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.

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.

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.

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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.

50. Jay-Z - The Blueprint

Versatility is the name of the game.

Jay-Z sounds like a seasoned vet, young battle rapper, wealthy playboy, career criminal, misunderstood genius and grateful success story over the course of 13 tracks. He's striving to show every facet of his personality, but The Blueprint never comes off as a plea for mainstream acceptance or approval. Jay knows he's the best, he's just detailing his ascent to the throne.

As with any hostile takeover, there are casualties. Critics get called out for scapegoating, absentee parents get blamed for loss of innocence, Nas and Mobb Deep get their feelings hurt. Jay even takes shots at himself on "Song Cry," eulogizing how the money got in the way of a close friendship.

Thankfully, that moment of self-deprecation is brief, leaving 12 tracks open for playful narcissism and effortless wordplay. Jay's megalomania never sounded better, thanks primarily to Kanye West and Just Blaze, who successfully shifted Jay's sound from electronic club jam to Jackson 5 and Bobby Byrd-sampled soul.

This regal mixture of suave vocal delivery and vintage urban soundscape make quite a convincing argument for Jay-Z's 21st Century dominance. What makes the album so addictively listenable is that you're rooting along with the champ as he wins the title belt.