerability uncommon for hip-hop producers, even at their most progressive. The fact that it was recorded from a hospital bed by a terminally ill man only adds to the bittersweet finality of the work, which feels like a sketch book of everything Yancey wanted to say in his life, but never had the chance.

Essentially a collection of shorts, some built to accommodate a vocalist, others too anxious to exist anywhere else, Donuts is a ceaselessly ascending and descending smattering of half thoughts, joyous and free in its state of impatient flailing. Breaks and loops are awkwardly yanked from their homes and placed in stark contrast to the tempo, resulting in a disorienting garble of words and a limping drum fidget. Vocal sounds, once so full of vigor and pomp, have been transformed into befuddled nonsense, perverted as a drunken wobble far removed from their intended physicality. Using sampling as a vehicle for satire, J Dilla (Yancey's nom de plume) has playfully sapped hip-hop and R&B of their potency, mutating proclamations of brute force and sexual proclivity into desperate whimpers and flatulent grumbles.

"The Twister (Huh, What)" is a hand grenade thrown into the church of hip-hop posturing, subversively reorganizing threatening chants of "huh" and "what" into a mine field of horrifying siren and indecipherable, adolescent wail. Stranding the vocals in a pile of sound rubble and draining them of their passion creates a concussed confusion, far removed from rap's customary confidence and narcissism, crippled by the overwhelming sonic punishment. It's a startlingly effective protest against mediocrity, stern and straight-faced enough to make the epilogue of "One Eleven" come as a bona-fide shock. In a moment that's both victorious and a bit self-congratulatory, Dilla decides to follow his diatribe with the essence of what he was fighting against, the soul-inflected, hook-laden banality that his targets produce in bulk. Though initially off-putting, it's a perfect bit of irony from an artist having his cake and eating it too, pointing a finger at a formula mere seconds before taking a stab at it.

However noble creating art as a means of critiquing art may be, Yancey realizes that a personal connection always outweighs ideological regard and builds resonance through self-revelation. "Time: The Donut of the Heart" is his most candid moment, awash in warm guitar and cloaked vocal warbling, imbued with yearning for a lover left behind, beautifully evoked through a slowed tempo and wave of orgasmic moans. Its eroticism is unabashed, but never lurid, and there's an unequivocal honesty to the catharsis that never feels calculated, as if it couldn't be left unsaid. Donuts is brimming with these urgent moments of confession, forced into an endless loop and rattled off at full tilt by an artist unwilling to take a fountain of brilliant ideas to the grave.

8. EPMD - Strictly Business

For a duo obsessed with leisure and the spoils of Reagan-Era consumerism, Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith rarely seem compelled enough to work for it, at least not at the expense of their relaxed demeanor or enough to warrant naming their album Strictly Business. Even music industry chatter would have been premature at this point, since both rappers were barely out of their teens, working on their debut release and still fearful of parental retribution. Seriously Joking would have better fit the duo's unfocused vocal brilliance, mirroring their capacity for riffing off of each other and penchant for off-the-cuff one-liners. The compatibility of the pair and their dedication to stressing common verbal and sonic motifs shows a maturity beyond their years, making for an effortlessly meta advertisement for slackerdom and the artistic honesty that comes with it.

Slurred, slack flows pour out of EPMD in a lispy stream-of-consciousness, heavy on Long Island accent and light on tempo and articulation. The speed and rapidity of the vocal interchanges often result in swallowed words and misheard bars, but the improvised nature is exhilarating and guilelessly poetic. Throwing out ideas and cultural touchstones at random, much like their successors in Das Racist, Erick and Parrish love to investigate pop ephemera (i.e. Samurai Suzuki, Federal Express, "witch Matilda"), but never as indictment of the corrupting power of branding, but as dedicated capitalists, itemizing wishlists in preparation for their big payday. Loose ends are often tied together with a commercial jingle or interpolated song lyric, resulting in an unintended complexity that befits couch potatoes and stoners old enough to pick up on the cultural cues. Others will fare better succumbing to the power of the vocal dynamics, which effortlessly shift between Parrish's vivid bad cop routine and Erick's mush-mouthed litany of lyrical peculiarities ("If it gets warm, take off the hot sweater.")

As if to counter the esoteric nature of the narrative, production takes a demotic approach and sticks to sampling pillars of the 70's rock and funk movements. Contrasting loops are strung together from two or three familiar sources, marrying the sweetest bits of standards like "I Shot the Sheriff" and '"Jungle Boogie" into one recognizable, but unique, whole. Snippets are even alluded to over the course of multiple tracks, cohering divergent passages to key themes and inserting a certain self-referential charm to the proceedings. It's an elementary technique used for an ingenious construction, best described as the aural equivalent of creating a new outfit from hand-me-down clothes.

Yet, cursory beat plundering and a relaxed demeanor shouldn't be confused for lack of inspiration, since EPMD merely select the tracks best suited to fit their topics of conversation. While the placid, smoky notes of Bobby Byrd's organ are a perfect fit for "Let the Funk Flow" and its casually brilliant lyrical schemes, ZZ Top's "Cheap Sunglasses" is stripped of its pomp and given a glossy electronic makeover. Left behind is a hollow, frigid bass line, ideal for the ill-willed jeremiad of all things poseur on "You're a Customer." The residual tension even carries over to DJ K La Boss' instrumental track, an excerpt so moody and baroque that it would feel wholly separate if it weren't for the studied repetition, blurry scratch patterns and perfectly situated Vincent Price sample.

Similarly hazy trails of echo coat the blown-out, warped bass and mesmeric soul clap on "You Gots to Chill," producing a narcotic calm to match the persistence of the choral mantra. The schizophrenic pace of the scratching and distorted talk box vocals (swiped from Zapp & Roger) coax out the gentlest of head nods, predating Dr. Dre's fascination with the quixotic nature of funk, but with far more emphasis on danceability and vocal interplay. Lyrics are spewed forth without punctuation, too relaxed to give a passing thought to the woeful words of a "sucker MC" or precocious "new jack," but jokey enough to "issue dig-em-smacks" to those without a clue. There's even a hint of escapism in the lyrics, challenging the audience to free itself from the worry and self-consciousness that would overwhelm the genre within 4 years time. It's Sermon who best embodies these good vibrations, allowing Smith to play the role of terse agitator, while likening himself to everything from Zorro to a personal computer and playfully suggesting that inadequate rappers catch up on their beauty rest. His passages of jejune and colorful absurdism are what loosens the audience's inhibitions, imploring even the tightest of asses to spring from its seat.

Ardor seems to leap forth from every passage of Strictly Business, culminating in "Jane," a lover-man sex jam spun out of control by a bossy belle less than impressed with meat-and-potatoes coition. Willing to be the brunt of the joke is refreshing, but writing the joke is revolutionary in a genre full of bruised egos and brutish inflexibility. Putting humor and bonhomie before self-importance is what makes this product so desirable and even artists as green as EPMD understand that distinguishing yourself from the competition is half the battle.

9. Public Enemy - It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back

As markedly different from hip-hop now as it was then, Public Enemy's confrontational politics and bludgeoning sound collage stood in stark contrast to the neo-Rockwellian bliss of 80's consumerism and the sunny demeanor of pop radio. While the mainstream found solace in "We Are the World," PE sought to get to the root of the problem instead of throw money at the end result of oppression, examining the hypocrisies of world culture and its subjugation of people of color.

