Our current financial difficulties haven't stopped the incessant need to find trends in anything, and the result has been dozens of publications proclaiming the fashionability of frugality. This has worked out extremely well for not only people who were cheap before it somehow became cool, but unexpectedly, for many rappers who have either passed their commercial peak or never really experienced one in the first place. No longer cowed by unrealistic expectations, either self-imposed or label-imposed, guys like Scarface, Styles P, Beanie Sigel, Freeway, Slim Thug, and Jim Jones are putting out highly enjoyable, no-frills records with low overhead, proving all along that some rappers just need a decent beat and everyone else to stay out of their way.
Crime Pays all but confirms that Cam'ron is not one of those rappers. Over the past half-year or so, leaks like "I Hate My Job" and "Get It in Ohio" suggested a possibility of a The *Wrestler-*style comeback narrative that derived power from admitting how far its protagonist had fallen. Instead, Crime Pays has a lonely, defensive, and vaguely desperate Kirk Van Houten vibe-- more noticeable than a lack of breakout bangers or guest spots (though you gotta wonder how 40 Cal was the biggest name to clear his schedule for the first Cam'ron record in three years) is a palpable and inexcusable lack of excitement and spark. Killa could stand to borrow a feeling.
Seems like any time Cam isn't able to shout out the names of every inaugural member of DipSet, he retreats into the sort of insular (not to be confused with impulsive or impenetrable-- that would be more interesting) bad habits he's picked up since Purple Haze became arguably the last definitive document of popular New York rap. Earlier in the decade, beats from Just Blaze, Kanye, and Heatmakerz provided exquisite and posh soundtracks that added extra shine to Cam's theater of the absurd. But whether it's a reduced budget or his increased need to show allegiance to the Sun Belt states, Cam outsources most of Crime Pays to Araabmuzik and Skitzo. They contribute mixtape-quality music that goes heavy on repetitive Psycho strings and incessantly ticking 16th-note hi-hats but ultimately has about as much low end as a Junior Senior record.
And not that I'd expect the guy who penned lines like "take it in your ass-- how 'bout 30 grams?" and the entirety of "Stop Calling" to give the most positive spin on gender relations, but even after all the poisonous misogyny we've heard Cam deal in up to this point, "You Know What's Up" and "Cookies & Apple Juice" are so mirthlessly repulsive that "Bottom of the Pussy" somehow becomes, like, the fifth-most offensive song on Crime Pays. At least Cam seems amused with himself on that track, which also explains how the comic high point of Crime Pays is a two-minute skit wherein Cam'ron threatens to shit in a woman's car-- it's a veritable Easter Egg for people who remember his second verse on "Dead Muthafuckas".
Of course, when Cam disappears headlong up his own assonance (no ho-millz, as he helpfully instructs throughout) it's still incredibly entertaining. Even within the tightest rhyme stricture, his gamesmanship in spooling vowel sounds fascinates. Cam'ron's one of those kind of guys where you could read his lyrics on paper and know exactly how it sounds. If only his lyrics and cadence weren't saddled with such shabby beats-- even as they contain some of the least imaginative lines on Crime Pays, the relative levity of kiddie beats like "Never Ever", "Silky (No Homo)", and "Whoo Hoo" feels welcome.
And then there's "Hate My Job". Killa's relationship with reality is so dysfunctional that his most "normal" songs tend to be his weirdest, especially when he tries to make an honest connection: the maybe-sincere love letter "Daydreamin'", "I.B.S." (that's irritable bowel syndrome). It's hard to say what could have inspired this unusually human and empathetic moment-- "Ay yo, I hate my boss/ Dude think he know it all/ And I know I know it all/ But I follow protocol." It's typical Cam smirk, and really the last bit of self-respect he can dredge up before a host of travails break him down, from everyday nuisances ("That's why I light the sour before I hit the office/ Being here eight hours sure get you nauseous") to the very real hopelessness befalling someone with a checkered past ("You're working on my future/ Why you calling out my history?").
As bizarre as it initially seems for a rapper like Cam'ron to go in character as a working stiff, it's not unprecedented-- in fact, the soundtrack for Office Space had two such instances, from Canibus and Kool Keith. The latter's shadow paradoxically hangs heavy over Crime Pays-- shortly after Dr. Octagonecologyst broke him with the indie set*,* Keith was also making intermittently enjoyable records centered around NBA namedrops, poop jokes, and the fine distinction between "alien" and "alienating." It's a slippery slope Cam would be well-advised to study, since on four separate "Fuck Cam" skits, a bunch of crotchety haters talk shit about his lemonhead earrings, floor-length minks, and his pink and purple pioneering. In their minds, Cam's done nothing worth really mentioning since 2005, and Crime Pays often makes you wonder if they've got a point.
