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http://www.complex.com/music/2016/01/the-best-rapper-alive-every-year-since-1979/
The Best Rapper Alive, Every Year Since 1979
The rapper who stole each year, from the start of hip-hop until now.
BY INSANUL AHMED, DAVID DRAKE, NOAH CALLAHAN-BEVER, CHRISTINE WERTHMAN, ERNEST BAKER, ROB KENNER, FRAZIER THARPE, DAMIEN SCOTT
JAN 5, 2016
Rap fans—that is to say, people who are passionate and informed about the culture—tend to get into arguments with other rap fans. Debates are often sparked when one mischievous soul declaims their Favorite Rapper. Your favorite rapper is a personal preference, one that requires the most subjective defenses. If you’re rooting for the rookie of the year or a washed up veteran experiencing a career resurgence or someone no one has heard of as your favorite, then so be it. The choice is yours. (Got too many favorites to pick one? Here's a test: If you logged onto Complex.com and saw that three new singles from your three favorite rappers had just dropped, whomever's song you listened to first is your favorite rapper.)
The favorite rapper discussion is cool and all, but the coveted distinction in hip-hop is still being named the GOAT (Greatest of All Time). The GOAT discussion is reserved for the chosen few; no rookies or new jacks qualify. It’s strictly for the catalog artists, people who have shifted the culture in previously unmovable ways, artists whose music has permeated and resonated over an extended period of time. It’s rap’s imaginary Hall of Fame, existing only within the abstract conversations we have about it. Since it has to consider the entire canon of hip-hop, the discussion ought to be reserved for more refined debate among only the most informed parties.
But there is one debate that every rap fan not only loves to have but ought to have. A debate that considers both the short-term and long-term implications of an artist’s impact. A debate that pits a rapper in their prime against any and all competitors. A debate that gawks at the cultural landscape and plucks out the one who stands alone: the debate about who is the Best Rapper Alive. Being the BRA is sort of like being the MVP—even though rap doesn’t follow a rigid cultural calendar quite like major sports seasons—because it only requires looking at the current crop of active artists and picking a winner. You can confidently declare the Best Rapper Alive in any given year without having to consider previous decades, the same way you can say LeBron is an MVP even though you’ve never seen Jerry West play.
Anyone can become the Best Rapper Alive. Some came out the gate with next-level rhymes that had everyone running back to the lab; for others it was a culmination of their gifts that coalesced for one great year. Much like rap itself, it’s an evolving process. But one thing we know for sure, it’s more about a general feeling among fans rather than any discernible facts. (What facts? It’s all just opinion anyway.) When a rapper steps in front of a microphone, and everyone in hip-hop has no choice but to look their way and give props, well then, they just might be the Best Rapper Alive.
It’s still important to consider that the Best Rapper Alive debate is different from the GOAT conversation. Being the BRA doesn’t mean you’re the biggest or the most successful; it just means you're the Best at one particular moment. Of course in hip-hop, being the best is intrinsically about being BIG. And being at your best doesn’t make you the best, so if your prime coincides with someone else’s, well, hey, there’s always next year.
You can look back on the hip-hop terrain with 20/20 hindsight, tally up the votes, and declare the GOATs, but the Best Rapper Alive from year to year is a feeling in the moment. There have been debates among rap fans living in that moment since the early days of hip-hop, but those discussions have never been properly cataloged—until now! (Yeah, we're excited. Sue us.) Complex is proud to present the Best Rapper Alive, Every Year Since 1979, a comprehensive look back at every year of rap and which MC moved the crowd the most. So the question remains: Who got the props?
Illustrations by Dale Edwin Murray
1979: GRANDMASTER CAZ
CREDENTIALS: The first person to DJ and rap simultaneously, raps were stolen for "Rapper's Delight"
After experiencing one of DJ Kool Herc's early hip-hop parties for the first time, Bronx-born Curtis Fisher got himself two turntables and a mic and adopted the name Casanova Fly. Hailed as the first to rap and DJ simultaneously, he earned the title Grandmaster Caz and became the standout member of the legendary Cold Crush Brothers, rocking countless park jams, recording singles for the Tuff City label, and battling the Fantastic Five in the seminal hip-hop movie Wild Style.
Yet despite all these accomplishments, Caz's biggest claim to fame is being the man whose lyrics were jacked by Big Bank Hank for the Sugarhill Gang's. —Rob Kenner
1980: KURTIS BLOW
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CREDENTIALS: "The Breaks"
In 1980 Kurtis Blow wasn't just the best rapper alive, he was the first rapper to show and prove that a career in rap was even possible. Blessed with a booming, elastic, singsong voice, he became the first MC to sign with a major label in 1979—hot on the heels of the "Rapper's Delight" phenomenon—and dropped the hit single "Christmas Rappin'."
He came right back with a self-titled debut album the following year, powered by "The Breaks," which became the first gold single in rap history. Blow's exuberant flow on the cut still thrills three decades later. He would continue to be a force in hip-hop, touring the world, producing, and acting, but this was the year when it first came together for him.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Spoonie Gee, Kool Moe Dee, Jimmy Spicer
Harlem native Spoonie Gee's fresh rhymes on "Spoonin' Rap" contained the first references to jailhouse life in rap music, including the invaluable advice "Please my brother, don't drop the soap." As the standout member of the Treacherous Three, Kool Moe Dee distinguished himself on cuts like "Love Rap," "New Rap Language," and "Body Rock." Brooklyn rapper Jimmy Spicer's "Adventures of Super Rhyme (Rap)" gave him enough clout to become one of the first artists signed to Russell Simmons' Rush Management. Simmons would co-produce his future hits "The Bubble Bunch" and "Money (Dollar Bill Y'All)." —Rob Kenner
1981: KOOL MOE DEE
CREDENTIALS: Bodied Busy Bee at the Harlem World Christmas Rappers' Convention
Long before he became a solo star on the strength of Teddy Riley-produced joints like "Wild Wild West" and "How Ya Like Me Now," MC Kool Moe Dee was one third of the legendary Treacherous Three, along with Special K and LA Sunshine (not to mention DJ Easy Lee). Born Mohandas Dewese in Manhattan, Moe was a quiet character who channeled his passion into carefully crafted rhymes.
At age 19 he devastated the renowned party rapper Busy Bee Starski at the Harlem World Christmas Rappers' Convention in a performance that is often cited as the first hip-hop battle. The relentless routine opened with "Come on Busy Bee I don't mean to be bold/But put that bom-ditty-bom bullshit on hold." Things only went downhill from there as Moe Dee clowned Busy's formulaic rhymes and served notice that from this moment forward MCs would have to step up their lyrical game.
