07 New York 25 September – 30 September

You can divide storytelling in hip-hop into two eras – Before Slick Rick and After Slick Rick. A UK ex-pat who moved to the Bronx as a pre-teen, Ricky Walters’ narrative-weaving artistry was a study in juxtapositions: decidedly sophisticated-sounding (thanks to the distinctive traces of English accent gracing his delivery) yet never above bawdy, X-rated humor; pampered and natty enough to inject details like his list the bath products from his after-shower routine yet battle tested enough to challenge and chide fellow rap competitors with swift, vulgar dismissals. Three years after one momentous single with former partner Doug E. Fresh in the Get Fresh Crew (“The Show” b/w “La-Di-Da-Di”) Rick’s inaugural solo foray, The Great Adventures of, provided the definitive showcase for these unique gifts. Seen through Rick’s spectacles, the world is amusingly absurd, as the profane (“Treat Her Like a Prostitute”) resides alongside the empathetic and sage (“Teenage Love”; “Hey Young World”), the combative (“Lick the Balls”) balanced by the tragicomic (“The Moment I Feared” – to date the only, or at least best, known story rhyme to end with its protagonist the victim of prison rape). Technically an unmatched pilot of plot, wicked with his humor, Rick could even perform double or triple duty role-play-wise (“Mona Lisa”) – pioneering a style the likes of Positive K, Snoop, and Biggie Smalls would later take to the bank. Truth, however, would emulate fiction in the eeriest of ways less than two years later when Rick’s career would be derailed by violence – the car chase vignette from the hit single, “A Children’s Story,” come to life in the aftermath of an extortion scheme at the hands of a cousin. He’d serve his debt to society (eventually being fully pardoned) and successfully return to tell more stories on record. But his Great blueprint remains this Ruler’s crowning achievement.

There was a significant amount of Enter-ing (or Enta-ing) going on in NY hip-hop in the fall of 1993. Historically, Wu-Tang Clan’s classic debut, Enter the Wu-Tang: 36 Chambers, is often cited as the turning point in a creative and commercial turnaround for Gotham’s rap fortunes, answering West Coast gangsta boogie with an onslaught of project tower ruggedness (and thus opening the door for the likes of Illmatic, Ready to Die, and The Infamous). But let the record show that Black Moon’s Enta da Stage was as much the catalyst, arriving on record racks a good month before 36 Chambers. The debut effort from the Bushwick, Brooklyn trio of Buckshot Shorty, 5 Ft. Assassin and DJ Evil Dee, Enta announced itself as part of the borough’s notorious stick up kid tradition in overt ways – scowling grills on the album cover, belligerent lyrics, fractured phonetic song title spellings, and the punctuations of mammoth shouted choruses (the musical equivalent of getting rolled on in a desolate stretch of Franklin Ave. asphalt). What made the album a natural extension of the jazzier, post-Native Tongues grooves of NY rap acts that immediately preceded it (at least more so than RZA and company’s deadly venoms) was the work of resident producers Da Beatminerz (Evil Dee and big brother Mr. Walt). In Crooklyn classics like “Who Got the Props,” “Buck Em Down” and “I Got Cha Opin,” heavily filtered bass-lines dominate the bottom of the mix while piercing snares and passing glimpses of high-end melody patrol up top. It’s a brutal but beautiful sonic package – one that remarkably set da stage for a Bootcamp Click empire that still thrives today via Duck Down Records. They get the props.

“The Wu got somethin’ that I know that everybody wanna hear. ’Cause I know I been waiting to hear it,” Raekwon remarked on the “Intermission” that bisected Wu-Tang’s 1993 debut – showing the Chef wasn’t only adept at serving up hot bars, but predicting shifts in regional rap momentum. Arriving in the midst of what a young Shawn Carter once characterized as “too much West Coast dick-licking,” 36 Chambers was the Eastside story many had hoped for: proof that New York rap artists could still commercially compete with their chronic-puffing counterparts from the land of locs, sunshine, and sets. But it was the way the Wu (along with Black Moon’s Enta da Stage) initiated a new NY era that was truly transcendent: a nine-man crew of hungrier-than-thou rhyme renegades and cast-offs hailing from the city’s forgotten borough, Staten Island, brandishing the most unpolished sound imaginable. Group architect RZA’s jarringly grimy production found inspiration (and liberal sampled dialog snippets) in the old school Times Square kung fu flicks they’d become obsessed with as kids. The Clan’s “sword style” approach to emceeing brought the notion of carving up one’s lyrical opponent to new levels of conceptual fortitude. Hits ensued (“Method Man,” “C.R.E.A.M.,” “Can It Be So Simple”), stars and solo deals were born (Method Man, ODB, Rae and Ghost, GZA), and the foundation was laid for a hip-hop subgenre/industry unto itself. A new world. A Wu world.

Wu disciples may bristle, but an entire generation of Rotten Apple seeds will testify to the hilt that Dipset was New York hip-hop’s Last Great Crew. The Diplomats themselves, though, might take semantic issue with that title. “My Dipset Taliban – we are not a crew/ We’re more like a movement,” Jim Jones declared on “The First” from the Harlem quartet’s official debut, 2003’s Diplomatic Immunity. “This is a movement, this is a union,” Juelz Santana echoed on the even-more-to-the-point titled “More Than Music.” Audacity notwithstanding there was credence to these claims. Like any historically noteworthy rap clique (e.g. Wu-Tang, Native Tongues etc.) Dipset featured charismatic front-line personalities (team leader Cam’Ron, Santana and Jones all), a distinctive aesthetic (thundering, cymbal crashing anthems largely sired by producers The Heatmakers), and most of all, mystique – a quality that pervades the sprawling Immunity. Chaotic and grandiose, Dipset’s material didn’t dazzle so much as bludgeon you with its crude wit – whether it was Santana realiably rhyming the same word in successive lines (“I’m Ready”: “Yo they tried to box me in the corner for the longest/ No key, locked me in this corner for the longest”), or Cam’s nonsensical genius (“I Really Mean It”: “Hey yo lock my garage, rock my massage/ Fuck it, bucket by Osh Kosh Bgosh/ Golly I'm gully, look at his galoshes/ Gucci, gold, platinum plaque collages”). But perhaps most persuasive to the group’s grassroots appeal was its success in reclaiming Harlem World as rap terrain of the rugged (erasing any lingering images of Mase shiny-suiting it up alongside Diddy in a process begun by Cam’s smash Come Home With Me). Residents north of 110th Street rocked Cam’s trademark pink gear in allegiance, and celebrated team Dipset with neighborhood pride. Hipsters downtown and city-wide – stuck off the group’s infectious bombast – championed Dipset too, brandishing Dipset/Ramones logo tees, addressing one another with ironic “What’s really good?” salutations. Sometimes a movement takes on followers you never expected.