War & Peace by Ice Cube
<b>100 Best Albums</b> In 1993, the Wu-Tang Clan were a grim, grimy, grindhouse alternative to G-funk’s baroque gangsta cinema: If Dr. Dre’s lush, lowrider-ready grooves were <i>Terminator 2</i>, then the scratchy, bloody, distorted productions of RZA on their debut album were <i>Reservoir Dogs</i>. Emerging from New York City’s most underrepresented borough—the literal island of Staten—here was a sound that, by nature or nurture, existed in its own raw, unapologetic bubble: corroded soul breaks, snatches of dialogue and sound effects from arcane turn-of-the-’70s Hong Kong kung fu flicks, distended keyboard lines, tape noises, snaps and stutters.<br /> Wu-Tang emerged as a nine-member crew in the post-MTV age of small cliques, a mix of styles and voices that eventually carried more than a few solo careers: The violent beat poetry of Raekwon, Ghostface Killah and Inspectah Deck; the drunken sing-to-scream ping-pong of Ol’ Dirty Bastard; the $5 words and scientific flows of GZA and Masta Killa; the boisterous coaching of RZA; the gritty rasp of U-God; and the fame-ready slick talk of Method Man, who was already getting a star turn on his eponymous track. Though melancholy reminiscences like “Can It Be All So Simple”, “C.R.E.A.M.” and “Tearz” made a trilogy of evocative narratives, the Wu provided few easy inroads to their mythology and poetry. Instead, America was forced to enter <i>their</i> chamber, a lyrical swarm of hip-hop slang, the Five-Percent Nation’s Supreme Mathematics and skits that sounded like taped conversations. They brought a singular ruckus and everyone from the similarly crew-oriented Odd Future, the wordy Logic, the mafioso-fuelled Pusha T, the wild-styled Young Thug and the noisy Sheck Wes all owe different types of gratitude.