1981 also saw the Treacherous Three drop hits like "Feel the Heartbeat" and "Put the Boogie in Your Body," marking a creative apogee for the trio. Although the group broke up after appearing in the 1984 movie Beat Street, Kool Moe Dee's career endured until the early '90s, and he never lost his taste for battling. His long-running feud with LL Cool J inspired some memorable lyrical exchanges.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Love Bug Starski, T Ski Valley, Sha-Rock
When he wasn't spinning records at Harlem's Rooftop Roller Rink, Lovebug was laying down raps. His record "Positive Life" with the Harlem World Crew set him head and shoulders above all comp not named Kool Moe Dee. T Ski Valley got his start DJing with the Erotic Brothers Disco and eventually became an MC; his classic 1981 single "Catch the Beat" can still rock any party. Sha-Rock was the not-so-secret weapon of the Funky 4 + 1. Every time she rocked the mic, the feisty Bronx MC outshone her male counterparts. —Rob Kenner
1982: MELLE MEL
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CREDENTIALS: "The Message"
If you see modern-day Melle Mel out in New York City rocking a powder blue tuxedo with long tails and calling himself "Muscle Simmons," you might not suspect that this is the same dude who rhymed the immortal words "Don't push me, 'cause I'm close to the edge." Back in 1982 Mel was a member of the Furious Five along with his brother Kidd Creole (Nathaniel Glover), Scorpio (Eddie Morris), Rahiem (Guy Todd Williams), and Cowboy (Keith Wiggins).
When they weren't ripping park jams and rec centers with DJ Grandmaster Flash, they were dropping hit records like "Super Rappin,'" "The Birthday Party," and "It's Nasty (Genius of Love)" for labels like Enjoy and Sugar Hill Records. But when Melle Mel turned his attention to the realities of life in the Bronx during the Reagan era, he created a groundbreaking hip-hop classic called "The Message."
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Kool Moe Dee, Grandmaster Caz, T Ski Valley
Kool Moe Dee's rhymes on the Treacherous Three's "Yes We Can Can" proved that he was still not the one to fuck with. Grandmaster Caz caught wreck on the Cold Crush Brothers joint "Weekend," and T Ski Valley took it back to his Erotic Brothers Disco days on the NSFW "Sexual Rapping." —Rob Kenner
1983: RUN
CREDENTIALS: "It's Like That" / "Sucker MCs"
It's difficult to overstate the impact of Run-DMC on the trajectory of hip-hop. Put it like this: The release of the 12-inch single "It's Like That" / "Sucker MCs" on Profile Records completely changed the game. The A side picked up where "The Message" left off, talking about real life struggles of real people. But where Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five's story ended in tragedy, with a body used and abused and hanging dead in a cell—the artists themselves being harassed by cops—"It's Like That" was defiant and resilient.
War, crime, poverty, prejudice, ignorance, the bum eating out of a garbage can who once was your man? Run's response was as cold and hard as the streets of Hollis, Queens: "Don't ask me because I don't know why." And what about a solution? "Money is the key to end all your woes your ups your downs your highs and your lows/Won't you tell me last time love bought your clothes?"
These words defined rap's new world order, a cold hard cash philosophy that would prevail through Puffy's "All About the Benjamins" moment and remains unabated in this era of Young Money Cash Money Business. But Run-DMC also tempered this approach with advice to get educated, motivated, and avoid prejudice and bias. These were big ideas for a rap record, but side B of this epic single was arguably more significant.
"Sucker MCs (Krush Groove 1)" was a stylistic broadside against all forms of wackness. "Two years ago a friend of mine asked me to say some MC rhymes," Joseph "Run" Simmons intoned and suddenly the entire old school was swept away. Before long he was enjoying "Champagne, caviar, and bubble bath" even though he'd prefer to "Cold chill at a party in a B-boy stance." Run dispensed with all sucker MCs remorselessly: "So take that and move back catch a heart attack." And while Darryl "DMC" McDaniels and Jason "Jam Master Jay" Mizell were indisputably dope, there was also no disputing the fact that at the end of the day this was Run's house.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Melle Mel, Jimmy Spicer, Rammellzee
Call him old school if you must, but Melle Mel was still handling his business in '83. The Furious Five's "New York New York" was a streetwise classic while "White Lines" remains the group's most modern-sounding record. Spitting cautionary tales of cocaine addiction over the beat from Liquid Liquid's "Cavern," Mel's booming baritone made a powerful case for his continued relevance.
Meanwhile, as Run-DMC proclaimed the cash money gospel, another Rush Management client, BK's own Jimmy Spicer rapped about the power of "Money (Dollar Bill Y'all)" and scored the biggest hit of his career, as well as one of the year's freshest records.
Rammellzee was more of a graf legend than an MC, but in 1983 he and K-Rob created "the holy grail of rap records." Rammellzee had a bone to pick with Jean-Michel Basquiat, who was a much more celebrated artist at the time. "Beat Bop" was originally planned to be cathartic a battle on wax, but in the end Basquiat did not rhyme on the record (although he did pay for the studio time and created the cover art). The far-out limited-edition single became an underground sensation and set the stage for the futuristic avant-garde expressions of hip-hop artists ranging from the Beastie Boys to Dr Octagon and MF Doom. —Rob Kenner
1984: RUN
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CREDENTIALS: Run-DMC
If the "It's Like That" / "Sucker MCs" single was the warning shot, the release of Run-DMC's self-titled debut album emptied the full clip. The nine-track tour de force announced that these three teenagers from Hollis, Queens, were rewriting the rules of the rap game, stripping the music down to its elements: a pair of MCs who worked in perfect synch with one untouchable DJ.
Joseph "Run" Simmons got his start in hip-hop DJing for Kurtis Blow. He got the gig thanks to his older brother Russell, who managed Blow. Known as DJ Run, "Kurtis Blow's Disco Son,” Run began to MC and honed his skills by battling with Blow. He would sometimes record the sessions and send them to his friend Darryl "DMC" McDaniels. Run later emerged as the leader of the group, although what made Run-DMC work was the way they all gelled into a whole that was greater than the sum of its parts.
There were no outlandish get-ups or gimmicky routines, just rock hard beats (courtesy of Russell Simmons and Larry Smith, with electric guitars by Eddie Martinez) and rhymes that spoke clearly and distinctly about real life in a way that the new generation of rap fans had never heard blasting out of their radios before.
With their black Lee jeans and matching jackets, unlaced adidas sneakers, and zero-fucks-given body language, Run-DMC looked as if they had just rolled off Linden Boulevard. No matter how successful they got, they never lost that attitude, taking it with them as they stepped on stages and broke down barriers for hip-hop culture all around the world.
Run put it best in “Rock Box,” which became the first rap video to air on MTV, “My name is Joseph Simmons, but my middle name's Lord/And when I'm rockin' on the mic, you should all applaud.”
HONORABLE MENTIONS: LL Cool J, Kurtis Blow, Roxanne Shante
When James Todd Smith said "I Need a Beat" anybody with ears could tell he meant business. This ground-breaking 12" single on Def Jam Records, produced by NYU student Rick Rubin, announced the arrival of an urgent 16-year-old voice that would soon take over. Kurtis Blow was a veteran by this time, but singles like "8 Million Stories" proved that he was still very much a force to be reckoned with. And 15-year-old Lolita Shante Gooding from the Queensbridge projects caught the whole rap world napping with "Roxanne's Revenge," her freestyled response to UTFO's "Roxanne Roxanne." Her song brought battle rap to the radio, set new standards for female MCs, and set off a whole chapter of hip-hop history known as the "Roxanne Wars." —Rob Kenner
1985: LL COOL J
CREDENTIALS: Radio
Def Jam’s first hip-hop superstar was a charismatic 17-year-old from Queens named James Todd Smith, better known as LL Cool J (shorthand for Ladies Love Cool James.) Ladies might have dug his debut album, Radio—it was an instant success, both critically and commercially, eventually selling well over a million copies—but at this stage his music was aimed mostly at a male audience. “LL Cool J is hard as hell,” he roared on “Rock the Bells,” adding (over Rick Rubin’s obnoxiously abrasive beat) that he’d “battle anybody I don’t care who you tell.” This was no idle boast, as he would engage in a long-running war of words with Kool Moe Dee, among others. Double L's was the most urgent and authentic voice in hip-hop that year. Whatever his rhymes may have lacked in complexity they more than made up for with heaping portions of b-boy bravado.
