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.