Thankfully, Public Enemy isn't a paper tiger bestowing wisdom from an ivory tower, but a movement interested solely in the advancement of the art form and empowerment of the black community. It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back is the movement's manifesto and its clearest artistic statement of opposition to the hype of celebrity, bureaucracy and wealth, ironically constructed from the raw materials of the media they've conspired to make obsolete.

The message in the music is carried by the stern, guttural baritone of Chuck D (née Chuck Ridenhour), a defiantly philosophical scribe concerned more with countering the disinformation spread by the powers that be than "Yes Y'allin'" or mincing words. Chuck's quips are snappily written, but unflinchingly solemn, chastising the artificial fantasy of entertainment and exposing the domino effect of media brainwashing and how it shapes black self-image. This degeneration is even paralleled in his content, progressing from low self-opinion ("She Watch Channel Zero?!") to lack of compassion ("Night of the Living Baseheads") to incarceration ("Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos"). The fear of prison and helplessness of the imprisoned is both literal and figurative, reflecting the dehumanizing effect of the American penal system and the way it parallels the constraints of societal prejudice and the fallacy of racial equality. It's a sobering discourse, amplified to a feverish maelstrom by the impenetrable body of discord created by Chuck's backing band.

Mixing materials by hand, culling from an endless catalog of musical sources, The Bomb Squad construct monoliths of sound, muscular and maximalist waves of re-contextualized media soundbites and caustic sirens. The severity of their sound is an aural representation of the lyrical content, merciless in its quest to awaken the listener to full attention. Those struggling to find a reference point might take it for funk, played at accelerated rates and with little interest in dancing, but this has more in common with Negativland than The Meters. It even seems to show contempt for its sources, perverting the "marketability" of mainstream media into a piece of subversive activism, morphing benevolent maraca into crackling rock cocaine or channel surfing into a frustrated mass of white noise. It's this delicate pairing of subtext and atmospherics that generate the kinetic nature of the composition.

The most propulsive piece of the puzzle is "Rebel Without a Pause," which blasts off like a roman candle, enrapturing the ear with nagging trumpet squeal and commanding political rhetoric. Chuck's authoritative force reigns in the listener with a simple "Yes," cutting through any distraction caused by the perpetual, unsettling shift in sound. Stressing his vocal expertise while highlighting his role as enlightened outsider, Chuck wages war on black radio that refuses to endorse challenging black art and makes a plea for stimulating lyrical content and political involvement. Realizing that ideological rants can be stuffy unless properly packaged, Chuck wraps his incendiary dialogue in a melodic slew of puns and slogans, using ingenious verbal tactics to overthrow Reagan (or is it "ray-gun") and re-ignite interest in black nationalism. His message is vital, but his urgency and excitement is far more palpable, as is the rush of Flavor Flav's drum beat and DJ Terminator X's tense record scrapes and scratches.

It's a goosebump-inducing commotion, intellectually and emotionally stimulating, undeniable in its power to inspire, motivate and frighten. Disagreeing with Public Enemy's politics doesn't even diminish this immediacy, as the resourcefulness of their dexterous musical pastiche would be enough to elicit an emotional response from the most conservative of Republicans. Whether this hypothetical right-winger would enjoy the music or not is besides the point to Public Enemy. It Takes a Nation... was intended to rattle cages and motivate change. I doubt they even knew how much it would do for the form, both in gravity and virtuosity.

10. Nas - Illmatic

Think of Illmatic as a docile takeover.

Viewing gangster rap's fatalism as a dead-end street, greenhorn MC Nasir Jones saw his vocal precision and lucid perspective as an antithesis to the myth of the invincible outlaw. His crime fiction is one of fear, not cowardice, voicing the tension of those caught in death's snare with a pragmatic candor and a positive mental attitude. The viewpoint proved to be unique, particularly due to the conduit with which it was carried, an articulate and lightning-tongued slew of syllables, flowing over with a prodigy's photographic memory and capacity for free association.

Confident as jester and philosopher, Nas is a utility player, capable of amusing and inspiring in equal measure. His hobbies lean towards the genre's propensity for hedonism, grafting on to the chronic, cognac and clothing, but abandoning the nihilistic hatred and capacity for violence. In his own words, "I switched my motto; instead of saying 'fuck tomorrow' that buck that bought a bottle could have struck the lotto." It's far too evocative a couplet to cut short, perfectly articulating the viewpoint of the author and his advanced grasp of internal rhyme and metaphor. His confidence even extends to advances in narrative, seeing street crime through the eye of a keen observer instead of perpetrator, perfectly captured in "One Love," which details the neighborhood melodrama in a letter to an imprisoned friend. Its poignancy reflects an innovator eclipsing his forebearers, capably exercising idiom and symbol within the constraints of epistolary poetry.

An ingredient this fresh only needs a pinch of salt when served and the committee behind Illmatic's production understand that less is more, especially with a wunderkind behind the microphone. Large Professor lets Nas' words marinate alongside swirling jazz sax and indistinct "Human Nature" sample, allowing the chaos to unfold quietly beneath the rousing vocal track. Gang Starr's DJ Premier doesn't jump through hoops, sticking to a metropolitan melange of bass, playful sample and rapid-fire scratching that caters well to a young artist adapting to compositional structure. Naysayers might be inclined to hear it as the masters resting on their laurels, but don't fool simplicity for complacency, as the formulaic work present here reflects the nexus of the formula instead of a tired retread. All a "Golden Age" revivalist needs to hear are the Hammond organ and sampled soul croon on Premier's "Memory Lane..." to crack a grin of sentimental satisfaction.

"Halftime" carries on the air of nostalgia, pairing Motown samples with fond remembrances of CHiPs episodes and youthful bouts of stage fright. Large Professor strips down his sound, giving the lyricist free reign over infectious live bass and the hypnotic sway of sleigh bells, awakening only for the rare burst of horn over the chorus. Free to flex his "mad fat fluid" on the microphone, "Nasty" Nas careens at top speed through content-rich verses, making the obvious profound through eloquently woven tales of weed smoke and vocal dominance. Mastery of the figurative and literal ("I drop jewels, wear jewels...") and bookish references to Marcus Garvey glaze over moments of blatant homophobia, but the real attraction is the effortlessly poetic intonation of Nas' voice. Stringing 4 to 6 rhymes together in a cohesive narrative at high speeds without choking would be a feat, but doing it for nearly 4 minutes straight is superhuman, especially on your first attempt at making the majors.

Time saw Nas' infamy grow and his expanded catalog allowed him to develop arguments and concepts only touched upon in this pithy anthology, but rarely does increased notoriety capture youth's intrepid spirit. Illmatic streams with the unbridled enthusiasm of an author just finding his voice, relishing every syntactic innovation, off-the-cuff neologism and oddball pairing of historical footnote and modern colloquialism. It thrives by going the extra mile, masterfully described in the argotic title, which roughly translates to "a willingness to be ill."

11. Ice Cube - AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted

Equal parts horrified and inspired by the double standards and hypocrisies of polite American society, Ice Cube savors his role as fly in the ointment, dangling the thought of black rebellion over his frightened listeners like an older brother dangles spit near a sibling's forehead. Taking outsider politics and fueling them with bitter resentment, Cube directs his anger at police, the wealthy, Caucasians, women, race traitors, nearly everyone that he isn't, screaming a misanthropic monologue from atop his soapbox. AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted would be a merciless slog through a bitter mind, that is, if Cube wasn't bating us into being appalled, anticipating a serious reaction to his message after the shock and awe wear off.