A careful listen to the album’s title cut reveals that it’s about much more than just bigging up boom boxes. The song’s narrator starts out as a youth who enjoys the simple pleasure of “Walking down the street to a hardcore beat/While my JVC vibrates the concrete.” You’ve got to admire the kid’s spirit as he runs from the subway cops to avoid a summons and purchases fresh batteries when his tape will no longer rewind. We learn that his story is tough, his neighborhood is rough, yet he still sports gold and he’s “out to crush.”
Later on in this semi-autobiographical tune, LL makes the jump from fandom to fame, becoming the artist whose voice booms through the radio. His days of pounding the pavement are over as we see him riding in a Cadillac with the system kickin’ way past 10. “I drive up the Ave with my windows closed, and my bass is so loud it could rip your clothes.” By the next verse of this raps to riches story, he’s cold getting paid “Cause Rick said so.” When LL said “I’m the leader of the show, keeping you on the go” you’d best believe it, because in 1985 no rap fan could live without LL on their radio.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Run, Beastie Boys, Slick Rick
The title of Run-DMC’s sophomore LP, King of Rock, revealed this Queens trio’s grand ambitions. They dared to compare rap, an upstart ghetto music that many dismissed as a novelty or worse, with the exalted pop culture phenom that was rock and roll circa 1985. (At the same time they were reaching out to other subgenres, as on “Roots Rap Reggae,” featuring Jamaican dancehall star Yellowman.)
Meanwhile the Beastie Boys were starting to build momentum on the strength of 12" singles like “Rock Hard” and “She’s on It.” Although the group’s breakthrough release “Hold It Now, Hit It” would not drop until the following year, their infectiously anarchic energy was winning new fans every day, and while the trio’s chemistry made them inseparable, Adam "MCA" Yauch was emerging as the group's standout MC.
Slick Rick was going by the name MC Ricky D when he joined forces with human beatbox Doug E. Fresh on a madcap live recording called “La-Di-Da-Di,” which was released on the flip side of a single called “The Show.” The record went on to become one of the most sampled in rap history, establishing Rick as a phenomenal lyricist who would neither cause trouble nor bother anybody. He and Doug were “just some men that’s on the mic,” but as the song both showed and proved, “when we rock the microphone we rock the mic right.” —Rob Kenner
1986: KRS-ONE
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CREDENTIALS: "South Bronx"
What MC wouldn’t want to be dubbed the “Best Rapper Alive”? But pinning that title on Kris Parker, a.k.a. KRS-One (an acronym for Knowledge Reigns Supreme Over Nearly Everyone), seems like damning him with faint praise. KRS was never just a rapper—right from the start he was a renegade teacher and scholar, a satirist, polemicist, and most of all, the Blastmaster. As such, his lyrics were tools of war, which he kept sharpened to a lethal edge.
KRS was living at a Bronx homeless shelter when he met Scott Sterling, a.k.a. DJ Scott LaRock, who worked there as a counselor. KRS was also an MC and graf writer known for battling other residents at the shelter. Scott was so sufficiently impressed that he would slide the 20-year-old passes that allowed him to go out and catch live rap shows from time to time. Before they collaborated on their monumental 1987 debut album, Criminal Minded, with beats supervised by Ced Gee of Ultramagnetic MCs, KRS and Scott LaRock dropped a 12” single called “South Bronx” (“Fresh for '86, you suckers!”). This song was provocative enough to set off an epic inter-borough musical conflict known as “The Bridge Wars,” and also set KRS above and beyond all lyrical competition in that particular year.
It all started with MC Shan’s song “The Bridge,” which big upped the borough of Queens, specifically the Queensbridge housing projects. Filled with local pride, Shan asserted that the Bridge played a vital role in the birth and evolution of hip-hop—and he had a point, since it was home to Marley Marl and the mighty Juice Crew. Nevertheless, the song provoked KRS, who proudly repped for the Bronx in a hip-hop masterpiece set to a shrill, staccato beat and raps that hit home like blunt force trauma. “Party people in the place to be KRS-One attacks…” he rhymed in the first verse before going in for the kill: “So you think that hip-hop got its start out in Queensbridge?/If you popped that junk up in the Bronx you might not live.”
Vacillating between Blastmaster and teacher mode, KRS worked a lengthy hip-hop history lesson into the second verse, shouting out such luminaries as Kool Herc, Afrika Bambaataa, and Grandmaster Flash—among others—and evoking memories of jams in Cedar Park and Bronx River where the amps were powered by electricity jacked from lamp posts. But before long KRS brought it back to the battle. “As odd as it looked, as wild as it seemed/I didn’t hear a peep from a place called Queens.”
Shan had no choice but to respond to KRS’s devastating attack, releasing a song called “Kill That Noise,” but he was only falling further into BDP’s trap. Soon thereafter Scott and Kris returned fire with a reggae-flavored war chant called “The Bridge Is Over” that was an undisputed lyrical TKO. KRS remains a hip-hop icon to this day, but in 1986 there was simply no denying the fact that he was the best rapper alive.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Run, Too $hort, Schoolly D
The mighty Run-DMC movement continued unabated with the Queens trio’s third and best-selling album, Raising Hell, which contained “Walk This Way,” a historic collaboration with the rock band Aerosmith. At the end of the day Run’s raps still led the way.
After flooding the streets of Oakland with singles on the independent 75 Girls label, Too $hort inked a deal with Jive Records and released Born to Mack, which was eventually certified gold, proving that regional pimp rap could move big numbers nationwide. (Jive elected to leave its logo off the album for years. See industry Rule #4080.)
Meanwhile in Philadelphia Schoolly D revealed a whole new world with a sinister jam called “PSK What Does It Mean?” (dedicated to Philly’s Park Side Killers) released on a 12" backed with “Gucci Time.” Though “gangsta rap” is usually considered a West Coast thing, Schoolly’s pioneering crime narratives developed in parallel with BDP’s, proving that brothers were getting paid by all means necessary all over the country. —Rob Kenner
1987: RAKIM
CREDENTIALS: Paid in Full
On Kendrick Lamar’s “Bitch Don’t Kill My Vibe” remix featuring Jay Z, the Compton native speaks of “trying to be the God MC.” Of course he knows full well that the title will always belong to Rakim Allah, who married unprecedented lyrical and rhythmic sophistication with Five Percent Nation philosophy to become a supernova within the hip-hop cosmos.
