50 Cent - Before I Self Destruct

"Before I Self Destruct" is an apt name for 50 Cent's fifth album. The damn thing's been delayed for so long - nigh on two years by this point - that it might as well have been called "Before I Lose My Patience."

I mean, how often do a record's first two singles not even make the final track-list? Yet that's exactly what's happened here: The ferocious machismo of "Get Up" was released over a year ago, the flaccid misogyny of "I Get It In" hit the charts before Barack even hit the White House, and neither song made the final cut.

Usually long delays mean low quality. In this case, though, it sounds like the extra time paid off. "Before I Self Destruct" is the slickest rap record I've heard in quite a while; it's pump-up, macho-man fantasy music taken to the next level. Roping in production like this must have cost 50 Cent a pretty penny, but my Lord it was worth it. You can almost hear the money seeping through your speakers - and for one of the world's richest pop stars, I guess that's only appropriate.

Of course, Fiddy himself is still an epically clumsy rapper, and no amount of money in the world can change that. The bullet to the jaw might have made for a good story, but it also makes for one hell of an awkward emcee. Seriously, the guy has a lisp! It's ridiculous! In a genre wholly dependent on enunciation, the idea of a rapper with a speech impediment sounds like a bad joke, but in Fiddy's case, it's all too painfully true.

I've often wondered why Eminem, a rapper renowned for his flawless flow, signed someone as clumsy as 50 Cent to be his protege. Wouldn't a motor-mouth like Lupe Fiasco have been more appropriate? The only plausible explanation is that it was to make himself sound better - and that's exactly what happens on "Psycho," in which Eminem seemingly does all he can to humiliate his host. It's a hilarious paradox: "Psycho" would be the best song on the album, if only 50 Cent weren't in it.

Luckily, Eminem is the only emcee to make a guest appearance on the record, leaving the other 15 tracks to the main attraction. With almost anyone else, I would say it's to let them "shine," but in Fiddy's case, it's more like an ingenious ploy to make listeners forget how crap he is.

The funny thing? It kinda, sorta works. Left alone with 50 Cent, you start to see why this guy might be the century's most successful rapper: He knows exactly why people buy his music. It's not for the lyrics. It's not for the technique. It's for the entertainment value. Listening to 50 Cent is like watching the latest brain-dead blockbuster, and it's no coincidence that the cover references one of the most successful Hollywood franchises of all time.

But with production this shiny, it's hard to complain. The pounding, cinematic "Death to My Enemies" is easily Dr. Dre's best work in years, a perfect foil to the rapper's arrogant bluster. Diss track "So Disrespectful" is a delicious neo-G Funk concoction that almost makes you forget that everyone Fiddy's insulting is more talented than he is (Jay-Z? Seriously?). "Crime Wave," meanwhile, sounds like gangsta superhero music, a furious assault of keyboard riffs built around a sample of a man screaming, "No, no, no!" It's utterly ridiculous and utterly irresistible.

Unfortunately, some of the album steers a bit too cynically into Top 40 territory (hello, Ne-Yo and R. Kelly!), and the rapper's attempts at love songs are alternately hilarious ("Girl I'll perform for you, like a porn star") and downright scary ("It's like Paul McCartney's stuck in my head / he fell in love with a bitch who walked away with one leg"). And the less said about the God-awful synth mess "Get It Hot," the better. But when the rapper sticks to the gun-toting put-downs, the album is strikingly consistent, even if it's all just hot air.

Then again, it's not like he tries to hide the artifice of it all. By this point, 50 Cent basically sells Vitamin Water for a living, and his patronizing, singsong flow - not to mention the billion-dollar backing tracks - never let you forget that. Mainstream rap is escapist popcorn fodder: I've been listening to "Before I Self Destruct" for four days straight, I've lost a few brain cells, and I'm sure that's exactly the point.

"Before I Self Destruct" released 17 September, 2009 by Interscope Records.
Images courtesy of Interscope Records and Empire Online.
Published in the Daily Princetonian.

