A young nigga don’t need my help. They know how to –ughh, ughh!—package the wavy. This ol’ G gon look down on y’all cause on the streets you see it all and on the industry rocks you heard it all. So there’s been so much marketing and promoting I’ve seen that concrete slang is all abstract yang on the wax. This young brother, Troy Ave, properly masculine—pause, comfortable in his charismatic persona to verify his resume, is fucking supposed to save Hip Hop. And the God is like, ‘what the fuck are all these other records that JC’d the music as I crossed paths with them?!!’ No names but Broken Home is filled with NYC carpenters of the pop wounded and that brother under the Sky and by the Zoo near St. James Place is a wordsmith and a badasss brother been smif with words on the wessun. Filled with illyorkers this hoax of a savior for NYC Hip Hop music is a fuckin Krillsmiss holiday sold by a white jesuses like Rosenberg and delivered by three too many koon kings—cast: ebro, cipha sounds and charlamagne, for this Sunez screenplay. I put names on the paper because those are the streets I saw wax rocks sold to custies, the industry. My wax is wavy. It ripples the playlist with the real.
So is Troy Ave and he deserves to fuckin raise a banner in this too. But the more pressure on his rocks to sell the more he’ll pitch like half dollars and hov oz’s. Troy Ave’s talents are not in the charisma but in the technical possibilities mixed with the masculine logic he brings his reality. But the 67 minutes are filled with the high pitch wavy flux in the vocal pitch Jay-Z offered, one of the rare innovations but like Jigga’s other offerings violently ruined rhyming. It birthed the pretty hiccup—-“ahh, ughh, ugghhhh, I got this, oooh, suck my dick—oh ooooh, there’s your man, talk to him, ughhh, don’t sneeze on the lines, bitch!” Even as this G writes it I just disrespected a bitch between space bars, the explicit moments on the page you need to read to understand this NYC.
The thoughts of the street drug hustler has been told to cliché. So here some facts that’s actual for the wiggers and the niggas that lust trill. Gangsta like a square standing on his square, arms folded, okay! Drug dealing and hustling is just red collar work. A special type of blue collar where it’s merely collateral for the rape of jobs and living wages men ought to earn. These are real jobs, indirectly made accessible by the man, to the streets from the top of the Medina slum to the bottom—Gunset to Brownsville. It’s freelance work and you choose hours fairly freely but you can be lanced at any moment. Oddly, in this grand scheme of oppressive contradiction, it’s more exotic than Pop’s factory and not nearly as emasculating as the welfare line. Chuck D knew all this so he wouldn’t count down BIG’s commandments and I won’t die trying to preach so get rich, nigga. Live your fantasies, wigger.
Still, this music is gangsta music only when the young MC won’t rhyme holistically and conscious. Now cipher! Not meaning some deep knowledge build dart or a healthy, preserve life and humanity, plant ladders for brothers and get on bended knee for sisters shit. But a deeper perspective that Troy indeed has isn’t highlighted. See, this album is not a New York album because any album that truly is New York must have complex dexterity (Now Cipher again! Not big words and deep ideas but layered words in couplets and rolled flows that go on) and beats that don’t just boom but bap, break, scratch and crunch. Those are deliberately overshadowed in the majority of Troy’s repertoire especially his beats. The incredible shots that leadoff, “Classic Feel” and the even stronger declaration, “Cigar Smoke,” have a menacing bassline on the former and hard snapping drums and hoe harmonizing on the latter, as commanding affirmations of fucking thug brilliance. “The Grind” is a great mid-tempo banger, with a mean horn menacing on the outskirts, where Troy really can show his pacing and experience in real time. “Regretful” and “Mama Tears” offer real insights to nigga supremacy from the ground up.
Still, the beats are from the badly lit Billboard Ave over all the other baggies Troy pitches. Instead the hardcore is 50 Junito as “Viking” where the beat is big but the verses are still on Jay pitch. The marketing filler oozes out of bottle poppin’ “Show Me Love” and the Dipset nursery hooked “Piggy Bank.” “Lulaby” with its 808 20 beats per minute drum stuff, the skipping high hats on “Beneath Me” and the trap snare on “Everything” is exactly the trill that New York City’s iron horses ain’t supposed to have stops for. “Hot Out” is pop trash whether Troy shoots me or gives me a hoe to get with.
Troy constantly reaffirms he is the realest it gets. I’m too old to ask around and when Brownsville Ka tells me it’s the unique things you say and the soul you have then I see it in Troy too. But he isn’t the dealer on this record, he’s the pitch. And I’m no custie so I fuck with Troy Ave but not the beat packaging or the impact it has where Troy masturbates on clichés through most of it. A young MC with heart, but not the lyrical dexterity or advanced techniques of other contemporaries street crime or block tough, he can lead the dumbed down populace to a better hardcore NYC music. But with just that, he can’t really save what so many other great MCs are saving with real lyric work on the streets from East New York to Corona.