"Everybody in this fuckin' game got the game fucked up. Work, man, work. I feel you, Nas, the new rappers today, they act like R&B singers. Man, what is you done?! Go into the studio with clips-- ammo: positive subjects, bitches, niggas, fake niggas, club song, ho's that shake their... Who am I shootin' at? I got bullets for days." -- Lil Wayne rant on YouTube
It's no secret: Nowadays, most mainstream rappers aren’t rappers. The majority just throw a few bars together around Christmastime before getting back to their real hustle, whether it be acting, designing clothes, or thinking about how to make Rick Ross the next Biggie Smalls while sitting behind a desk in a sharp suit. So when Lil Wayne calls himself the "best rapper alive," the claim isn't that controversial-- it increasingly seems like he's one of the only rappers alive. And he's pissed (see above).
With Hip-Hop Is Dead, Nas tried to resuscitate the culture with a hit-and-miss jumble of grumpy nostalgia and over-the-hill soul-searching; it was a far cry from indie-rap's nagging grandmother pose, but the album didn't hold much hope or promise for the future. With its free-associative, intangible, postmodern pull, Da Drought 3, by contrast, sounds a lot like the future. Released on the internet for free, the 29-track, 100-plus minute, DJ-less behemoth finds Lil Wayne sidestepping the music industry-- and the mixtape industry-- while delivering similes, jokes, and flows by the ton. After last year's stunning Dedication 2 tape with DJ Drama, Da Drought 3 ups the ante in almost every way possible.
To use a distinctly Wayne-ian analogy-- that is, part '80s baby trivia, part ridiculous, all true-- the New Orleans native is akin to one-time "American Gladiators" champion Wesley "Two Scoops" Berry. Like Berry, Wayne goes headlong into an inherently absurd competitive atmosphere (i.e. modern hip-hop) and dominates. He scoots around giants, making the most of his nimble, versatile patter. No longer satisfied with being a southern rap ambassador, Wayne emphasizes his range with a cross-country, cross-generational, cross-genre beat selection here, from the Southern R&B of Ciara's "Promise" to the neo-soul of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" to the moody New York bap of Jay-Z's "Dead Presidents II." It's effortlessly encompassing. Then there's the quicksilver flow and morphing subject matter, from the West Coast gangsta-isms of "I'm Blooded" to the off-the-wall Cam'ron-esque abstractions of "Live from 504" to the MF Doom-style kitchen talk. No assembly required-- everything to everybody.
It's fitting, then, for the MC to start the album off rhyming over a snap music smash ("This Is Why I'm Hot") originally made by a New York rapper (MIMS) trying to pander to a nationwide audience. As if to underline his alien mystique ("I am just a Martian, ain't nobody else on this planet"), Wayne goes international on the track, working a Jamaican flow simply because he can. Later, while introducing his revamp of T.I.'s "Top Back", Wayne clarifies, "T.I. is the king-- don’t get that shit twisted/ And me? I am the best rapper alive." The difference-- divine right vs. tireless politicking-- is spelled out through Wayne's regional-poaching as high-art stumping. Work, man, work.
At one point, Wayne poses the question, "I'm crazy for bein' Wayne or is Wayne just crazy?" And while that chicken/egg query may be unanswerable, there's no doubt Wayne makes several insane decisions on Da Drought 3-- choices no other rapper would ever consider. Take "My Daddy", Wayne's spirited defense of his close relationship with surrogate father Brian "Baby" Williams over Danjahandz's untouchable "We Takin' Over" beat. Instead of just ignoring the hubbub, Wayne calls attention to it with one of the set's most jaw-dropping tracks. When he says, "Damn right, I kissed my daddy," it's not a confession as much as a chest-pumping pronouncement, i.e. why don't you kiss your daddy? Then, the heartfelt justification: "Who was there when no one wasn’t? Just my daddy." Finally, Wayne goes into light-speed, forgoing typical syntax for a trail of breathless keywords: "Beef, yes, chest, feet, tag, bag, blood, sheets, yikes, yeeks, great, Scott, Storch, can I borrow your yacht?" And just like that, a winning defense turns into a staggering offense.
More zaniness as Wayne gets all MySpace stalker over Ciara's "Promise" with a love letter to the Atlanta R&B singer that's at once nebbish, cartoony, hilarious, and sweet. "I know that this is pretty awkward for me," he mumbles, his typical playboy routine neutered by a celebrity crush. Even after countless, detailed blowjob verses and rhymes about slipping women pills to get them into bed, the rapper's crazy-in-love yammering ("Nasty as I wanna be or nasty as you like me to be/ I hope you like me too now you know I like you too") somehow still comes off as earnest. It's a rare moment when Wayne comes down from his interplanetary star-search and joins every other guy who's fallen for Ciara's "Promise" video. "That chair or stool move was cool," he gushes. Yeah, it was.
Along with its bounty of blog-worthy one-liners (Wayne can be heard imitating Dave Chappelle, Chris Rock, Bernie Mac and Bobcat Goldthwait across the record) and its fascinating internal weed/food cycle (which you can read about in Julianne Shepherd's recent column), this latest opus from Lil Wayne is marked with a beguiling sense of infatuation. The rapper is in love with language, left-field references to Gremlins and Harry and the Hendersons, the man who helped raise him, his hometown, Ciara and-- even after more than 10 years of professional experience-- hip-hop itself: "I just love music, I love to rap, I love what I do," he says. That much is clear.
