Mom, GO TO BED NOW.
Everybody else still with me? Good. Let's talk about Smoothe Da motherfuckin' Hustler.
In 1996, this dude dropped an album (Once Upon A Time In America) full of icy, dark, drugs-and-guns rap (well, not exactly full. Three of the tracks were weak-ass sentimental bullshit). Smoothe's flow was head-spinningly dense and, while lyrically harsh, also displayed an almost gleeful sense of the possibilities of rhyme. Yes, the subject matter at hand is almost SHOCKINGLY ignorant (this post's title is actually taken from one of the album's LESS appalling moments), but the virtuosity on display here is undeniable. Also, fuck you, pussy.
Now, I'd like to think I'm sort of okay at this writing business, but no description I give you will adequately capture the vertiginous pleasures of Smoothe Da Hustler's flow at its very best. To help illustrate my point, I have included the two tracks that best exemplify what America has to offer: "Broken Language" and "My Brother My Ace". Perhaps you should go download them NOW.
The first voice you hear is not actually Smoothe. This deep, menacing voice belongs to his brother, Trigger The Gambler. Despite declaring himself the "Funeral servin' church preacher, your black hearse coffin seeker," Trigger is NOT the better rapper on this track, for soon, so soon...
Smoothe starts to rap. His voice is a harsh, rasping croak. This is fitting, as he quickly declares himself "The Human Asthma" (this is possibly the finest bit of rap braggadocio I have ever heard). He goes on to proclaim himself (MOM. I TOLD YOU TO GO. TO. BED. You will not be pleased with this next part, for God's sake, LOOK AWAY) "The white girl gangbanger, the Virgin Mary fucker, the Jesus hanger." After each phrase, Smoothe sucks in a quick burst of air, a small catching noise almost hidden under the echoing snap of the snare drum. These brief flashes of visceral function throw the verbal pyrotechnics on display into stark relief. As the song nears its conclusion, you are probably coming to grips with the savage flow and the bleak imagery, which means you are just about ready to have your mind completely blown by the next track.
A few low, hollow knocks of bass and then... Smoothe and Trigger begin trading lines in a bleak, smothering torrent of language. One minute into the song, the finest thirty seconds in hip-hop begin:
Trigger: Fake frontin' faggots, soft like fabric, I got gadgets, my craft go static, pussy niggas get dramatic.
Smoothe: Dramatic get niggas pussy static 'cos craft my gadgets got a fabric like soft faggots frontin' fake if ya backwards...
Yes, he really did just rap his brother's line backwards. And yes, it still pretty much made sense. Hurry up and get yr head back in the game, 'cos here comes Smoothe again: "Threats I move with, bruise shit, mentally confuse and lose shit, shit lose and confuse mentally shit bruise and crews slip." Damn. Then, the beat drops out for one second, the piano note that provides the song's bass line echoes like a funeral, and Trigger sneers, "God gave me a gift, I'm givin' him one back... that's a black bag with a ribbon, sealed tight with a tag."
And so on. No, the rest of the album is not as good as these two songs, but most of it is still pretty goddamn good. And no, Smoothe's career after this album did not live up to his potential. He provided a bunch of stellar verses on Trigger's (unreleased) album, did a bunch of cameos for other artists (his verse on Public Enemy's soundtrack to He Got Game is stellar...), and then disappeared for twelve years. His 2008 comeback is, um... somewhat LESS than some of us were hoping for.
Anyway. One devastating album is one more than most of us get. Maybe on iTunes? I dunno. Give the man some money, it'll help keep him off the streets. And you WANT Smoothe off the streets.
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