For anyone with more than a passing interest in pop music, it is incredibly difficult to like hip-hop. So much of the genre seems dominated by repetitive, uninspired, homophobic, misogynistic half-wits whose primary interest in making music is making dollars. For many, these qualities make it difficult to reconcile their appreciation for mainstream rap with their appreciation for good music. As a result, serious music fans who also are interested in hip-hop are forced to listen to a tiny group of creatively acceptable, "underground" rappers that too frequently sound stilted, boring and, worst of all, alike. Caught between maintaining their credibility as fans and satisfying their need for beats and rhymes, serious music aficionados who explore hip-hop often end up unfulfilled.
Thank God for Ghostface Killah. With an inimitable flow, lucid lyrics and an innate storytelling ability, the Wu-Tang Clansman has the integrity and artistic ability of the underground, but with his street cred and utterly unique style, avoids their bookish inaccessibility. Nowhere does Ghost show off his sub-genre transcendence better than his latest release, the cocaine-themed "Fishscale," an album that sounds as good at a frat party as it does in your headphones. By toeing the line between head-nodding commercial rap and the elitist, music nerd underground, Ghostface Killah dares you to peg him as either one. In doing so, he has created the first outstanding hip-hop album of the last six months.
"Fishscale," Ghost's latest album in his 10-year solo career, follows the simple blueprint he established on 1996's "Ironman": take rusty soul samples, and rap over them like someone is chasing you with a bat. But it's not GFK's speed that is his delivery's most important asset; it's the urgency. On the opening "Shakey Dog," nearly three chorus-less minutes of Ghost's brilliantly vivid coke-rap narrative, his words comfortably and regularly fill the measures, but his voice is so stressed that he sounds like he thinks he's in danger, like he is looking over his shoulder in the studio. In the past, this urgency was quirky: you'd hear a Ghostface song and think, "Oh Ghost, you so crazy!"
On "Fishscale," mainly an unapologetic chronicle of the life and times of a coke dealer, it is an effective storytelling technique, adding another level to Ghost's description of what this writer can only assume is a chaotic and unstable profession.
In the end though, it's his lyrics that provide the most engaging and insightful discussion. Though rappers like Clipse and Young Jeezy penned lyrics about selling cocaine before GFK, they lack the allure, personality and depth of his manically free-associating rhymes. On the marathon "Shakey Dog," Ghost nervously recollects every minor aspect of a trip to a fateful drug deal, bouncing from detail to meticulous detail and putting the listener in the car with him as he spits "Whips smellin' like fish from 1-2-fifth / throwin' ketchup on my fries / hittin' baseball spliffs / backseat with my leg all stiff."
On "Big Girl," a Ghost-produced lamentation on beautiful women who get hooked on blow and spiral out of control set on top of The Stylistics 1971 classic "You're a Big Girl Now," Ghost crafts a keenly analytical character sketch with an exhaustive detail that evokes beat poet troubadour Tom Waits. Throughout, GFK provides the listener with endearingly tragic details about the song's addict players, like that they're "college girls" or they "hide behind their glasses," emotionally connecting the listener with them in less than two minutes. As The Stylistics' mournful song peaks, Ghost gushes to his wayward women, "All I ask in life's for you to be careful / stay focused, take care of your health / have kids and marry your prince / good luck and happiness," and by that point, so do you.
With vocals as good as Ghost's, beats are more of an afterthought, but after one reads the production credits, it's clear that GFK wanted the best beats drug money can buy. Just Blaze does his part with his fiery electric guitars on rollicking "The Champ," and MF Doom comes through with a slightly disappointing but satisfying quartet of cartoonish head-nodders, but the recently deceased J Dilla wins for the lonesome, nostalgic "Whip You with a Strap" about Ghost being punished by his mom as a kid.
But while "Fishscale" follows GFK's roadmap to success, it likewise suffers from the same problems as his past solo albums. Most noticeably, the skits are stupid, all 7.5 of them ("Beauty Jackson" isn't listed as a skit, but it is), and chip away at "Fishscale"'s solidarity. Moreover, though it is difficult to find any guests who can hold a candle to their host, what the hell is R&B chart-topper Ne-Yo doing on "Fishscale?" Or anonymous vocalist Megan Rochell? Or hype-man Trife? By teaming up with musicians so noticeably below him, GFK waters down an otherwise vocal and lyrical masterpiece.
And having just released his latest near-masterpiece, it's time for Ghostface to get treated like a master. On "Fishscale," the emcee demonstrates his eye-popping abilities as a writer, wordsmith and entertainer, and deploys his peerless talents to discuss a wholly street-credible topic. Perhaps never has an emcee been so able to blend elements of the hardcore-rap cash-cow with the literacy and skill of the underground as expertly as Ghostface Killah, but he's often not even considered in the top 10 of his home city. If there is any justice, this will be righted, but in the meantime, I am going to keep putting some ketchup on my fries to hold it down for the Ghost.