By 1986 the 18-year-old former high school quarterback had recorded “Eric B Is President,” an awe-inspiring ode to his DJ that introduced the R’s fully formed style: a relaxed but relentless flow coupled with never-before-seen lyrical precision and metaphysical depth. That single got him signed to Island Records, and in 1987 Eric B. & Rakim released their classic debut, Paid in Full.
More than just a rapper, Rakim proudly proclaimed himself to be a writer. Not only were his lyrics simply too complex to be freestyles, but he broke down his meticulous methodology in his songs like “My Melody”: “I’m not a regular competitor, first rhyme editor/Melody arranger, poet, etcetera….” Elsewhere in the song he goes further: “I wouldn’t a came and said my name and run some weak shit/Puttin’ blurbs and slurs and words that don’t fit/In a rhyme, why waste time on the microphone?/I take this more serious than just a poem/Rockin’ party to party, backyard to yard/I tear it up y’all and bless the mic for the gods.”
“We knew Rakim was the terse ninja Miles to Chuck D’s booming and prolix Coltrane,” wrote Greg Tate. “Or maybe that was the Buddha to Chuck’s revolutionary Jesus.” Rakim kept critics reaching for superlatives as he and Eric B. returned in ’88 with their sophomore album, Follow the Leader, but by that time there was so much dazzling innovation going on in hip-hop that others laid claim to the title of Best Rapper Alive. Or maybe it just felt that way because Rakim’s otherworldly artistry had taken him to the furthest reaches of the cosmos, where light and sound take longer to reach planet earth and mere mortals can only do their best to play catch up as they follow the leader.
Rakim’s influence remains enormous. Not only was he A$AP Rocky’s namesake, it’s impossible to imagine Nas making Illmatic without inspiration from the God MC. Perhaps he put it best on “My Melody” when he said, “I’m No. 1, competition is none/I’m measured with the heat that’s made by sun.”
HONORABLE MENTIONS: KRS-One, LL Cool J, Kool Moe Dee
Just in case the title of Boogie Down Production’s debut album, Criminal Minded, didn’t get the point across, KRS-One and Scott LaRock posed on the front cover with enough artillery to stage a coup d’etat. The album brought a new militancy to hip-hop, as well as crack-era verite lyrics on brain-scalding songs like “9MM Goes Bang” and “P Is Free.” Soon after BDP’s debut album, Scott LaRock would be murdered in the Bronx while trying to mediate a street dispute, leaving KRS to soldier on and rebuild the crew.
On his sophomore album for Def Jam LL Cool J came back Bigger and Deffer. And while his B-boy snarl was impressive on “I’m Bad” and his DJ got busy on “Go Cut Creator Go,” it was the groundbreaking hip-hop ballad “I Need Love” that positioned him for a new phase in his career and reaffirmed why Ladies Love Cool J.
That same year old-school veteran Kool Moe Dee proved he had staying power when he linked with producer Teddy Riley for the biggest-selling album of his career, How Ya Like Me Now, which saw the veteran MC revitalized by Riley’s New Jack Swing drum patterns. On the strength of this success, he would become the first rapper to perform on TV during the Grammy Awards. —Rob Kenner
1988: SLICK RICK
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CREDENTIALS: The Great Adventures of Slick Rick
Goddamn, 1988 was a good year for hip-hop. Too good, really. Or at least too good to distil for a list like this. So many great voices emerged, saying so many compelling, literally world-changing, genre-shifting things. But only one of them said it the slickest. And his name was Rick. Slick Rick. Or MC Ricky Dee, the Ruler if you're not into the whole brevity thing.
In 1988, the English expat—who'd achieved notoriety three years prior as a member of Doug E Fresh's Get Fresh Crew, performing raps on the classic 12" "The Show" b/w "La Di Da Di"—released his platinum debut, The Great Adventures of Slick Rick, and vaulted himself to rap's pole position (no Magic City). Though Rick had been an obviously able lyricist on his earlier work, and stood out thanks to his English accent, the mix of intricate and often hilarious narratives with stone-cold shit talking that he unleashed on the LP was absolutely unprecedented.
His stories were rich, oscillating between cartoons with morals, like "Children's Story," and ridiculous slices of life, like "The Moment I Feared." And his swag? He had so much swag it would make you want to kill yourself. Or at least "Lick the Balls," as he invites all crab rappers to do on the song of the same name. Perhaps most groundbreaking, though, was his introduction to hip-hop of the alter ego on the NYC nightclub classic "Mona Lisa," in which he suggests that Slick Rick and MC Ricky Dee are separate people. This archetype would be explored at length by acolytes like Redman, Biggie Smalls, Eminem, and even T.I.
And so, despite the almost slapstick silliness of the LP, which, on the heels of Public Enemy dropping their pivotal It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back (interestingly also produced by the Bomb Squad) gave it a remarkably dated feel, there is simply no denying that when TGAOSR dropped on May 2, 1988, no one on earth could outrap Slick Rick.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Chuck D, Ice Cube, Big Daddy Kane
1988 was Public Enemy's year. There is no way around it. It Takes a Nation of Millions exploded louder than a bomb and changed the direction of rap for at least three full years after its release. But it wasn't all about Chuck D. It was about the idea. It was about the group. It was about the message. It was about the noise. And yes, Chuck brought all of the above. Chuck has one of the greatest voices in rap history. But still, despite all of the accolades you can give him during that period, he just wasn't the top lyricist.
Ice Cube also punched listeners in the face that year on N.W.A's Straight Outta Compton. He barreled over the tracks with force and passion, and proved that people outside of New York could compete. That said, what his rhymes had in chutzpah they lacked in polish or depth.
And then there was Big Daddy Kane. Emerging from Marley Marl's Juice Crew, the Brooklyn MC had a smooth confidence as he nonchalantly spit the most intricate bars he could write. His first album only teased his greatness, but his ascent was obvious. And impending. —Noah Callahan-Bever
1989: BIG DADDY KANE
CREDENTIALS: It's a Big Daddy Thing
Before Jay Z and Biggie Smalls, Brooklyn’s Finest was Big Daddy Kane. In fact, the Bedford-Stuyvesant native, born Antonio Hardy, was more than just an influence on both of these future Best Rapper Alive title holders. Kane’s DJ, Mr. Cee, recorded Biggie’s first demo, which got him written up in the “Unsigned Hype” column of The Source, which in turn brought him to the attention of Puff Daddy. And during the early 1990s, Jay Z and Positive K toured with Kane, performing during his costume changes.
Unfortunately, while Biggie and Jay Z remain household names to most rap fans, BDK’s prodigious lyrical skills have been somewhat obscured by the mists of time. A master of syncopated speed rap, Kane got his start in ’84, writing rhymes for his friend Biz Markie and later joining Marley Marl’s Juice Crew, releasing his debut single, “Raw,” on Cold Chillin’ Records in 1987. His 1988 album, Long Live the Kane, included the smash single “Ain’t No Half Steppin’,” and that same year he killed his verse on Marley’s legendary posse cut “The Symphony.” But it was Kane’s follow-up album, It’s a Big Daddy Thing, that cemented his status as a bonafide hip-hop icon. On cuts like “Smooth Operator,” the tall, dapper, dark-skinned MC, sometimes known as Count Macula, made the ladies melt like Hershey’s kisses in a microwave.
