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Album Review: Pretty Toney

Tell a friend to tell a friend: Ghostface Killah can do no wrong.

by Douglas Passion | 2004.04.12

For the Def Jam marketing minds, Ghostface Killah presents a mystery wrapped inside an enigma nestled inside a Gucci bathrobe. This isn’t conjecture – about six months ago I spoke to a high-ranking individual from the label that asked in bewilderment, “what do people like about him, anyway?” After admitting an affinity for the “song about the roaches in the cereal”, the Universal soldier complained that Tony Starks’ gargantuan medallion and bronzed arm-eagle were “so new money.” “Why can’t he be Sean Carter?” the label representative sighed.

In fairness, Ghostface isn’t the easiest sell. His 30-plus age, affiliation with spoilt milk supergroup Wu-Tang Clan and taste for ‘80’s dookie-ropes and sequined denim jackets make him an odd fit for the 106 & Park circuit. To the legions of pretty young things whose thighs twitch like grasshopper legs for Marcus Houston and other greased-up charlatans, Ghostface is that dirty old uncle in a furry Kangol who tries to touch your crotch when you fall asleep on the couch. It doesn’t help that he’s foul-mouthed, raunchy, violent and prone to incoherent diatribes fusing 5% slang and culinary terminology. At the same time, his music inspires critical raves and mobilizes a legion of devoted Starkologists who insure at least moderate success for his solo efforts. And everyone knows he’s dope as fuck.

To the label’s credit, few of Def Jam’s greasy fingerprints smudge Ghostface’s latest offering, The Pretty Toney Album. Other than an appearance by faux-Trina slut-rapper Jackie-O and that schlocky-but-playful lead single “Push, Push, Push” with Missy, the album is blessedly free of commercial overtones or hot-at-the-moment pandering. No keyboard beats, no filthy southern deliveries, no Lil Jon shrieks, no bland-yet-enjoyable Ludacris cameos. Ghost sticks to his customary porridge of soul samples, dramatic narratives, skits with inane dialogue and guest appearances by Theodore Unit members and the ever-threatening Lox trio.

Ghostface’s solo debut, Ironman, was a vintage Wu album, chock full of clan collaborations and Rza production. Over the subsequent three albums, the Shaolin presence has steadily decreased – on Pretty Toney, the only contributions by anyone in the collective are a solitary beat from The Bishop and some guttural Old Dirty Bastard ad-libs. As Ghost has always been more Black Czar than Jim Kelly, more El Dorado than rickshaw, more fried catfish than pig’s blood on a stick, the dwindling influence of the bok choy-scented swordsmen has never been problematic. In fact, the more berserk facets of his personality never really came to strawberry-kiwi fruition until the looming stewardship of Rza and his colorful kimonos were jostled to the backburner.

After sample clearance snafus led to the omission of several excelsior songs from Bulletproof Wallets, the official release was received with all the popularity of American soldiers doing donuts in the Fallujah town square. Sans “Goodtimes”, “The Watch”, “The Sun” and the original version of “Flowers”, Wallets was a double disappointment – critics tearfully moaned about the missing tracks while the CD rotted on store shelves like a maggot-infested baby carcass. Unshackled by the stigma of sample strife and bolstered by the ferocious Def Jam machinery, Pretty Toney will undoubtedly enjoy a better reception than its predecessor; but really, it’s about the same caliber as Wallets. And it’s not as good as Supreme Clientele or Ironman.

Pretty Toney neither disappoints nor surpasses any expectations. Ghost’s conversational delivery still effortlessly meanders from cooing to hysterical (although the weeping flow has been somewhat subdued) and he remains the undisputed wally champion of injecting emotion into his music. Silly little media fuckers might have coined the term “emo-hop” to refer to the rap stylings of midwestern white dudes, but Ghost’s ferocity gives those guys the emotional depth of a cardboard cutout of Keanu Reeves wallowing in a K-hole. We could probably glean an applicable truism from the Prodigy quote “that’s not pain, that’s emotions, and you a bitch” but we’re not going to bother.

One of the most enjoyable things about following Ghostface’s music is his continuous improvement. Like a veteran pitcher who experiments with new grips for his four-seam fastball during the off-season, Ghost is always tinkering with the special techniques of shadowboxing. The crying flow, the multiple-syllable word strings, the intricate sing-along hooks, the rapping over entire soul records (vocals and all) and the break-beat driven production are organic adaptations, not mimicry. While the lyrics on Pretty Toney are more simplistic that the Poughkeepsie crispy free-association Babelwork that made Supreme Clientele so jesusfucking spectacular, Ghost does flaunt marked development in the chorus-crooning department. On many cuts – and most impressively accomplished on “Biscuits” -- Ghost ropes together hooks that ride perfectly atop the beat like a supple reverse cowboy connoisseur.

The first listen to any Ghostface album is somewhat deceptive experience. Like Wallets and Supreme Clientele, Pretty Toney sounds so little like other contemporary Hip-Hop albums that your ears need a little time to adjust. Even with the popularity of Kanye West’s chirpy vocal samples and sweater vests, Tony Stark’s over-the-top bravado, self-depreciating honesty, salty sailor language and observational humor are just too much to digest at a single sitting. The senses overload and the frazzled nerve endings S.O.S. one simple message: “holy shit”. When the trembling subsides and you’ve put your shirt back on, a few subtle flaws begin to emerge. Firstly, one-minute verses do not a song make. Ghost again continues his frustrating habit of spitting 20 bars of fury and then abruptly deading the track. We’re not advocating Ghost adhere to the verse-hook doctrine or anything – we just wish he would man up and make those 60-second snippets into full-length cuts. “Kunta Fly Shit”, “Keisha’s House” and “Last Night” are chicken nuggets that leave the listener craving the whole chicken, giblets and all. The Rza-less sequencing of the album also leaves room for improvement. Only an absolute asshole would take issue with the first five tracks (including the intro), but the next six joints are a confusing jambalaya of two one-minute jammies, some mumbled dialogue, the Missy crap and two other full-length songs. All of the material is solid – some of it even great – but there’s just something distracting about the mishmash of skits, songs and interludes.

Nitpicking aside, Pretty Toney is a damn good album. And we might as well let our beach ball-sized testicles hang: Ghost has probably the most unblemished track record in Hip-Hop history. Rakim got down with Jody Watley (twice). Nas has to live with the knowledge that fuckery like “Big Girls” and “Hot Boys” will forever float around the planet hurting people. And Jay-Z has been forever scarlet-lettered by that Mariah Carey shite and the truly insipid song where he rapped from the perspective of jewelry. Conversely, when Ghostface made a track personifying his watch, it was brilliant. Simply put, the guy never comes wack -- not on lyrics, not on delivery, not on concepts, not on his ear for beats. Almost by default, you can fairly assume that Pretty Toney is dope. And it is.

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