Dancing the line between amusing and horrifying, O'Shea Jackson's inner-city exposé plays like a conservative's nightmare, brimming with a violent bravado and conviction that make flippant remarks about suburban home invasion sound like genuine threats. Inspiring terror isn't necessarily the point, but it benefits the serious inclinations roiling beneath the surface. By illustrating the most desperate measures of the broke and marginalized, Cube provides a voice for those without one, expressing the fears of existing in an unstable environment, particularly one under the boot of police corruption. It's a brutally honest, unpleasant vision, willing to rub the listener's face in the most base content and demand instant feedback. Whether casually talking about kicking a pregnant women in the "tummy" or seeing murder as benign necessity, stomach-turning moments pop up at random, creating a physical response to truly demanding bits of fiction.

This willingness to throw common decency to the wind may make him an asshole, but Cube is never a careerist or blandly commercial, since unflinching bleakness refuses to co-exist with the escapism that occupied early-90's pop music. He even questions how R&B and Top 40 radio intend to educate their listeners, since the content shares no common ground with the average person and manufactures false hope. Cube even struggles at times for a unifying thread, but wisely shades in the details of his everyday experience (unwanted pregnancy, drug abuse), making reality the most compelling catalyst for revolution.

The Bomb Squad's sound is as riotous as Cube's words, but rarely this bouncy and sprightly, forging a friendship between their trademark maelstrom of shrill sound clips and an over-caffeinated funk guitar groove. First impressions fool the ear into assuming these strange bedfellows are shacking up at random, but this is most certainly orchestrated chaos, intended to unnerve and agitate with its endless stream of abrupt fluctuations. Solace comes only in solitary drum passages, grinding like broken machinery and culled from microscopic bits of instrumentation, pared down exclusively for Cube's best one-liners and sobering moments of clarity.

The mash of disparate elements is tempered a bit by the free-jazz flutter of the composition, which moves from verse to chorus based on Cube's intonation and generates excitement with its delirious pace and mechanical repetition. "Get Off My Dick..." avoids structure entirely, simply looping its damaged guitar snippet ad nauseam while Cube expedites his flow to keep up with the shotgun-kick drum. It's all terribly fast and reckless until "Who's The Mack?," which prefaces G-funk with its elegant, incense-scented flute and ramshackle piano, moving along at a brisk jog. It's a wise shift in gears, showing the delicate pairing of samples and how this curated body of sounds thoroughly meets the mood and pace of the narrator.

The finest pairing of content and orchestration is "Once Upon a Time in the Projects," which happens to be the least cluttered and catchiest dish on the menu, teaming with heavy wah-wah guitar and tense percussive rattle. It's narrative would be satire if Cube didn't make it seem so matter-of-fact, examining the archetypal characters of LA's public housing system, making their every absurd action seem trite and ordinary. The culture shock for the listener, particularly those not exposed to the surroundings, may lead to nervous laughter, especially with Cube's penchant for painting his characters as insignificant buffoons. The irony lies in his exhausted shrug of a vocal track, which opens with a smirk, but ends with hopeless resignation ("Once again, it's on.") as a potential date night spirals into an evening in a crack house and two weeks in the county jail.

Plainly addressing the horrors of drug addiction, parental neglect and policy brutality plays like farce but stings like tragedy, especially as Ice Cube depicts the innocent trapped in a cycle fueled by racism and a disparity between the rich and poor. Burying AmeriKKKa's message beneath an assault of glacial scowls and scare tactics only increases the potency of Cube's agitprop, which, through its string of insults and provocations, intends to stimulate a response and, hopefully, inspire change.

12. Eric B. & Rakim - Paid in Full

So influential that to dub them as "pioneers" would be an exercise in gratuity, Eric B. & Rakim wrote the book that hip-hop would plagiarize from for the succeeding 30 years, leaving their mark on every movement and LP to follow reverently in their footsteps. Abandoning the plainly direct nature of rap's infancy in favor of lyrical intricacy and an expanded palate of musical influences, Paid in Full was dissonant and remote, dabbling in synthesized atmospheres and a bottomless well of echo effect. It was a sound on the outer limits of popular music, but its loquacious mouthpiece was the real extraordinary element, packing each of his verses with enough ingenious wordplay and cocksure pomp to write the epitaph on non-technical rhyming and bland universality.

William Griffin's rhymes are all flex, constructed from the egotistical hubris of a 19-year old gifted with boundless confidence and a preternatural talent for narrative eloquence. Free of comedic sensibility and inhibition, Rakim's content is personal and compelling, giving a director's commentary into the construction of his vivid word portraits with the specificity of a mathematician. He prefers a slow beat, matching the tempered and intentional nature of his flow, which happens to be both crystal clear and fatherly in its sternness. Employing internal rhyme and a precocious fascination with polysyllabic words, Rakim navigates his unbroken stream of phrases without ever slipping into predictability, pausing only for effect or to briefly suck in oxygen. It's a vocal force with maximum kinetic energy, spewing one-liners out at break-neck speed without sacrificing narrative drive. Though he rarely waxes philosophical, even the most passive listen reveals an obsessed student, certain only of his ability as a vocalist and the odious nature of his musical opponents. It's a distrustful and detached nature that marries perfectly to the tense electronics of his backing music.

Self-produced, with a helping hand lent by Marley Marl, Paid in Full is a study in repetition, building propulsive bits of future-funk from robotic drum loops, a mountain of horn breaks and agile record scratching. Steady and hollow, stressing silence as much as sonic clutter, each track is as herky-jerky as public transit, endlessly alternating between sparse minimalism and hyperactive soul. Eric B.'s cuts are acute and overstated, counteracting the numbing synthesizer whirr with ascending volume and rapidity. Bass lines are elastic and distorted, contrasting the gentle pluck of guitar or intermittent flute quiver, nuanced enough to make each element distinct without ungainly disconnect.

Exploiting this quiet/loud dynamic, "My Melody" is an echoey slab of moon rock, alien in its isolated drum kick and squealed passages of turntable desecration. Gone is hip-hop as communal party starter, repackaged as desolate sonic landscape, tailored to fit Rakim's singular, stoic personality through vast, open spaces and a bed of sinister synthesizer. This anti-social bill of fare both sets a tone and delicately inserts a symbol, separating Rakim from the crowd and the beat, laying his vocals atop the mix and, figuratively, above the genre. The allowance for negative space and hypnotic recurrence also emphasize the rhythmic nuances of Rakim's crisp vocal flow, somehow "rugged" and "sharp," at home in the most aggressive prose or delicately articulated poetry.

For all its high-minded complexity and outsider posturing, the individual pieces of Paid in Full weren't foreign enough to avoid duplication, making Eric B.'s speaker-blowing scratch tactics and Rakim's bombastic rhyme schemes as customary as two turntables and a microphone. Yet, no tribute ever matched Paid in Full's sense of balance, an uncanny and artful ability to waver between the subtle and the forthright without fatigue or tedium.

13. MF Doom - Operation: Doomsday

"Statement" albums are usually bitter ordeals, manufactured to insult ex-collaborators and chastise the industry that so woefully underestimated the artist responsible. They're intended to be seismic shifts in power, all the more tragic when they reveal themselves as desperate pleas for attention, paraded out as a return to form or stoic artistic endeavor.