The album’s standout cut was the faster-paced "Warm It Up Kane" on which King Asiatic Nobody’s Equal lets loose a fusillade of rapid-fire repartee that left no question who was the best rapper alive at that moment: “Come get some you little bum/I take the cake and you can’t get a crumb/From the poetic, authentic, superior/Ultimate and all that good shit.” Yes, Kane could rap circles around anybody, making rival MCs “tumble and stumble, in a rumble just crumble.” Best of all he could do all this and then add “I’m still calm and humble”—or at least relatively humble, all things considered.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Chuck D, the D.O.C., Kool G Rap
A year after the phenomenal impact of It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back Public Enemy kept the pressure on with “Fight the Power.” The incendiary soundtrack cut proved that Chuck D had lost none of his power to get pulses pounding and transform rap music into a political force.
Texas native the D.O.C. was blessed with one of the greatest voices in hip-hop, which he first deployed with the Fila Fresh Crew, and later with N.W.A. His debut album on Ruthless Records, Nobody Does It Better, marked a high point in a career that was tragically derailed when an automobile accident damaged his voice, although his pen game remained strong and he wrote rhymes for Death Row during The Chronic era.
Another contender for the title that year was the Juice Crew’s hardest hard-rock, Kool G Rap, whose album with DJ Polo, Road to the Riches, was one of the less celebrated gems of that amazing year. No matter what Jay Z says, there was nothing quite like hearing G Rap in his prime. —Rob Kenner
1990: ICE CUBE
POST CONTINUES BELOW
CREDENTIALS: AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted
Soon after his acrimonious split with N.W.A, O'Shea Jackson, better known as Ice Cube, knew he had to make a solo album. At first he reached out to Dr. Dre, who reportedly wanted to work with him, but Eazy-E and Ruthless Records boss Jerry Heller nixed that idea. So Cube linked with the Bomb Squad—the production team behind Public Enemy—who delivered the high-energy funk while Cube dug deep into his lyric books and created a classic.
The rhymes on AmeriKKKa's Most Wanted went beyond gangster life and dug into the underbelly of American apartheid. This was the record that predicted the L.A. riots two years before they happened. There is also a lot of talk about "selling out" and a tension between mainstream pop culture and hip-hop that now feels anachronistic but was obviously a very real concern at the time. (Though the star of family-friendly flicks like Are We There Yet? appears to have made peace with those issues now.) The album received almost no radio play and still went platinum because Cube was talking that shit the streets needed to hear.
Hip-hop was going through labor pains. A rebirth was at hand, another quantum leap that would rewrite all the rules yet again. The '90s would see G-funk becoming pop music, Bad Boys wearing shiny suits, and rock dealers rising to become America's new Rockefellers. But on May 16, 1990, rap was still underground rebel music. And at this moment in time "The Nigga Ya Love to Hate" was the most important rapper on the planet.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: LL Cool J, Chuck D, Grand Puba
After the first misstep of his young career—an ill-advised album called Walking With a Panther—LL Cool J linked with Marley Marl and started rhyming like he had a chip on his shoulder. "Don't call it a comeback!" he roared on "Mama Said Knock You Out," and on "The Booming System" Cool J erased all doubts that he was still hard as hell.
Meanwhile Fear of a Black Planet saw Chuck D urging his audience to "Fight the Power" and even encouraging them with songs like "Brothers Gonna Work It Out." It was PE's last masterpiece, a glory to behold.
At the same time Brand Nubian brought Five Percent Nation mathematics back to the forefront of hip-hop, and none did it more effectively than the effervescently slick-tongued Grand Puba, who had also been the standout of his last group, Masters of Ceremony. After the triumphant album All for One, he parted company with Lord Jamar and Sadat X, but when they were together they were louder than a bomb. —Rob Kenner
1991: Q-TIP
CREDENTIALS: The Low End Theory, "Groove Is in the Heart," "Don't Curse," "A Roller Skating Jam Named 'Saturdays,'" "Come on Down"
It had been clear from his first verses on the Jungle Brothers debut in 1988 that Q-Tip had a remarkable, unique voice, and important things to say. But two years later, on A Tribe Called Quest's admittedly awesome debut, People's Instinctive Travels and the Paths of Rhythm, the outfit's offbeat attire and quirky ("I Left My Wallet in El Segundo") to occasionally goofy ("Ham and Eggs") subject matter obscured the acknowledgement of Tip's lyrical prowess.
That all changed in 1991, though. Stripped of the costumes, ATCQ's sober (in sound, if not in creation) sophomore effort, The Low End Theory, thrust Q-Tip to the epicenter of hip-hop. He slowed down the BPMs and introduced the jazz, funk, and soul loops that would define East Coast hip-hop until the Puffy era. He complemented these more delicate grooves with clean, loud, and exquisitely differentiated engineering courtesy of Bob Power that turned even Dr. Dre's head, who admitted years later that he competitively studied the sonics of TLET while crafting The Chronic. A-B test TLET against De La Soul Is Dead, or any other contemporary release, at the same volume to hear the difference.
But far and away, the most impressive part of The Low End Theory was Q-Tip's rapping. Where he had swung in the pocket, moving with the music on the first album, Tip now made strong declarative statements ("Back in the days when I was a teenager / Before I had status and before I had a pager...") to create competing, complementary rhythms. And he did it while conjuring thoughtful word pictures ("You could find the Abstract listening to hip-hop / My pops used to say, it reminded him of be-bop / I said, 'well daddy don't you know that things go in cycles / The way that Bobby Brown is just ampin like Michael'"), using subtle, poetic strokes, that articulated his life and point of view as a 21-year-old emerging star.
The ground he broke lyrically—with timeless phrases like "Industry Rule #4080"—and rhythmically—with the introduction of the mislabeled "the Big Sean 'Supa Dupa' flow ("Minds get flooded, ejaculation")—has inspired everyone from Nas to Kanye West to Drake. Neither a tough guy nor a sucker, Q-Tip's confident delivery, genuine sentiment, and undeniable musicianship could not be denied by intellectuals or gangstas, leading to countless guest appearances and beat placements. And this appeal was not lost on him, either, as he broke it down quite simply on "Verses From The Abstract:" "Women dig the voice, brothers dig the lyrics / Quest the people's choice, we driving for the spirit." Universal adulation in hip-hop is practically an oxymoron, but in 1991 Q-Tip enjoyed an embrace that almost no other rapper has, before or since.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Scarface, Treach, Dres
The Geto Boys had been Southern flag bearers for years, but in 1991 Scarface thrust himself to the front of the conversation, releasing both the GB's classic We Can't Be Stopped and his solo debut, Mr. Scarface. Songs like WCBS's defining masterpiece "Mind Playing Tricks on Me" and Mr. Scarface's title track made it abundantly clear that 'Face had more than just tough talk and gangsta tales to offer: He had concepts and stories. But yeah, he'd punch you in the fucking mouth, too.
