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.

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.

45. Ultramagnetic MCs - Critical Beatdown

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

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

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

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

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