2. Wu-Tang Clan - Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)

Enigmatic and argumentative, Wu-Tang Clan's 9-man battalion of impeccable lyricists and raconteurs capture the grim reality of inner-city survival with a startling thematic fluidity, a unity wholly unexpected from a soup stirred by far too many ladles. Marrying a fly on the wall realism to the supernatural mystique of Wuxia cinema, Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) constructs its own language and cultural benchmarks from the unique perspective of each member, lending a contemplative demeanor, vigor and peculiarity to hardcore hip-hop's growing consonance. Through this democracy of voices and contrast in theme, Wu-Tang births a sound as socially conscious as it is sophisticated, stressing the equal importance of reflecting reality and deconstructing artistic forms.

Shouted in guttural monotones and intended as brusque provocation, Wu-Tang's vocals are brawny and quarrelsome, "murdering the rhythm," especially when the crew barks out the last word of each bar or parrots the primary vocalist's lyrics in the wake. Intellectually, the unit has a remarkable retention of pop culture minutiae, rifling through cagey in-jokes, 80's political footnotes and arcane aspects of Blaxploitation with striking volubility and velocity. A masterful cohesion is sustained on "Da Mystery of Chessboxin'," capturing 6 members aligned in momentum and motif, breaking only to insert their own perspective or hand off the microphone to the succeeding focal point.

Functioning at the same level individually as they do in formation, each vocalist forges a unique role on the team, even if only given twelve bars. Ol' Dirty Bastard's comedic sashay stands out the most, tonally, due in part to a drunken stammer, not far removed from Redd Foxx's delivery, but met with a proclivity for fisticuffs and a charming boastfulness about the breadth of his depravity ("Jacques Cousteau could never get this low"). Raekwon is more focused and fluid, but no less indelible, compellingly capturing bleak moments without hint of fabrication or conceit. His sketches of teenage cocaine addiction and the paradox of drug dealing for sustenance are solemn and never preachy, carrying a transcendental verisimilitude.

Despite a youthful exuberance that often overshadows his vocal performance, the buds of a soon to be blossoming lyricist are there in Ghostface Killah's rough-hewn rhymes, particularly in his capacity for "kicking the fly cliches," that is, compartmentalizing the ennui of drug dealing into a blistering string of nouns (shots - knots - spots - hot). His counterpoint lies in Method Man, the group's front man pro tempore, who would rather take drugs than castigate them, his blunt-scorched throat lending credibility to those claims. His capacity for churning through kitschy catchphrases and interpolations is evident on his solo single, which strikes an interesting dichotomy between the two layers of his schizo persona: half cackling sadist, half channel-surfing burnout.

Handling production whole-hog, RZA lends a queasy menace to 36 Chambers, crafting sounds that echo from beneath the earth, rippling with water-damaged bits of piano and symphonic string, either played at the wrong speed or damaged beyond recognition. Fuzzy snippets of Kung fu flicks act as bookends, each airy swish of exaggerated jab or sword swing taking on new life, postmodern in its recontextualization, changing meaning to match the theme of the accompanying track. These disjointed passages of combat and proclamations of violence are especially chilling when paired with quick, clipped horn breaks and the atonal clang of woodblock, channeling malice when left unfiltered and curt against the vocals. No other forms of percussion are organic, always warped or filtered to add a supernatural ghastliness to the slam of a tenement door or the howl of the wind in the trees. The resulting creation is primitive despite its high-minded artifice, making for beats that stutter and stumble like they were pounded out on hollow buckets or thick phone books. The influence still stems from the soul and jazz that proceed it, but everything is filtered through RZA's frame of reference, burying the past beneath a craggy layer of grit.

"Clan in da Front" understands this marriage of disparate concepts, breaking into two distinct, autonomous portions. The first beat is decidedly less accessible, slowing a bass guitar sample down to a bruised stagger, lethargic enough to make each finger pluck audible, releasing its own agonized moan. The faint hum of a swarm of bees hovers above the low-end, personifying the vicious visuals militantly chanted by RZA and reproduced by his soldiers ("Wu-Tang Killa Bees, we on a swarm"). Each member and affiliate is named and accounted for, bellowing in compliance, preparing for battle, both physically and within the trappings of genre. The movements are separated by the magnified "shing" of a sword as if removed from a sheath, morphing into a jolly, drunken piano joint, stuttering awkwardly on the last note of the loop. A swirling "woo" fills the gaps between these jagged notes, adding a hallucinatory aura to the proceedings, deliberately contradicted by the elaborate vocal display of The Genius (also known simply as Gza), who rhymes uncontested for the remainder of the track. Emphasizing every "fuck" with pursed lips and a copious amount of saliva, Gza moves swiftly out of sheer excitement, littering his lines with allusions to pop and politics, just subtle enough to keep the anointed happy and leave the rest of us to our encyclopedias [Ed. - Who the hell remembers Geraldine Ferraro?]. He's a connoisseur of culture and superior linguist, but never is he more proficient than when disrespecting an opponent. His second verse is a devastating display of combative lyricism, lashing out at industry nepotism, dilettante MCs and cultural cows with the utmost meticulousness, much like the slice of a sharpened sword, which he so lovingly references.