Daniel Dumile had more than enough material for a major statement, having been dumped by Elektra Records the week of his brother and bandmate's death, followed by a crippling bout of manic depression and homelessness. Left with no other option, Dumile abandoned his previous politically-minded persona (Zev Love X), adopting the vengeful impulses and world domination schemes of Doctor Doom, comic enemy of The Fantastic Four and possessor of a suspiciously similar last name.

While fascinated by the melodramatic viciousness of the character, Dumile's terroristic inclinations stop there, as Operation: Doomsday plays more like an affable prank from the righteous opposition than the wounded diatribe of power-mad sociopath. His is a resistance fought through cockeyed, underground transmissions, swathed in clamorous "Quiet Storm" R&B and discordant superhero audio bites. Seeing the freedom in being cast aside, MF Doom sculpted a vision of hip-hop from the sum of his own influences, deeply fascinated by the amorphous nature of words and the ability to blend disparate sounds into a uniform whole. It's a debut of startling complexity and perceptive prose, etymologically powerful enough to stir a devoted cult decidedly off the mainstream radar.

Perfectly accompanying his throaty vocals, Doom's bars are speedy turns of phrase, gently stoned and slightly salivary, trading in onomatopoeia and simile with a knack for specificity and a poet's linguistic confidence. While he's certainly fond of digression or an off-the-cuff limerick, he prefers to carry a strand of related references through each track, sneakily obscured by literary device or intentionally diverting word game. "Red and Gold" drags the listener down the rabbit hole, prowling like a brawler's anthem on the surface, while paralleling non-Halal dietary habits to lunar superstition in the subtext, likening his profound content to a solar eclipse and the symbolic rebirth of the changing seasons.

Maintaining levity and avoiding heavy-handedness is a triumph, especially with this propensity for heady material and unconventional narrative. Doom uses this abnormality to his advantage, explicitly complicating his dialogue as a means of distancing himself from the mediocrity of his peers. When it seems like he's inches from the precipice of cliche or easy profanity, Doom pauses to replace the offending word or idea, taking a red pen to the banality of contemporary rhyming. He even goes a step further on "Hey!," flipping the same line in two completely different ways, complicating the second enough to apologize for the commonality of the first usage. The fact that the old adage he's refurbishing is "There's more than one way to skin a cat" further complicates matters, acting both as reinvention and affirmation.

His production is just as intricate as his lyrical content, pairing cheese-ball adult contemporary with juicy loops of soft jazz, using the disparity to further develop his image as a nonconformist and outsider. Expecting a recognizable hook is obviously out of the question, since the samples used aren't even given a chance to sour, left slightly askew and off-center enough to lend a jittery bounciness. The obviousness of the preset drum clap seems intentional, not as a bludgeon, but as testament to the lo-fi aesthetic. Doom even calls out his source on "Go With the Flow," giving Kool G. Rap & DJ Polo full credit, which seems positively moral for a self-described supervillain. Moments of criminal inclination rely on orchestral swoon and fluttering jazz flute for maximum dramatic effect, all rolled over a sleepy yawn of a bass stroll and spook show organ. Yet, this is all pantomime, since Doom's never that serious about his thieving ways, hoping for laughs as he eulogizes his missing gold fronts over a bed of melodramatic strings.

"Rhymes Like Dimes" banks on his audience's sense of humor, ripping baby-making organ from Quincy Jones and looping it into a agitated frenzy, creating a sonic metaphor for dealing and prostitution that couples perfectly with his subtle social commentary on American consumerism. Perverting a sex jam into a statement on sex trafficking may seem like a stretch, but Doom is always cognizant of the potential for an underlying message, even at his most callow. Comparing vaginal lubrication to Brita water filtration and verbal proficiency to Tae Bo aerobics might seem like dime-store triviality, but they're just as much a product of capitalistic culture as sex and drugs, only veiled by chauvinistic superficiality.

The allure of Operation: Doomsday stems from this shaggy spontaneity, indulging MF Doom's inner dichotomy between wisecracking weed head and odist aesthete. It's a work littered with brilliant concepts ripped from tattered rhyme books and outmoded E-mu Emulators, getting fat on an indulgent rolodex of samples and junk-food cultural minutiae, proving that living well is the best revenge and independence finds Daniel Dumile at his most vital.

14. Beastie Boys - Check Your Head

Reintroducing themselves as both adept instrumentalists and resident Californians, the Beastie Boys saw their third LP as an opportunity for spiritual and musical growth, pairing a new-found compassion with an ever-evolving nostalgia for forgotten soundscapes. Assembling a cohesive work with the flow and texture of a time-worn mixtape, the band manages to function at their most ferocious and thoughtful, utilizing this oxymoron of emotion as a vehicle for excursions through the outer reaches of their record collections. Funneling through funk, punk and bedroom electronics with the demure posture of the most seasoned session musicians, Check Your Head goes for broke, refusing to be anything but an honest representation of metropolitan musical culture and a desperate attempt to widen hip-hop's sphere of influence.

Building steam from a vocal bond so fluid that it rarely seems like the work of three individuals, Check Your Head finds the trio's verbal skills matching their bravado, confidently alternating between pensive think-pieces and confident dust ups, both of equal resonance. Stressing diversity, while actively provoking enemies and the closed-minded masses, the Boys' sharp tonal shift would seem contrary in comparison to previous works, but the addition of message-oriented material hasn't detracted from the infectious in-joking, which is at its liveliest and most inspired. Snacking is still the Boys' muse, generating rambunctious patter about cucumbers submerged in hot sauce, the Frugal Gourmet and Shasta, but gone is the party-boy entitlement, replaced with a certain working-class resolve, evident in their desire to take on multiple musical roles, as well as a genuine sense of gratitude (see similarly titled track).

The damaged, low-fidelity production, provided by Mario Caldato Jr., also carries this industrious dedication, cobbled together from disjointed bits of Money Mark's jaunty organ, down-tuned bass guitar and delicately-palmed percussion. Instrumental tracks bring to mind the Latin-tinged, blunted grooves of War and Santana at their most somber and sedate, contented to dish out positive vibes over feverish guitar strum and a bottomless cup of fuzzy distortion. Parallels are drawn between polar opposites, most notably on "Time for Livin','" which couples Sly Stone and mosh-pit worthy hardcore breakdown, bringing an almost religious fervor to The Family Stone's message of selfless charity. These digressions give the project a sprawl that would be ungainly if it weren't so intimate, a quality that seems to stem directly from the core five-man team that created the lion's share of the album's melodies.

The chief statement on this adventurous undertaking, "Pass the Mic," is also the composition most willing to take a detour, moving from Eastern psych drone to pummeling guitar riff to messy, drum-laden bricolage. Turning the figurative references to urban life into the literal, background cacophony mirrors the grinding pummel of public transportation, even closing on a heavily-distorted bass riff that squeals like a tire scraped over gravely asphalt. Think of sample-building from your own feedback as a less-litigious form of recycling*, though the vocal flurry is even tidier, taking on a tightly-coiled tension, flitting back and forth between pithy rage and sentimental call-and-response.

Equal parts sunny and cerebral, Check Your Head takes on an Autumnal feel, developing concepts previously in chrysalis into the leitmotif that would epitomize the Beastie Boys at the end of their 31 years as a team. Brave enough to apologize for past indiscretions and faithful enough to believe that audiences were willing to mature alongside them, the Boys proved that hip-hop wasn't a cul-de-sac but a clean slate, as welcoming of confusion and angularity as it was confidence and precision.