Meanwhile, in New Jersey, Treach set trends with Naughty by Nature's debut. The braided MC flipped syllables at rapid-fire pace and put pop polish on the jibberish Jaz-O and Jay Z had been spitting. A style icon, Treach also set aesthetic trends, and weaned hip-hop off of Kane's snappy suits to more utilitarian work wear and jerseys.
And though his acclaim would be short-lived, Astoria, Queens, rapper Dres demonstrated able lyricism and a hilarious sense of humor on Black Sheep's October '91 debut, A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing. Coming from an everyman perspective, not unlike his fellow Native Tongue-er Q-Tip, Dres made up for his lack of hardcore credentials with nimble rapping and gut-busting jokes about his (apparently) legendary swordsman status. —Noah Callahan-Bever
1992: REDMAN
POST CONTINUES BELOW
CREDENTIALS: Whut? Thee Album, "Headbanger"
Ready to rock rough rhymes, renegade rapper Redman ripped when it was rhyme time. And it was with addictive alliteration like that, on EPMD's foreboding 1990 classic "Hardcore," that the always frowny-faced Newark MC spectacularly announced his arrival on the scene. However, even before his first recorded appearance, reigning kings like Biz Markie took the young MC around to parties to show off his gift of gab, immortalized in this Queens nightclub recording.
Two years later, the then 22-year-old Reggie Noble released his debut LP, Whut? Thee Album, and made it clear there was much more to Redman than repetitive wordplay, punchlines, and skull hats. The album, with its loose narrative structure, aggressive funk tracks, vicious battle raps, and hilarious stories, gave listeners a uniquely rugged ride through the Bricks.
As a lyricist Red built on the lineage of Slick Rick's narrative styles and the split personality concept introduced on "Mona Lisa," combined with the multi-syllabic word flipping of Kool G Rap. But he also added a monstrous grit, courtesy of dirty Jerz, that was entirely new. He was precise, and even delicate at times, as he bluntedly, and bluntly, stomped a mudhole in that ass. In many ways Red was a pivotal MC, bridging the gap between the rhyming innovation of '87 and '88, and rap's emerging hardcore, gangsta aesthetic. He demonstrated that elite lyricists could be complicated and complex, and ruff, rugged, and raw, too.
Echoes of his style can be clearly heard in the work of everyone from Wu-Tang a year later, to Eminem at the turn of the century, to Danny Brown today. Red remains a remarkable talent, but in the year of the Phillie blunt, hip-hop turned on his dime. And everyone pressed rewind, but not because he hadn't blown their mind.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Treach, Snoop Doggy Dogg, Q-Tip
A fair argument could be made for Treach as the dominant MC of 1992. Naughty by Nature was at the top of the charts, and everything from the East Orange MC's iggity-biggity, Big Daddy Kane-inspired tongue flipping to his bike lock accessories and hockey jerseys were being bitten East to West. But the aforementioned fads faded fast and with it Treach's claim.
Meanwhile, off the April release of "Deep Cover" and the December release of The Chronic, Long Beach newcomer Snoop Doggy Dogg was making it clear that the West had something to say. And that they were going to say it with cooler-than-a-cucumber style. But Snoop was not quite ready to assume the mantle. He barely made eye contact during interviews, despite rap fans' unquenchable thirst for his flow.
Q-Tip had come into his own in the final months of 1991, with the release of The Low End Theory. Thanks to his excellent rapping and in-demand production he had vaulted himself quietly into the center of hip-hop, appearing in '92 on posse cuts and producing for everyone from Apache to the Fu-Shnickens. With A Tribe Called Quest he also dropped the much sweated "Scenario" remix and "Hot Sex" on the Boomerang soundtrack. —Noah Callahan-Bever
1993: SNOOP DOGGY DOGG
CREDENTIALS: The Chronic, Doggystyle
Kool Moe Dee revolutionized the art of MCing from skibbity-bee-bop party rhymes to the battle raps upon which Run's House was built. And there, in the future reverend's place of worship, a generation of rappers prayed at the altar of wordplay. That is until Snoop Doggy Dogg came through and crushed the building.
Quite out of the blue, at a time when East Coast rappers were committing alphabetic slaughter via infinite iggity-biggities and manic multi-syllable matching, an unassuming 21-year-old Long Beach native turned the paradigm on its head, putting rhythm and melody over content and complexity. Snoop cruised over beats with soft intonation and self-assured ease.
His simple, almost old school-esque rhymes were instantly memorable ("One, two, three and to the four, Snoop Doggy Dogg and Dr. Dre is at the door..."), and his ability to fluidly navigate negative space provided a much appreciated relief from the frenzied spitting that was in vogue on the East Coast. Fans could not get enough of it.
Riding his numerous appearances on Dr. Dre's The Chronic—which had been released in December 1992—through damn near three quarters of the following year, as single after single topped the charts, the appetite for Snoop's flow was unending. The thirst was real. The release of his much anticipated debut, Doggystyle, broke new artist first week sales records—to the tune of 800K—that would not be matched for a decade (until a future Dr. Dre protege, 50 Cent, would outdo him).
Musically even more polished, and more pop than The Chronic, Doggystyle was a cultural watershed. But Snoop's lyrics remained uncompromising, and the album propelled gangsta rap further into the mainstream consciousness than it ever had been. Songs like "Gin & Juice" and "What's My Name" juxtaposed supple melodies with meandering G talk, while records like "Pump Pump" and "For My Niggaz & Bitches" barreled through listeners' ears, with Snoop, even uptempo, still in nonchalant repose. The total package was easy listening, until you wrapped your mind around what exactly the gang-banging Crip was saying.
That blueprint would influence both carbon copy artists like Da Brat and Domino and even subtly affect the music of the Notorious B.I.G. and Jay Z (the future East Coast titans, who had rapped like Mr. Funkee of LOTUG and the Fu-Schnickens, respectively, noticeably decompressed their flows, letting words and lines breathe, in the wake of Doggystyle), among other East Coast artists. But in 1993, as his album cover crudely (but awesomely) illustrated, no one could catch the Dogg.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Method Man, Treach, Q-Tip
Riding the lesson of Snoop's ascent that how you say things can trump what you're saying, Method Man, Wu-Tang's first breakout star, employed melody to an equally addictive result. While every member of the Clan impressed on "Protect Ya Neck," it was Meth's hummable flows on the track's b-side, "Method Man," that propelled the ensemble onto the radio and off the shelves. However, like Snoop on The Chronic, Meth had to share the spotlight on 36 Chambers, piquing interest but holding him back from the throne.
In the first half of 1993, Treach and Naughty would position themselves as the uniters of hip-hop with the gimmicky anthem "Hip Hop Hooray" (which admittedly had awesomely all-star cameos in the video), but in the Death Row era Treach's vision of gangsta became quickly dated.
Q-Tip continued to be a major musical force in '93, remaining relevant even as tastes changed with ATCQ's perfect movement, Midnight Marauders. That said, as the scene put increasing value on tough talk and gangster posturing, Tip's brand of everyman rap slid slowly to the fringe. —Noah Callahan-Bever
1994: NAS
POST CONTINUES BELOW
CREDENTIALS: Illmatic
Nas, Nas, Nas was not the king of disco, despite what the "It Ain't Hard to Tell" remix would have you believe. But he was a king, the king of rap. In 1994, at the age of 19, Nasty Nasir Jones would ascend the throne with the April release of Illmatic, his debut LP. A raw talent, one of the first to make a name on guest appearances, Nas' shocking, borderline horrorcore (before horrorcore existed) raps of the early '90s created an enormous buzz for the Queensbridge MC.
