Despite sporting a clunky, off-the-cuff flow, nonsensical rhymes, and a seemingly shapeless physique, Biz Markie has been hip-hop's own loveable mad genius for over two decades now. However, while the Biz's recorded output over the course of the past two years has resulted in little more than two unremarkable singles ("Studda Step," "Turn the Party Out"), and guest spots for nostalgia-happy idealists like the Beastie Boys, it's fair to say that hip-hop listeners across the map have missed him. Unfortunately, Weekend Warrior is not the triumphant, ten-years-in-the-making comeback album fans have been anticipating, though its stripped-down, party-flavored production and Biz's trademark lackadaisical flow make it a respectable extension to the string of albums he cut for the Cold Chillin' label in the 1980s that made him a cult legend.
While virtually every article regarding the Diabolical Biz paints him as hip-hop's resident "underdog," it's important to note that he is so by his own consent. It's no coincidence that his most successful and career-defining moment (1989's anti-Hallmark ballad "Just a Friend") cast him as an affable, if too average, guy who more likely spent Friday nights alone in front of the television than out in the club. But it's precisely this illusion of stupefying averageness that has made Biz Markie one of hip-hop's most treasured and wholly original emcees. In a genre that often takes itself too seriously (the murders of Scott La Rock, Biggie, 2pac, Big L, etc.) and wildly dualistic stereotypes (Benz or backpack), Biz Markie's easygoing persona seems to exist outside all popular hip-hop caricatures: What other emcee would go topless for their album art or dress up in costumes ranging from a Native American Indian Chief to a Samurai to a Sumo Wrestler? (Note that Har Mar Superstar counts as neither "hip-hop" nor "an emcee".)
Of course, while Biz Markie may be one of hip-hop's most heartfelt and idiosyncratic B-boys, his albums have always proven to be scattershot affairs, serving up both utter brilliance and stupidity in disappointingly equal amounts-- and Weekend Warrior is no different. Predictably, whenever Biz sticks to what he knows best (namely: reminiscing about rap, reminiscing about hotties, and reminiscing about Chinese food), the material lands on that more "brilliant" end of the spectrum. For instance, Mark the 45 King laces the show-stealing "Turn Back the Hands of Time" with syrupy piano chords and looping string swells (a la The Blueprint), while Biz smoothly brings the listener back to a time when he was "the size of Jay-Z," and "Ra was still with Eric B." The minimalist party vibe of "Tear Shit Up" (featuring cuts from fellow old-schooler Jazzy Jeff) and "Do Your Things" (featuring an ambiguous cameo from P. Diddy) work equally well, and each no doubt will leave listeners longing for the pre-Jakob the Jeweler days, when all you needed to look fly was a gold chain.
On "Chinese Food", over typically Ritalin-deprived J-Zone production, Biz re-writes the Black Rob hit "Whoa", transforming it into an ode to his favorite take-out food. After hearing Biz's proud mantra on this song's hook ("Four chicken wings with chicken fried rice, that's good/ Beef and broccoli with a little white rice, that's good!"), citing Biz for not being as virtuosic an emcee as, say Big Daddy Kane, would seem to verge on laughable.
The most surprising aspect of Weekend Warrior, though, is that amongst the album's glut of shameless stabs at radio-play and outdated would-be party anthems, there remains one incredibly solid streamlined record. Still, since tracks as inspired as the butter-smooth, Kev Brown-produced "Get Down" are made to rub shoulders with sterile, Nelly-miming pap like "EI YA", Weekend Warrior can prove an incredibly frustrating listen. Biz has never sounded so ridiculous (in a bad way) as he does rhyming on a synth-heavy dancehall track trading lines with the likes of Dancehall phenom, Elephant Man-- it's so bad, it's of little surprise that the track serves as the album's first "single." But in the end, Biz Markie's jester-like presence overshadows his creative shortcomings; he is one of hip-hop's greatest auteurs, even if he only has one true classic to show for it.