*They were still unsuccessfully sued for not paying licensing fees for the use of James Newton's "Choir."

15. Run-D.M.C. - Raising Hell

Raising Hell wasn't the moment of inception, but it may be the maturation point.

Hip-hop existed well before Run-D.M.C. ever laced up their beloved Adidas shell tops, sequestered to New York's five boroughs, acting as regional art form to the initiated and novelty to the uninspired. "Rapper's Delight" managed to crack the Top 40 and Debbie Harry insipidly stammered through a few bars on "Rapture," but these were merely ripples before a tidal wave, too nondescript to change minds or inspire imitation.

Rap needed to be defined before it could succeed. Genres need a personality to develop an audience, living and dying by their gallery of acolytes, abiding by a set of core values and reinforcing cliches. While the hip-hop sound was too diverse to be singular, siphoning the juiciest bits of rock, funk and disco into call-and-response communal experience, the attitude was unparalleled, especially in the case of our aforementioned hell raisers. Touting epic quests for lyrical dominance, punctuated by tag-team choruses and an epicurean's passion for fresh kicks, Run-D.M.C eschewed the status quo while they constructed a new one, taking "the beat from the street" and putting it on MTV. This exposure coupled with a persuasive, solipsistic, first-person narrative struck a chord with audiences, erecting a culture composed exclusively of its raw materials.

Concisely written and far from subtle, Run and D.M.C state their case without loquacious monologue or flowery exposition, favoring feverish emotion over poetic eloquence. Their candid content is carried over loud, intermittent shouting, a racket forceful enough to shake the listener by the stereocilia, yet never grating or straining for the profane. Run takes the higher register, playing the scrappy upstart, hustling to get in every word, occasionally treating his fans to a lively, saliva-spewing bout of championship-level beat boxing. D is the deep, thoughtful one, measured in his pacing, vocally more akin to a spoken-word performer and carrying that profession's capacity for lively oration.

Thematically, everything's as black-and-white as the diction, ladling applause on the rhymes, clothes and heritage, while leveling a hefty amount of ridicule on slobs, loose women and the ever-present copycat. While the storytelling rarely bares its fangs, favoring gentle sexism and sophomoric silliness over subtext, "Proud to Be Black" proves Run-D.M.C. can expand beyond superficial generalizations, voicing righteous anger without aggression or violent retaliation, each meritorious word accentuated by the album's potent blend of throbbing bass and break beat.

The brusque percussion is a tidy pairing of hissy cymbal clash and propulsive bongo roll, played at accelerated rates, resulting in a lean, masculinized pulsation. Rick Rubin's pioneering clatter is a dense wave of noise, diverted only by Jam Master Jay's spirited scratching, which colors outside of the lines and implements much needed chaos to the assembly line artificiality. Jay's gruff cuts are bursts of excitable cacophony, as jarring as a crack of thunder, often marking the end of a bar or playing back up to the vocal duo's moments of festive interplay. Gracefully slicing and dicing the guitar bits of Aerosmith's "Walk This Way," Jay's physical motions border on the divine, transforming water into wine and seamlessly blending contorted turntable work with Rubin's propensity for speed and unbridled guitar wankery.

"Peter Piper" acts as ode and example, idolizing Jay as supreme ass shaker and turntable athlete, wisely allowing his adroit handiwork to live up to the noble portrait painted by his vocal counterparts. Treating their verses as a bout of verbal jump rope, Run and Darryl Mac finish each others' sentences like excited schoolkids, spouting out measured, emphatic exclamations, peppered with references to Greek mythology and British nursery rhyme. Their words are playfully chased by boisterous bass kicks and a formative treble two-step, delicately glazed by sugary sweet spoon-to-glass treble in the chorus, dancing between melodic beauty and manic episode.

It's a dizzying amalgam of varying sounds, made ordinary only by decades of carbon copying, a crime for which Run-D.M.C. and their army of devotees share equal responsibility. Yet, is it possible to shake something so influential out of the cultural DNA? Nearly 30 years of hip-hop innovation hasn't bred out the cadence, bass throb or narcissism invented here, only magnifying them into self-parody or knowing satire. Maybe the genius behind Raising Hell lies in its ability to be replicated, forging an entire culture from its mannerisms and electronics.

Hip Hop Top 50 Vol. 2. Playlist

Submitted for your approval, a second sampling of tracks from the Hip Hop Top 50. Despite Spotify's claims of an encyclopedic and endless catalog of music, Dr. Dre's The Chronic is noticeably absent, leaving him unrepresented on our mix. In his honor, I've added a second track from Doggystyle, spotlighting his unique style of production. Also of note, De La Soul's "Me, Myself & I" contains elements not present on the studio LP. For that, we sincerely apologize.

16. Genius/Gza - Liquid Swords

Don't judge a book by its cover.

Liquid Swords may be as fastidious and handsomely mounted as its Prentis Rollins' inked artwork, but confusing it for cartoonish fantasy would be a grave lapse in judgment. This is investigative journalism, as objective and stark as an obituary, completely drained of the sex, camaraderie and revelry that so many "gangster" rappers use as commercial leverage. Speaking as omniscient narrator, The Genius rarely steps in to plead his case, leaving his small-time crooks without conscience or voice of reason, abandoned to forever circle the drain of their violent and hateful lifestyles. It's thematically oppressive and hopeless, all the more depressing when held up to the so-called legitimate forms of business it parallels, making its subliminal social commentary more of an attack on free enterprise and bureaucracy than the black market.

Gary Grice, known solely as Gza to those familiar, drafts sanguine sagas as detailed and ornamental as a gourmand ruminating over the buttery notes of a Bearnaise. Passions in science, chess and samurai mythology seem too bookish for an author of true crime exposés, but Gza imbues his wordy expositions with a lived-in realism and morbidity, always burying his street warriors in a casket built of their own paranoia and superstition. Simile and metaphor are his preferred rhetorical devices, as odd and unprecedented as his influences, strung along endless lines of rhyming suffixes and "unbalanced like elephants and ants on seesaws." It's astonishing how much he can squeeze into small spaces, delicately flipping near rhymes off the tip of his tongue and turning other rappers' gimmicks and word games into achievements of "rec room era" MC wizardry. His brilliance even extends to social commentary, intended to "defraud the hoax" of religious and scholarly hypocrisy, standing defiantly against faux activism and willful ignorance.

In contrast, the sound profile is more subliminal than confrontational, building off of airy atmospherics and welcome intervals of silence. Breathing room not only allows Gza's words to stand firmly in the forefront, but exposes the jagged edges of RZA's source material, comprised mainly of tormented keys and slowly bubbling bass lines, as dark and viscous as crude oil. RZA seems to carry a common thread throughout the piece (he is sole producer), repeating 4 notes in sequence, wavering from speaker-to-speaker, as if to send a signal to the attentive listener, luring them into his darkened, concrete basement. The hypnosis is broken only for nightmarish passages from Shogun Assassin, made all the more ominous because of obvious parallels to Gza's austere subject matter. Besides this penchant for cinephilia, Liquid Swords thematically breaks new ground for RZA, occupying the future worlds and technocentrism present in ambient and computer-based compositions.

