"I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs."
He's not coming back like some revivified monster. This attempted resuscitation, this half-assed memory-stirrer, is a project of the crassest order. It's graverobbing at its most furtive, orchestrated by a master career-tarnisher. Igor Diddy lurks, hunch-backed, quietly approaching your ear: "Hey there, young consumer, do you like my best friend, the legendary Notorious B.I.G.? Dr. Pha and I, we've breathed new life, created vivacity, and taken creation from God's hands."
It's particularly sad because statement albums were never lost on Biggie. The scope and fearlessness of Ready to Die says as much. The push/pull stories between the then-Sean "Puffy" Combs and his meal ticket are renowned. Ever the capitalist, he constantly sought ways to remix street records into pop hits. But Biggie, a natural songwriter, was always conscious of credibility, name-checking Jeru the Damaja and Nas and Gang Starr. For the most part, he could write hits without pandering, instead leaning on a confusing vulnerability/masculinity complex and that chunky voice. All's to say, he was no saint, nor a pariah of pop. But he had integrity. Duets ignores all this precedent by cashing in blindly, amassing pointless guest spots and fusing old verses over tinny, soulless productions.
Bad Boy has recruited hacks and hit-hounds like Scott Storch, Jazze Pha, and Swizz Beatz to reconfigure songs that needn't be touched, or gotten sound-specific artists like Akon and Mobb Deep to put together Biggie Smalls-Made-Easy cookie-cutters. The first posthumous B.I.G. release, Born Again, had plenty of problems, but at least unheard music saw the light of day. As far as I can tell, this project is a sham. For years we'd been told that Mister Cee, the DJ credited with breaking Biggie, had a stash of unreleased vocals and freestyles. We were told he was waiting to unleash these vocals for a duets project that would blow our wigs back. That's not this project. There are zero unheard verses here.
The list of collaborators ranges from intriguing (Scarface, Nas, T.I.) to groan-inducing (we see you Korn and Nelly), but few of the songs actually leave any impression. The Just Blaze-produced "Living in Pain", jacking Biggie and 2Pac's verses from the latter's "House of Pain", is the only truly effective track. Sampling Lamont Dozier's sweeping, many-times-flipped "Blue Sky and Silver Bird", the song's ululating strings summon an epic sadness, while Mary J. Blige's expertly delivered chorus oozes with conviction.
But elsewhere, only a decent Slim Thug verse saves "Breakin' Old Habits" from utter mediocrity. Not as much can be said for the middling new R. Kelly and Missy Elliott songs featuring tacked-on verses, or the ludicrous Dipset/Lil' Wayne collaboration "I'm Wit Whateva" that doesn't even feature B.I.G.'s vocals. Is this a mistake or are Jim Jones dedications enough to justify inclusion here? Maybe "Whatchu Want", the requisite Jay-Z duet (ludicrously credited to the Commission), is a big deal, but it's stock compared to their earlier thriller "Brooklyn's Finest". Even the songs that make sense, like "Get Your Grind On", with Fat Joe, Big Pun, and Freeway, fall flat.
If anything, this compilation will have youngsters scratching their head over what made the Notorious B.I.G. the subject of hero worship. Everything from the foolishly illustrated album art, featuring a stoned-looking Christopher Wallace with a crown slooping off his head, to the overwrought dedications from his kids, mom, and Lil' Cease (!) flounders in the face of his intimidating if overstated legacy. This record has no rhythm or personality-- and truthfully, no reason to exist. The presence of so many of big names speaks to his importance, vis-à-vis the Rapper=Rock Star revolution. But none of these artists can speak to B.I.G. And if they could, something tells me he wouldn't have much to say back.