Michael Jackson's "This Is It"

How do you commemorate the last days of the most famous pop star in history? "This Is It," the new documentary chronicling the Michael Jackson comeback concert that never was, answers this question in an unexpectedly low-key way: by showing the person, rather than the spectacle.

It's extraordinary, really, just how ordinary it is - no shameless product placement, no pompous myth-making and not a word of Jackson's death until the very end. I walked into the theater expecting some of the most barefaced heart- and purse-string tugging ever committed to celluloid. Two hours later, I walked out quietly moved by the film's honest, no-frills approach.

The structure of "This Is It" is simple: It's a concert documentary, segueing breathlessly from one chart-topper to the next with an occasional pause for cast and crew interviews. We are given brief glimpses of the production behemoth powering the show - the special effects, the fireworks, the dance auditions, the madcap set - but the film's focus remains strikingly narrow, showing fans the concert they missed rather than attempting any larger portrait of Jackson's life and career.

And what a concert it is. Admittedly, we only see informal rehearsal footage, full of little scuffs and slip-ups, but it's this behind-the-scenes peek that makes the film so interesting. For once, MJ isn't a remote, all-singing, all-dancing machine. Instead we see him caught off guard, just being himself, on footage that the notorious perfectionist almost certainly didn't intend for public consumption.

In "This Is It," we see Jackson doing things we've never seen before: joking around, experimenting and making mistakes. We also see just how involved Jackson was in the show's conception, whether rigorously correcting the backup band or tutoring zombie extras on how to be spooky in an updated segment of the "Thriller" music video.

Despite his humble demeanor - I swear, every other word is followed by either "thank you" or "God bless" - it's clear who's in control, and Jackson's presence, even when he's in a pair of baggy tracksuit bottoms, is immense. The genius is in the details: a flick of the wrist, a kick of the foot or an extra bar to let the music "simmer." Of course, there are some pretty ridiculous moments, like Jackson emerging from a massive robotic spider in the middle of "Thriller," but the spirit of the concert, much like its accompanying film, is refreshingly down-to-earth.

We largely have the music to thank for that: Four months of airwave inundation have done little to dampen the power of these songs. If anything, they've just proven how good they are. "I Want You Back," the single that started it all back in 1969, explodes to ecstatic life in concert, all ringing pianos and chirping guitar riffs; the macho posturing of "Beat It" is as irresistible as the day it was recorded; and the bass-line of "Billie Jean," infamously despised by Jackson's producer Quincy Jones for being "too high in the mix," still raises hairs on the nape of my neck.

Even less-cherished tracks from later in his career - like the oppressive New Jack Swing of "Jam" or the endless environmental gloop of "Earth Song" - sound revitalized in concert, brimming with life where they sounded stiff and forced on record.

And what of the man himself? Well, I'm not going to hazard any conspiracy theories, but judging by his performance here, he looks far happier and healthier than the endless whirl of tabloid gossip would have you think. He is 50 years old, of course, so there aren't any back-flips or anything - but you needn't worry; he can still pull off a moonwalk.

Jackson's voice also sounds better than it has in years. On ballads like "Human Nature," his crystalline falsetto tremors and shakes with emotion, while on more upbeat tracks like "Smooth Criminal," he attacks the stop-start melodies with laser-like precision, deploying his usual arsenal of pants, hiccups and falsetto squeals.

The only thing we can hope for, really, is that this is truly it. But considering the tens of millions the movie has already grossed in its fortnight-long release, I somehow doubt the Michael Jackson estate will stop until it gets enough - enough, in this case, being an absolute frick-load of money. And if this is only the calm before the storm, let's just hope the imminent flood of memorabilia takes its cue from "This Is It." Even with the biggest pop star in history, less can sometimes mean so much more.

"This Is It" released 28 October, 2009 by Columbia Pictures.
Images courtesy of Columbia Pictures and Empire Online.
Published in the Daily Princetonian.