"Killah Hills 10304" personifies this artificiality, made of pure steel and industrial mechanics, slumping back and forth with pounding bass purr and wrinkled VHS-tape slur. RZA rips the soul from his formula, leaving behind a sonic corpse, wrought with remote pulsations and monotonous, squeaky keys. The squelched rhythms are barely given more than a few notes, repeating endlessly, never allowed to blossom, but steadily building a claustrophobic and synthetic atmosphere. The Genius' words are tension incarnate, adding live flesh and tissue to the proceedings, painting a crimson portrait of global corruption. His exhaustive universe of characters never feels fabricated, all sneaky and corrupt, desperate enough to surgically implant a kilo of cocaine into a bum leg or hide a bomb in a bottle of champagne. All images of pleasure or power are symbolically bathed in blood, striking a shadowy, three-dimensional vision of street life caked in the grit most mainstream "gangsters" wash away in the recording booth.

The lyrical authenticity and aural chilliness make for an incongruous pairing on paper, but the truculent behavior of Gza's characters fit this alien, emotionless din like a glove. His works of violence are money-motivated and impersonal, showing the detached nature of the drug game and its crippling effect on those trapped in its clutches. By removing the superhero bravado often attributed to "coke" rap, The Genius has made a work of gripping realism and profound morality.

17. Beastie Boys - Licensed to Ill

Walking a tightrope between satire and frat-boy idiocy, Licensed to Ill bestows an almost mythic grandiosity to the spoils of youth, adorning its three Beastie Boys with a harem of wenches, flowing goblets of Olde English and bellies full of the Colonel's chicken. Certainly some of this pomposity is hubris, and the Boys realize the inherent absurdity of the act, masquerading as pirates, drifters and outlaws, quick to bed your girlfriend or break your glasses. There's nary a sign of conscience or high-minded pretension, but the group dynamic and stubborn sincerity are gleefully confrontational, drawing reference points to everything from Schooly D to AC/DC to The Three Stooges. This eclecticism is birthed from New York City's cultural melting pot and the vision of whiz-kid producer, Rick Rubin, who abetted the Beastie Boys in sparking a deep connection with millions of like-minded delinquents, yearning for limited supervision and maximum destruction.

Sounding like a collision between power chord bombast and basement electronics, Rick Rubin's production work bears the crunchy thickness of distorted, atonal bass repetition and precious little nuance. His vision is tailored to fit the unique lyrical interplay of the group, lowering the volume to reveal the big punchline or setting off blaring machine gun beats to mirror the fervor of the team's "Ra Ra Ra" group cheer leading. Samples even parallel the storytelling, taking horns to the red-light district for "Brass Monkey" or lending juvenile toy piano to the schoolyard mock-sexism of "Girls." This isn't to say that Rubin is partial to making sample-based music, leaning more in personal taste to New York hardcore and working-class blues rock like Aerosmith and Motorhead. Lucky for him, the Beasties cut their teeth as gleefully-sloppy punk rockers, helping "cock of the walk" tough guy rants like "No Sleep till Brooklyn" ring with truth and ease their transition from one musical genus to another.

Think of "The New Style" as initiation and proper introduction. Ad-Rock ushers in the future of the form like he's reading off the fight card, steeped in echoes and enveloped in hushed silence. MCA counts off backwards, foreshadowing a wave of robotic, preset cymbal and tinny, homespun 808 thump. Rubin adds metal lick dissonance and abrupt breaks to the mix, further hardening an already brutish force. The Boys rhymes are spit out with a hurried intensity, as if some unseen force looms over, threatening to pull the plug on their mics. MCA is at once the best linguist and most metaphorical, alluding to higher artistic aspirations by comparing his popularity to Picasso's capacity for painting. Ad-Rock loves to accentuate his "Noo Yawk" accent, particularly at the end of each bar, straining his vocals to an aggravatingly high-pitch that perfectly compliments his egotistical flights of fancy. Mike D may not pack MCA's skill or Ad-Rock's sheer volume, but he's best with a witty quip, taking a laugh-out-loud jab at Jimmy Page's sex life that would be slightly offensive, if it weren't such an acid-tongued potshot at the worst indulgences of rock stardom.

That's not to say that Licensed to Ill is free of hedonism, even if said hedonism is done with a shit-eating grin. The Beasties would spend most of their career reforming the image created on this LP, eventually conforming to a rigid standard of tolerance, sexual equality and healthy living. Maturation is expected with age and most of their early infractions are forgivable, especially when seen as harmless teenage rebellion. If anything, Ill benefits from this feral recklessness, birthing a cross-breed of hip-hop's arrogance, punk's ardor and pop culture's triviality. Their eclecticism bulldozed through preconceptions about the genre, while stretching its vocabulary toward more obscure reference points, rarer sample fodder and knottier similes. Taking offense is to be expected, but we must sacrifice our "good taste" at the altar of artistic innovation.

18. Snoop Doggy Dogg - Doggystyle

Hardly juvenilia, despite the sophomoric references to testicular size, Doggystyle finds an author in full control of his skill set, conscious of structure, never frantic and rather adept with onomatopoeia and masculine rhyme. For his age and lack of experience, his ability seemed supernatural at the time, but youthful stamina wasn't the reason for his success. Snoop understood the power of image and individuality, constructing a likable outlaw out of his tales of couple's bubble baths and streetlight shootouts. His vision was the film noir to hip-hop's action flick, more focused on coloring in his larger-than-life personality and foggy, deliberate lyrical flow than catering to purists or the old guard.

"Laidback" is both a personal assessment and perfectly suitable, since Snoop's rhymes are far more interested in toying with sounds and the rhyming syllable than force feeding content. Bragging and provoking the opposition accounts for the bulk of his subject matter, but mundane topics are given new life through an exhilarating propensity for accents, unnatural extensions of words and prosodic stress. Take "Tha Shiznit," for example, which playfully ridicules Luke of 2 Live Crew by concluding each sentence with an affected "E" or "A" sound, noting the opponent's weakness and fallibility with each dramatic rise in tone. His affinity for Slick Rick's wordplay and narcissism would be obvious, even without the "Lodi Dodi" cover, but Snoop's violence is more literal and far less episodic. Emotions are obvious from his intonation, noticeably most vivacious during a bout of self-glorification, but his words are most substantial when acting as conduit for verbal trickery. Despite all the distractions, he makes games of syntax seem effortless and, dare I say, elegant.

Bells and whistles are handled by Dr. Dre, who, upon first glance, seems confident enough in the sound he'd pioneered a year prior to shamelessly recycle it. Further investigation reveals an expanded palate and a slackened intensity, with the stone-faced Dre loosening his belt and letting his inner lounge act take the reins. The nostalgic atmosphere and heightened sense of whimsy work marvelously with Snoop's paced and harmonious oration, especially when spiced up with giddy sleigh bell and bleary-eyed Detroit-style soul choruses. Moments like "Ain't No Fun" even feel like a sly wink, pairing uproariously sexist pillow talk with roller-disco kitsch.

Best of all, Dre's compositions act as pedestal for Snoop's towering persona and, though most of the affair is relatively radio ready, the baleful moments are just as palatial, transforming Snoop from the role of glamorous playboy to sadistic villain, accordingly backed by vampirical organ and scaly synthesizer. "Murder Was the Case" best displays this sonic and lyrical versatility, replacing placid party vibes with chambered drum and gong, the blunt echo of struck aluminum and disembodied moans.

