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Album Review: Rock City

Royce the 5'9" attempts to escape Eminem's shadow.

by Douglas Passion | 2002.12.18

Let’s try to pinpoint the exact moment when Royce the 5’9” lost his fucking mind. It wasn’t with “Bad Meets Evil”, the two-song single with Eminem that introduced the world to the pair of Detroit emcees. It wasn’t with “I’m the King”, a dark battle-oriented track that found its way into the car radio in Grand Theft Auto III. And it certainly wasn’t with “Boom”, the Primo-crafted banger that featured Royce spitting the way he’s supposed to.

Oh, right. Willa Ford. Royce in sunglasses chanting “Willa, Willa, Willa” while a Britney Spears wannabe in a cowgirl suit cockteased us with threats of “wanting to be bad”. Then his manager angered Dr. Dre, who cut Royce’s appearances off the multi-platinum Chronic 2001. Then there were the ten songs in a row with references to Royce being Eminem’s friend. Then there was that corny Trackmasters-produced “You Can’t Touch Me”. We’re sorry, Royce, but thanks to the head honcho at MC Hammer Ministries, the phrase “can’t touch” has been permanently lobbed into the big-bin-o’-unusable-names-for-songs.

So, Royce’s Rock City album is saccharine trash, right? Surprisingly, it’s not. Although he throws in a few tracks catering to the club crowd that has steadfastly avoided him like a skinny girl with cold sores, a healthy portion of the LP features good old-fashioned beats and rhymes. In case the nonsensical attempts at commercial music have caused you to forget why Royce was so well received to begin with, Rock City will remind you that Royce is a solid emcee.

With nothing to show for his stints on three different labels other than a handful of singles and a couple pushed-back album release dates, it’s fair to say that Royce’s hit-making viability is under whelming. As his roller-coaster catalogue illustrates, this simply isn’t a guy built for making cheesy dance anthems or teenybopper treats. Royce is most at home bragging about his rapping talents and boasting about his criminal past. When he shrugs aside caviar dreams and champagne wishes and instead concentrates on creating good material, his lyrics are excellent. His delivery is confident. His concepts are well thought out. Think of it this way: if Eminem is the god of putting together strings of words, Royce is a disciple of the same faith.

Several tracks on Rock City are meant for the radio. “Let’s Go” has Twista on it. “Mr. Baller” has Pharrell and The Clipse on it. The title track has Eminem on it. None of these songs are particularly splendid. But do not be forlorn, gentle listener, the rest of the album is pretty damn good. When the over-produced party tracks are exchanged for stripped-down minimalist thug shit, Royce sounds like a new man. “Take His Life”, though about five years old, is still four minutes of pure ignorant bliss. Mighty Mi provides a nice bass ‘n’ strings backdrop for “Nickel Nine Is”, where Royce boasts “the time that it took to write this, I could be selling twice this of white shit.” Maybe so, but then we’d miss lines like: “that’s me, the baddest rap you heard in a while/ ride with a gat in the lap convertible style/ that’s me, the killer that lurk in the dark/ tear up your goddamn hood from the church to the park.”

Royce will never equal the success of his pale partner-in-rhyme, but Rock City proves that he has the potential to carve out his own niche. If Royce can avoid the traps set by hit-hungry record execs, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to make plenty of enjoyable music in the future.

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