But those wicked raps only scratched the surface of what was to come. Dense yet melodic, wrought yet nonchalant, the rhymes on Illmatic represented the confluence of the last seven years of rap innovation. He was a child of '88. From Rakim's aloof thoughtfulness to Kane's multi-syllabic juggling to Kool G Rap's corner-drug-dealing realism to the educated militancy of Chuck D, even the gripping narrative skills of Slick Rick—Nas had it all. And he had it all quietly. Nothing about Illmatic was labored.
Brief but effective, the LP showcased this range efficiently, with nary a heavy-handed or telegraphed moment. Songs like "N.Y. State of Mind" and "Life's a Bitch" demonstrated his ability to string the almost rambling moments of his internal monologue into ornate tapestries of reflection. On other tracks, like "Memory Lane" and "One Love," he explored more linear storytelling but with a degree of nuance and subtext that had not been achieved in hip-hop previously. And he married both on songs like "One Time 4 Your Mind" and "Represent," slipping effortlessly from first-person narrative to meandering thoughts.
Having said all of that, though, one cannot discount the importance of The Source on Nas' ascendancy. A handful of other albums had earned the distinction of 5 Mics previously, but at a time when the magazine was still growing. Illmatic's anointment as a "classic" came as the mag reached maturity as an editorial product and ubiquity as a publication.
As a result, like when Lil Wayne declared himself better than Jay Z, that perfect rating (especially in the face of, say, The Chronic receiving only 4.5 Mics) sparked a national debate around Nas' excellence. But as time passed, and the album's layers were pulled apart, absorbed, and appreciated, the young king's legitimacy was cemented. Accolades aside, in 1994, if you wielded a mic, Nas was indeed the musician, inflicting composition.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: The Notorious B.I.G., Scarface, Redman
It would be a lie to say that by the end of 1994, Biggie's meteoric success didn't take a lot of the wind out of Nas' sails. And sales. But Big's burn was a slow one that didn't reach a fever pitch until Q4. He rode into '94 on a string of guest spots with the likes of Mary J. Blige and Supercat, but things changed during that summer.
With Nas conspicuously quiet on the radio, Big filled the void with jam after jam ("Flava in Ya Ear" remix followed by "Unbelievable" followed by "Juicy" followed by "Da B Side" with Da Brat). Still, when Ready to Die dropped, despite its unimpeachable quality and ability to connect far beyond Illmatic's Tri-state acclaim, it did not catapult Big, lyrically, to the front of the pack. But it did position him to jockey for the top spot the following year.
1994 was a huge year for Scarface because The Diary proved not only his staying power, but also his ability to transition from the uptempo East Coast-ish production of the early '90s to the slow, whiny G-Funk era. And that he could do it gracefully, telling the same kinds of dark stories (see: "Hand on the Dead Body," "Jesse James") as in the Geto Boys' glory days.
Also slowing things down, and daring to tread on the dark side, was Redman, who stomped ruggedly through 1994 making it abundantly clear that his blunted funk still made sense in a post-Chronic, post-36 Chambers world. —Noah Callahan-Bever
1995: THE NOTORIOUS B.I.G.
CREDENTIALS: 1994's Ready to Die, DJ Clue? Presents Bad Boy Vol. 1, Junior Mafia's Conspiracy, “One More Chance (Remix)" and "Who Shot Ya?," and Total's "Can't You See"
When KRS-One dropped his ’95 fan favorite, “Rappers R N Dainja,” neither he, nor the rappers mentioned, nor the even fans knew exactly how right he was. Rappers were in danger. But not from Kris’ bars—the times, they were a changin’. And they were changing because of the Notorious B.I.G. (and Puff Daddy). Big had received universal adulation for his debut, which dropped in the fall of ’94, and as the year began he rode in high off the stream of hits that the LP would yield. But, for all its refinement, Ready to Die was still was very much a product of hip-hop’s silver age. It was in the following year, 1995, that Biggie remixed and refined his sound. He took the humor and lyrical precision of East Coast rapping, but, no doubt inspired by Snoop and Dre on the West, he let his raps breathe. As a result his lyrical threats hung in the air longer, his jokes hit harder, and generally his turns of phrase became even that much more memorable (and recitable). Add to that the thematic element of aspiration, and Big had drafted the blueprint for hip-hop’s burgeoning Platinum Era.
The one-two knockout of the silky smooth Debarge sampled “One More Chance” / “Stay With Me (Remix)” backed with the menacing b-side, “Who Shot Ya?” a record that separated the boys from men (and the weak from the obsolete), raised the bar. On the latter, which was a redux of both rhymes and beat from a freestyle with Keith Murray on DJ Clue’s Bad Boy Vol. 1 mixtape (Keith’s portion would actually appear excerpted as an interlude on Mary J. Blige’s My World), Big coldly dissected his opponents, “Fuck all that bickering beef, I can hear sweat trickling down your cheek/Your heartbeat sound like Sasquatch feet—thundering, shaking the concrete.”
Elevating the record’s vicious raps, 2Pac would claim Big’s detached subliminals were aimed at him, and evidence of Biggie's collusion in ’Pac’s shooting at Quad Studios. One cannot understate the importance of this feud in both rappers' success (and ultimate undoing). But Big’s true subliminal shot that year was not at ’Pac but at Death Row’s dominance, and it was packaged as a nod.
On the same Clue tape, Biggie used a patchwork of classic Dr. Dre beats to tell one his most incredible, winding narratives on “Real Niggaz Do Real Thingz.” As Napoleon had taken the crown from the hands of Pope Pius VII, coronating himself, with that one freestyle Big demonstrated the ability to best his competitors lyrically and stylistically on their own tracks, and in doing so subtly announced his ascension. The Source concurred, crowning him “King of New York” in their July issue. He shored his position over the summer with standout verses on R&B hits by Total and 112 as well as a starring role on Junior Mafia’s two classic singles, “Player’s Anthem” and “Get Money.”
But nothing hammered home Biggie’s place at the top of rap like his live performance video of “Me And My Bitch” from The Show soundtrack, replete in a pin-striped suit and bowler. By the end of 1995 the distance between him and every other rapper was dramatic and evident, as contenders like 2Pac and Nas reinvented themselves as ridahs and dons in reaction. But there is only one Frank White, and in 1995, the world was his, unchallenged.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: Raekwon, Prodigy, 2Pac
Although, during 1995, Big certainly embodied hip-hop’s future, the supremacy of Raekwon and Prodigy’s rapping during that year cannot be overlooked. East Coast thuggery had been refined, polished, and perfected, and Only Built 4 Cuban Linx... and Mobb Deep’s The Infamous represented the genre’s creative climax. No reaches for radio play, the two albums were unflinching, dark, and cinematic.