Snoop's pulp storytelling shines best when allowed to control the narrative and "Murder" is a drug dealer's take on the Faust legend, with Snoop himself playing a flamboyant criminal mind, hampered by a desire for wealth and an impatient, unholy benefactor. If the scope of the story and vision weren't already cinematic enough, the track was followed by an 18-minute short film, further developing the cult of personality surrounding Calvin Broadus. Yet, silver-screen aspirations and media personality were never Snoop's most endearing qualities. His ability to construct compelling poetry was what has endeared him to the public for so long and Doggystyle was the moment that Snoop Doggy Dogg's esoteric diction and imperial slackerdom became as American as apple pie.

19. Kanye West - Late Registration

Ambivalence overwhelms Kayne West from the first note of Late Registration, with "nothing's ever promised tomorrow today" acting as proverb for an endless range of uncertainties, most prominently career and life itself. Having survived his own brush with death, West's diary-entry intimate accounts of his mother's struggles and grandmother's passing resonate with despair and powerlessness, comforting only in their relatability and honesty. It's this gift to draw from personal experience and connect with an audience that stands as West's finest character trait and one that best lends itself to a narrator as flaky and conflicted as his listening audience (myself included).

Realizing the power of the podium he speaks from, West has actively politicized his lyrics the second time around, hoping at most to bring about social change and at the very least disseminate his wealth of ideas. Attacks on social strata, drug culture and blood diamonds are both brave and clever, able to point a finger at corrupting elements in the black community here and abroad, while never letting the author off the hook or allowing him to sound self-righteous. He realizes that his jewelry might not be conflict-free and his actions reek of "do what I say, not what I do" hypocrisy, but his poetic diatribes are his vehicle for forgiveness and self-improvement. Late Registration always feels like a learning experience, sonically and emotionally, and Kanye hopes some of his personal growth will rub off on the listener.

The musical platform for this catharsis was fashioned by West himself, though composer Jon Brion was brought in to lend a gravity to the proceedings, found in the cinematic sweep of the strings and intimate delicacy of the soft, homemade piano loops. Influence spans the 20th century of black music and beyond, taking cues from "jump blues," Prince's melody and sexuality and Dr. Dre's smooth California organ. This play for universality isn't a rapper gone pop, but a man too broad in his scope to leave anything off the table, even if that means getting too big for his britches or straining for grandiosity.

"Addiction" is the zenith of outre arrangement and the shape of a sound to come, far more pensive and troubled than Kayne's output up to that point and possibly an early manifestation of the fevered militancy that would become an obsession on Yeezus. Somber guitar is gently strummed and looped, building tension out of crunchy cymbal and the robotic clap of a synthesizer. Radiohead's shadow looms large, spiritually responsible for the cold exterior of the artificial percussion. Off-setting the numbing rhythm is a warm center of grief, bubbling over with the troubled confessions of a self-diagnosed Bipolar personality. Though West struggles to fight off his darker urges, he surreptitiously yearns to spend, drink and screw as means to temporarily distract from his shortcomings.

Confidence and ego are reinforced on "Gone," if only as a defensive mechanism. 'Ye opens with a few jokes to warm up the crowd, taking diamond-hungry ladies to Ruby Tuesdays and alluding to The Golden Child, all effortlessly rolled atop a bouncy chopstick of a piano and his wheelhouse blend of Soul-sampling and tight percussion. Pals Cam'ron and Consequence make their mark; Cam with mush-mouthed, twisty rhyme schemes and Consequence with riches-to-rags verisimilitude. Yet, all lyrical gravity is wisely bestowed upon Mr. West, signaled by the arrival of a resounding string section and cinematic bombast. West's manifesto paints him as ahead of his time, but overwhelmed by blossoming celebrity and the media fervor that accompanies it. The attention doesn't bother him, since he relishes the opportunity to be viewed as the rap game's Jehovah, but he's not strong enough to deal with the lifetime of scrutiny that comes with a place at the top.

It's this struggle with the cult of personality that makes Kayne West a more complex artist on Late Registration. It's exciting to see his demons peak out, revealing a man both consumed and repulsed by his own narcissism. Much of his output would deal with Christian-guilt relating to arrogance, but never was it as urgent or real as the first time around.

20. Madvillain - Madvillainy

Perfectly marrying the sophisticated with the peculiar, Madvillainy is 22 disparate snapshots, completely stripped of mainstream rap's pop sensibilities and obsession with hooks and freed to be willfully obscure, off-the-cuff and hysterical. Super groups rarely succeed, let alone eclipse previous individual achievements, but pairing Madlib's capacity for regenerating the grooviest relics of jazz past and MF Doom's impossibly sophisticated, stream-of-consciousness jabberwocky was a stroke of genius, birthing a work beyond genre, song structure and conventional wisdom.

Vocalist and cover model MF Doom rhymes with a deep, stoned growl, working his tongue and lungs to capacity, all in the name of coughing up dense, symbol-laden, lyrical poetry. His verses are pop culture at its most arcane, showcasing a man obsessed with junk food, syndicated space operas and creamy clouds of marijuana smoke. His vocal ebb and flow can be rather entrancing, which slightly distracts from the complex use of simile and double entendre, demanding repeat listens and even note taking from his ever-growing army of disciples. Verbal trickery is the name of the game on "Money Folder," where he claims to have penned the rhyme after downing a few "Heines," only to reveal moments later that he was referencing warm derrieres and not cold beers. Gambits like this occur endlessly, often multiple times in a single verse, showcasing an author capable of constructing an extremely intricate narrative and demanding enough to expect listeners to keep up with his manic pace and rapier wit.

"Curls" intends to slow Doom's roll, opening on the low tinkle of steel drum, pulled back in the mix slightly as to not overshadow muted guitar strum and gently scraped hand percussion. Doom deliberately harnesses his flow, exposing the crackle in his smoke-damaged throat, but never stumbling over a syllable or gasping for air. His uncommon gift for phrasing shines radiantly, mutating banalities about money-grubbing women into an eloquent game of near-rhyme hopscotch ("reckless nekkid girls get necklaces and pearls"). It's exhilarating to hear his verbal ingenuity, particularly when classing up well-worn cliches, ranging from the joy of financial frivolity to the perilous life of the young hustler. This supposed "coming-up" story revels in absurd exaggeration, so implausible that it appears Doom's having a laugh at his peers' expense, mocking their eternal quest for authenticity. His farcical tales of toddler battle rapping and second-grade smoke-outs are accompanied by eerie Gothic organ and intermittent electro drum kick, camping up an already cartoonish anecdote.

Madlib gives the entire LP a sense of knowing mischief, rudely throwing seemingly incongruous pieces of jazz, soul and 60's ephemera at the wall, never giving a damn if any individual piece sticks. Somehow, amid the sound and fury, wavering from speaker to speaker, is a disorienting and brilliant piece of Musique concerte, constructed from thousands of lulling, symbiotic sound puzzles. Dashes of maraca and robust bass marinate with old-world accordion, book ended by superhero clips and bizarre B-movie sound effects, all corrupted and rearranged by constant breaks in tone and shifts in focus. Familiar elements are tossed in via bubbling bong rips and funk riff strut, acting as a buoy to the listener, forever drowning in a sea of details. This sense of security is temporary, washed away in a flood of half-audible cackling and faded dub scraps.