Gza's moments of belligerence are Wu-Tang at their most quotable, but thinking of the Clan as talented tough guys is reductive and only half of the picture. Nostalgic passages on "Can It Be All So Simple" and "Tearz" brilliantly display the bittersweet nature of days remembered, reflecting on love, loss and poverty without inhibition. Hearing RZA recount his younger brother's final moments, as the Wonder Bread fell from the boy's clenched fist and warm blood pooled on the pavement, are hauntingly specific and genuinely distressing. Gone is the objective separation between writer/audience and entertainment, leaving behind an authentic portrayal of the permanence and damnable nature of violence. The fact that an emotional catharsis of this gravity is present on an otherwise rowdy piece of work is a testament to the magnitude of talent on display.

6. Ghostface Killah - Supreme Clientele

Entrancing on the surface and rife with meaning just beneath, Dennis Coles crafts flavorful vignettes of meticulous detail, so consumed with the minutiae of gang life and the flavor of a hot meal that he compels his listeners to hear the clap of each gun shot and burn their lips on piping hot Ziti. The veracity of his street tales made him a standout in the sprawling Wu-Tang Clan collective in the 1990s, but his early work seemed restricted by the group setting, begging for the freedom of a three-dimensional solo effort. Though 1996's Ironman gave him room to breathe, it never possessed a singular vision, one that would define Ghostface Killah (Cole's alter ego) as an artist outside of the shadow of the Wu empire. Luckily, patience and hard work provided Ghost with a second opportunity to separate himself from the pack and his seminal sophomore effort, Supreme Clientele, manages to capture his abundance of raw talent, delicately balanced with an ability to self edit and a renewed sense of compassion. It's an enlightened and sophisticated work of art, painstakingly precise in its passion for language and triumphant in its separation from the superficiality of turn-of-the-century avarice.

Ghostface's delivery is a nimble stream of rhyming suffixes, punctuated with a colorful specificity and decorative nuance, built for both narrative and linguistic gamesmanship. It's a foreign and endless stream of food buzzwords and street crime colloquialisms upon discovery, but as a relationship develops, themes begin to unfurl, particularly in the newly-cultivated political bent and sentimentality. Investigating the dense and dazzling "Mighty Healthy" reveals an incisive analysis of racism, particularly in the ability of prejudice to morph a culture into its antithesis. Dispelling rumors that the black community is "immune" to the oppression surrounding them, Ghost takes aim at the malnourished, drug-addled stereotype masquerading as the visage of black America and urges an intellectual awakening.

The shrewd observations and invigorated confidence have even seeped into his moments of whimsy, resulting in "The Grain": a splendid satire of celebrity, replete with ice-adorned Pope John Paul II and passionate Vanna White make-out-session. While a Whopper-eating, horny "Queen Mum" may step far beyond the boundaries of good taste, paralleling Malcolm X and John F. Kennedy's assassinations and correlating sleep to the placement of a hyphen are the kind of epigrammatic writing choices that outweigh lapses in judgment, barring the far-too-frequent dalliances with homophobia. Thankfully, the artist is capable of seeing his own flaws and making amends, willingly leaving in a bit of botched dialogue here ("slaf-hash") or positively comparing himself to Boy George there, reflecting a humility developing alongside the artistic growth.

Overseeing the mixing and a lion's share of the production work, RZA broadens his scope to match Ghost's vision, but wisely maintains the cinematic atmosphere and low-tech grit of his oeuvre. Adorning the smoky rooms and rainy streets of Ghost's Gotham with shimmering horn and spectral music box, the body of sounds delicately walks the line between majestic and ghastly, tingling spines with each infernal echoed note and break. Sampled elements are noticeably brief, even rushed, toiling to keep pace with the furious vocal work, stranded as transitory shudders and gasps of wind instrument and girl-group chorus. "Stroke of Death" takes this penchant for brevity to its apogee, dragging a needle over the surface of a record for every solitary second of the track's length, resulting in a forcibly anti-commercial bit of agitation, almost liberating in its discomfort.

"Child's Play" also rides a single, indecipherable note ragged, but sets an altogether different mood, turning the high-pitched into placid and balancing out the rough edges with a dollop of George Jackson's rich, contemplative keys. A youthful, nostalgic tone is struck even before Ghost utters a syllable, captured in passing snippets of record scratch and half-heard 70's guitar lick. Lyrical passages occupy the space between pleasant reminiscence and lingering melancholy, as Ghostface goes out on a limb to divulge the focus of his youthful sexual desires, sparing none of the adolescent embarrassment that comes with reproductive maturity. Revealed in a matter-of-fact patter, wholly unashamed, Ghost's expounds on his carnal awakening, evoked by a brief glimpse of "Pretty Little Sally's" panties as she swayed back and forth on a swing-set. The image resonated deeply, resulting in virtuous moments of experimentation and aroused daydreaming, temporarily removing Ghost from his humble surroundings, if only in his mind.

Examining one's masturbatory habits is a foolhardy endeavor, but Ghostface's execution and honesty is strikingly moral, especially in the juxtaposition between the inculpability of young love and the accountability, disappointment and jealousy of adult relationships. His experiences are highly subjective and seen through rose-colored glasses, but his yearning is universal and, no matter the topic (politics, religion, culture), Ghost succeeds in taking a dialectic approach, seasoning his words with lived-in realism and sophisticated exposition. It's a refreshingly naked approach to a form far too interested in affectation and generality.

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.

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.