And the LPs’ two lead rappers, both of whom had been considered marginal MCs since their respective debuts in 1993, emerged that year as top tier talent with truly unique voices. Members of Kool G Rap’s lyrical bloodline, both took his gritty style and subject matter, abstracting it, moving off the beat, and even occasionally out of rhyme, to tell their stories in obtuse, noir fragments. Unfortunately their figurative flows may have also limited their audience.
Meanwhile, 2Pac released what many consider his best album, Me Against the World, featuring production from Easy Moe Bee. But 'Pac would spend most of the year in jail on a rape charge, so despite his obvious artistic growth, he was largely sidelined from any conversation about being the best. That said, his October '95 signing to Death Row would put things in motion for him to come guns blazing the following year. —Noah Callahan-Bever
1996: 2PAC
POST CONTINUES BELOW
CREDENTIALS: All Eyez on Me, The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory, drops epic diss track "Hit 'Em Up"
2Pac’s tireless work ethic and prolific output made him a legend, and 1996 saw both of those habits at their highest efficiency. For most of the previous year, he was incarcerated, after being found guilty on three counts of molestation. 2Pac was released from Clinton Correctional Facility in October 1995, Suge Knight successfully recruited him to Knight’s infamous, powerful record label, Death Row, and the rapper launched into the next year with unprecedented resilience.
2Pac’s historical tear through 1996 began with the release of All Eyez on Me in February. By then, he had become a mainstream fixture—an icon larger than rap—and it was evident in the album’s reception. It debuted at No. 1 on the pop charts and moved 566,000 units in its opening week, achieving 5X platinum certification by April. But 2Pac’s appeal that year goes much deeper than sales statistics.
Commercial and creative peaks don’t always correspond, but they did for 2Pac. When his Top 40 presence reached its pinnacle, so did his rapping. Consider the urgent tenacity that embellishes All Eyez on Me’s opening lines: “So many battlefield scars while driven in plush cars/This life as a rap star is nothing without heart.” For the first time, 2Pac brought all of the lyrical dexterity of his East Coast peers, without sacrificing the emotional delivery for which he’d become known. He was a master of what he said and how he said it.
The masses recognized this, and that summer, the singles “How Do U Want It” and “California Love” reached No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100. They were the first rap songs not bathed in pop-slanting crossover tactics to hold claim to such a feat, and proved that, for this very specific moment in time, Tupac Shakur was absolutely unstoppable, in every field. You could finally say that 2Pac’s potential was fully realized. His voice resonated with the public as much as it did with those on the block, a fact of which he was fully aware: “My lyrics motivate the planet/It’s similar to Rhythm Nation, but thugged out, forgive me Janet.”
This run appeared as if it might end when 2Pac was shot on Sept. 7, 1996, but he continued to rule the year, even from the grave. Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory, released two months after his death, was more successful upon its release than any of 2Pac’s preceding albums, selling 664,000 in its first week. He wasn’t floating on meticulous instrumentals with Redman and Method Man on this album, either.
2Pac’s work as Makaveli was more about bombast and calculated rhetoric. That approach gave way to some of the sharpest rhymes of his career. “Bomb First (My Second Reply)” and “Hail Mary” played like battle cries. Rhymes like, “I take this war shit deeply/Done seen to many real playas fall to let you bitch niggas beat me,” channeled his anger into commodity, with an artful consistency.
1996 is a case study for every aspect of why 2Pac is so celebrated. He was a viable, competent artist in multiple arenas, and he had the discipline to incorporate his varied and conflicted missions into a single mantra. That savvy paid off in this year more than any other. It’s a shame that 2Pac’s ride had to end early, and on someone else’s terms, but the dedication to his craft that was on such full display in 1996 is why he’ll live forever.
HONORABLE MENTIONS: The Notorious B.I.G., Nas, Jay Z
After what was, at that point, the best year of his career, Biggie remained a formidable competitor in 1996. He didn’t have much to offer in the way of new solo material, but his flawless streak of guest appearances was awe-inspiring. His verses on works like 112’s “Only You” remix and Lil’ Kim’s Hard Core kept him in the conversation.
New to that conversation was then-rookie Jay Z, whom Biggie had also given a feature for his fellow Brooklyn MC’s classic debut, Reasonable Doubt. It took some time for appreciation of the album to set in, but looking back, it’s clearly a remarkable project. The same can be said for Jay Z’s eventual foe, Nas, who released his sophomore album, It Was Written, the same year.
While the album was more commercially successful than Illmatic, it was met with a tepid response from hip-hop fans looking for a rehash of Nasir’s debut. But it was only a total disappointment to the hypercritical. Jay Z rapped, “Who’s the best MC—Biggie, Jay Z, or Nas?” the following year for a reason. —Ernest Baker
1997: THE NOTORIOUS B.I.G.
CREDENTIALS: Life After Death, back to back No. 1 hits with "Hypnotize" and "Mo Money Mo Problems," guest spots on "Been Around the World," "It's All About the Benjamins," and "Victory"
Christopher Wallace was only alive for 67 days in 1997, but with a talent so immense, that’s all it took for him to be the most dominant rapper of the year. In the months after Biggie’s March 9 death, it’s almost as if his stock rose. The untimely loss of someone so young, with so much heft in the language of hip-hop, was like a call to reflection. Infatuation with his wit, wordplay, and delivery soared, and 1997, in spite of tragedy, was Biggie’s biggest year.
Life After Death was released just over two weeks after Biggie passed and peaked at No. 1 on the Billboard 200. The album was an ambitious two-disc set with a tracklist comprised of every type of song imaginable. While the diverse styles and subject matter—his daughter’s college plan, kinky sex, hotel heists, a fully-sung ballad—were an organic product of Biggie’s incomparable range, the strategy of Life After Death’s sequencing has become the de facto approach for rap albums in the years since. It’s an incredibly influential project, before you even press play.
When Life After Death does start spinning, the true brilliance of Biggie’s persona and way with words comes into frame. The man was an expert at rapping, and he could wow from any angle. “Somebody’s Gotta Die” was a storytelling track with the complexities of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. “Notorious Thugs” had Biggie rhyming in a then-shocking double-time flow and besting Bone Thugs-n-Harmony at their own game. “Ten Crack Commandments” saw him detailing the rules of drug dealing in a manner so languid that you forget it’s a song and not a conversation. Mentioning three tracks doesn’t feel sufficient; literally every single record on Life After Death brings a different skill set of Biggie’s to the forefront.
It’s that aptitude and reach that keeps the Notorious B.I.G. in Greatest of All Time conversations, even with his limited amount of material. He dropped intricately arranged rhymes like, “Got the new Hummer in the summer when/I was a new comer then/Drugs and Mac-10s/Hugs from fake friends/Make ends, they hate you/Be broke, girls won't date you,” with an alarming composure. All of Biggie’s lyrics were presented in an unorthodox pattern that nonchalantly challenged the conventions of rap delivery with every line.
Though Biggie’s songwriting and performance on those songs was at its most admirable in 1997, his untimely death sparked a wave of massive posthumous wins for the rest of the year, with singles “Hypnotize” and “Mo Money Mo Problems ________________________________________
"Take the surprise out your voice Shaq."-The REAL CP3
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2H5K-BUMS0
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