The elements are tightly packed, never showing their patchwork or revealing a formula, orchestrated with a surgical, almost inhuman, focus. Yet, this is not de rigeur studio product, but free-form experimentation, built around two friends sharing a laugh while pugnaciously stripping away two decades of perpetually-recycled genre convention. Rarely do inside jokes brim with such versatility, personality and boundless enthusiasm.

21. Ice-T - O.G. Original Gangster

Ice-T always fashioned himself as a politically-astute Lothario; the kind of guy capable of getting a snobby English dame to dub him the "epitome of antidisestablismentarianism" right before she admits, in far more explicit terms, to fancying his genitalia. In contrast, the media labeled him as a threat to decency, seeing his lack of sentimentality and penchant for bleak crime narrative as a conduit between the violent realities of urban life and the ears of pristine suburban teenagers.

Detractors did manage to get one detail right, Ice's sphere of influence was expanding, but the new audience he'd won over wasn't keeping up with his growth as an artist. Friend and foe alike never saw the forest for the trees, fixating on his affinity for profanity and sexual broad-mindedness instead of his radical politics, musical diversity and incorruptible honesty. Unphased, but concerned, Ice stripped O.G. Original Gangster of hardcore rap's creature comforts: the sexcapades, empty threats and xenophobic attitudes, re-branding his street talk as both incendiary satire of political corruption and depressing portrait of urban poverty. By siphoning off the unnecessary elements, Ice-T concentrated his already potent poetic realism, constructing a work that never panders to easy shock tactics, aiming more to expose America's antiquated caste system and the complacency that keeps it in power.

Likening his mind to a lethal weapon, Ice takes aim at the endless cycle of crime caused by disparity in income between the rich and poor, expressing frustration and sympathy through blunt, oft-sardonic cautionary tales. Depending on content, he can waver between jarring bursts of spoken word or quick vocal jabs, both equally capable of illustrating his themes and flexing his verbal skill set. As for creativity, he knows the players of the drug game and can easily adopt the perspective of a 19-year-old hustler or paranoid jailbird, showing how fast money makes streetwise teens into amoral capitalists and how the prison system turns men into animals, hell bent on survival.

His turn of phrase is just as canny as his playacting, transforming a gun in pocket to a "parabellum in the leather attache" and utilizing double entendre to show how silk sheets make one lie like a politician. He also draws startling parallels between historical atrocities and injustice at home, likening ghetto indoctrination of the black community to the crimes against humanity committed by the Khmer Rouge regime and the genocide of the American Indian.

The production, helmed by Ice and fellow Rhyme Syndicate members, matched the gravity of the vocals through a skittish, churning and noisy sound profile, culled from synth blast, industrial clatter and abrasive, squealing wind instruments. Though stripped of much its pomp, this is primarily 70's funk territory, accelerated to match the rapidity of Ice's declamation and the lives of his rebellious, but doomed protagonists. When not following in Funkadelic's footsteps, Ice favors horror movie atmospherics or Black Flag style rave-ups, even handing a track over to his burgeoning hardcore band, Body Count, in an effort to broaden audience horizons. This sort of diversity can be a blessing on a 72-minute LP, particularly one with a predilection for confrontation, but Ice's gift as a linguist is best served in the shorter, less adventurous moments.

Comprising barely a minute and composed primarily of Ice's deep, commanding tone, "The House" is complex enough to demand multiple listens, initially suggesting an indictment of unfit parents, but gradually revealing something far more sinister: willful ignorance. By neglecting to acknowledge abused children and confront contemptible adults, the community is implicit in the outcome of the situation, leading, in this case, to a child's death. It's a heart wrenching moment, but Ice doesn't intend for this story to act as a singular moment of urban desperation, but as an indicator of a larger problem. He confronts this apathy, whether it be on the part of wealthy bureaucrats or members of his community, on nearly every track of Original Gangster, painting a portrait of a nation on the brink of collapse under its own cold comfort.

22. De La Soul - 3 Feet High and Rising

Framed like a novel and as madcap as the best sketch comedy, 3 Feet High and Rising churns through samples, social issues and stereotypes with a levity unbeknownst to the late 80's hip-hop landscape; a scene that had split its focus between radical politics and street-wise chicanery. Where the era's torchbearers spoke with a certain severity, rarely taking a breath or cracking a smile, Long Island's De La Soul emanated an almost rigid positivity, creating a frenetic and bouyant puree of AM radio pop and cartoonish flotsam that was equal parts heart and innovation. This contrast in values and outsider attitude not only provided the genre with an alternate viewpoint, it forced the form to broaden its horizons, championing detail and individuality and refusing to paint in broad strokes.

Capable of a complex and knotty verbal discourse, Posdnuos and Trugoy (Plugs 1 and 2, respectively) are far less concerned with rhyme and reason than most of their peers, instead dabbling in vivid imagery and subtle word games that rarely reveal themselves on the first listen. "Eye Know" focuses on love making and the female of the species, abandoning commonplace sex metaphors, instead eloquently comparing the emotional impact of a kiss to being "filled with the pleasure principle in circumference to my voice."

Accompanying the rapturous poetics is a penchant for cheeky in-joking, which rears its head in every phallic nickname and plea for good hygiene, reaching its summit in the hilariously candid "A Little Bit of Soap." They're even willing to buck songwriting convention, taking a break midway through a compelling tale of promiscuity to give a sexual competitor the chance to pound out "Chopsticks" on the piano, cheering him on as his fingers nervously fumble over the keys.

The overall lyrical impression is diverting and sunny, which may have inspired detractors to label them as hippies, but don't let whimsy overshadow intention. The prime directive is to further the medium by standing in contrast to it and no other moment does that better than "Ghetto Thang," which recognizes the endless cycle of violence and parental neglect and fingers rap's fascination with gun play as a corrupting element.

Keeping with the theme of disparity, Prince Paul recycled old elements to fabricate a new style, favoring thrift-store eclecticism over studio sheen. The product of this strident anti-conformity was more puzzle than composition, marrying breezy guitar, infectious bass lines and the fuzziest and most esoteric of vocal loops, often culled from instructional records or dated curios. Though random upon on first glance, Paul's brilliant melding of flavors provided context to the songs they accompany, particularly effective when stealing Daryl Hall's vocals from "I Can't Go for That (No Can Do)" and re-purposing them as an anti-drug screed. He further rebels against structure and copyright law on "Cool Breeze on the Rocks," scotch-taping a variety of songs prominently featuring the word "rock" into an ungainly sonic prank, aligning himself more with Dadaism and tape-loop experimentation than his soul and funk-obsessed contemporaries.

Yet, his most passionate endeavor is merging these so-called "serious" artistic conceits with whimsy and guile. His finest union is "The Magic Number," which bursts with more color than a box of crayons, brims with zeal and floats on a wave of xylophone, cymbal clash and deep groove. This one is more dance than discourse, kept afloat by Paul's need to cram every moment with a unique noise or peculiar discovery. Case in point, the track's denouement is jammed with bursts of James Brown and Johnny Cash, reckless scratching, snippets of Mayor La Guardia reading comic books, multiplication lessons from Schoolhouse Rock!, Eddie Murphy asking his audience if they've ever been hit by a car...

It's a disorienting and exhausting clash of differing elements, as if three TVs playing different commercials at full blast were all vying for your attention. The passage of time hasn't minimized this maddening euphoria, nor has it provided an act capable of reproducing it. Though the cut-and-paste technique has been carbon copied and the attitude has been adopted, none are as recklessly creative, wistful or seamlessly synergistic.