The late, great Hunter S. Thompson once said, “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”
In the music industry, the going has certainly gotten weird, at least in terms of the tanking sales numbers. Consequently, the weird have, in fact, turned pro, and in a big way. Nowhere is this more evident than in New Orleans rapper Lil Wayne’s rise to rap superstardom, and the attendant hysterical levels of anticipation surrounding his new album, “Tha Carter III.”
So the ego finally has landed. After two botched release dates (December 2007, March 2008), countless mixtapes (“Da Drought” series, “Best Rapper Alive” series), some of the most scene-stealing guest appearances in recent memory (“Duffle Bag Boy,” “We Takin’ Over,” “Make It Rain”) and bloggers’ disbelief about the anyone-could-have-Photoshopped-this cover art (which turned out to be real), Lil Wayne’s would-be opus, “Tha Carter III,” is finally here.
The very weird Dwayne Michael Carter has turned pro indeed. And as usual, Wayne uses the wildly varying beats on this album as blank canvases to splatter, Pollock-style, with his non-sequitur rhymes.
As a result, Wayne is hands down one of the most entertaining MCs to listen to. His rhymes are bizarre, free-associative and chock-full of puns and similes, quite possibly a product of Wayne’s strict diet of prescription cough syrup and weapons-grade marijuana. These rhymes, delivered in his signature geriatric, croaky drawl, are the centerpiece of the album.
The thing about Wayne is that he’s no storyteller. Maybe his syrup-addled mind is to blame for the fact that no more than five consecutive lines on the album relate back to each other. Each line stands alone. However, this makes for some of the best and most hilarious punchlines, if not the best complete songs.
Case in point: “Dr. Carter.” The song’s basic concept is that Wayne is a doctor who cures wack rappers of their ailments. Needless to say, the concept is somehow simultaneously ridiculous, hilarious and creative. However, an uncharacteristically low-key Swizz Beatz beat builds in the right places, and the line “Arthritis in my hand from writing / But I’m a doctor they don’t understand my writing” made me laugh out loud. Another example of Weezy’s shotgun approach to songwriting is the volcanic “A Milli.” Already a hit on the radio, the beat is almost laughably repetitive on headphones, but functions well as a cro-magnon banger on good speakers. As for the lyrics, Wayne doesn’t just leave the mic smoking, he leaves it bent and melted like a Dalà clock. Lil Weeziana is all over the map, referencing his sexual appetite, a certain popcorn brand and even No Doubt.
For every uneven effort, there are a handful of unqualified highlights. “Mr. Carter,” buoyed by an appearance from the other Mr. Carter, Jay-Z, and a beat that features an East Coast sample and dirty South drums, definitely succeeds. “Let the Beat Build,” with production by Kanye West, also works well, with a drumless intro reminiscent of Andre 3000’s verse on “Int’l Players Anthem.” Later in the album, “Mrs. Officer” succeeds in spite of the dumbass concept of Wayne seducing a policewoman (“After we got done / I said, “˜Lady what’s your number’; she said “˜911.'”), thanks to a smooth, guitar-aided beat courtesy of Deezle, and an equally smooth yet asinine Bobby Valentino hook, where he imitates a police car.
The Birdman Jr. is like the Ritalin-dependent class clown: hilarious, distracted and not living up to his potential. When he focuses, he can make a point beyond “I’m the best rapper alive.” “Tie My Hands,” for example, is a love letter and eulogy for New Orleans in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, and “Shoot Me Down” is a plea for acceptance. If Wayne wants his spot in the Pantheon of rap greats, he has to learn how to unify his songs and tell his own stories.
So even though Wayne’s rhymes won’t make your jaw drop like Nas’ or Biggie’s, they’re sure to make you hit the rewind button after you stop laughing.
““ Jake Ayres
E-mail Ayres at jayres@media.ucla.edu.