loosie: words: Album Review: <i>Theodore Unit's 718</i>

Album Review: Theodore Unit's 718

Finally, some grimy New York shit.

by Douglas Passion | 2004.08.17

It was back in the early Nineties that a thumb was first lodged in the East Coast’s longstanding Hip-Hop stranglehold. Dosed out by Dr. Dre and his merry kennel of G-Funkateers, the codeined cocktail of Indo-smoky production, whining synths and nursery school lyricism was a date-rape drug from which the Northerners awoke bleary-eyed and walletless. Frenetic breakbeats and Kalashnikov Kane-esque deliveries were replaced by syrupy grooves and drawled gangsterisms as the Cali sound dominated the radio and the sales charts.

The East Coast’s response to the cross-country challenge was divided. Tim Dog burned Compton hats as veterans Masta Ace and Brand Nubian opted to release embarrassing faux-LBC swill. More important and interesting was the evolution of New York’s aesthetic of griminess. Black Moon, Wu-Tang and Mobb Deep, all artists who embraced the threatening diction of Los Angeles’s gang-affiliated shit but rejected much of the West’s R&B influence, helped to create an era of phenomenal musical malevolence by hatcheting up samples with SP-1200s and filtering basslines into ominous rumbles. It was a soundtrack for camouflage fatigues, gold fronts and chewsticks.

Biggie, a dude who would have happily spent his career making songs with Sadat X and Crustified Dibs, went yet another route. A young P. Diddy, fresh from Uptown Records and that fantastic celebrity basketball riot, hijacked Ron G.’s mixtape motif of R&B/Rap fusion and commandeered it to a higher plateau than even the Heavster could have imagined. But it was no coincidence that a clip from “Gin and Juice” played during the intro to Ready to Die. With the Mississippi as a mirror, Big’s solo debut was The Chronic in a parallel universe where Dickies were Lo-wear and Chucks were Tims. A few “Machine Gun Funks” remained, but Puff’s vision was brought to life on radio-friendly records like “Big Poppa” and “Juicy” -- joints that seduced female listeners with soothing melodies while staying lyrically raw enough to keep the fellas riding shotgun.

Now it’s 2004, and the South has risen. St. Louis might technically be in the Midwest, but let’s be real – those motherfuckers are Southern in both musical sensibilities and retarded accents. This isn’t hate. The Great Douglass Passion only likes about five rappers right now, and T.I. and Lil Weezy both make the cut. But the point of the early history lesson reemerges now. What will be the East Coast’s latest response to being chicken-winged out of the limelight? We pretty much already know. One option is to put a bunch of Southern rappers on your album -- a la Jay-Z. Another is to buy a beat from Lil Jon – a la Mobb Deep -- or try to make a crunk double-time track – a la that new LL lameness. Thus far, no discordant East Coast sound has bubbled up in the way that the RZA, Beatminerz and Primo ushered in that beautiful early Nineties grittiness. Instead of righteous indignation at bammas stealing their shine, New York rappers have eagerly sized up the possibility of expanding their SoundScans below the Mason-Dixon line, shed their precious cape of Gotham arrogance and embraced their backwater contemporaries. Compounding the problem is that the Southern rap is made for clubs and bitches, making any sort of MF Doomy rebuttal an exercise in futility. The current incarnation of East Coast product is a rudderless vessel that congenially bobs towards the shores of the Delta, guided only by the swells and sluiceways of yokel music.

Then you’ve got Theodore Unit’s album, 718. They’re not going to sell any records. The group’s frontman just went cedar in the streets. And the album is good, not brilliant. But we need it. Brooklyn, Queens, Bronx and Staten Island -- we are hoes for the area code.

Ghostface, the leader of this Wu-outcropping, is on about ten cuts. Trife is on about nine, Meth is on one and Cappadonna is on one or two (I swear there’s a cab-driving reference in his verse). There are three to five other dudes who vary from dull to respectable – but you won’t find any Blinky Blinks or Baby Staces in Theodore Unit. If you’ve kept up with Ghost’s mixtape joints, you’ll have heard around a third of the album; Pretty Toney outtakes such as “Paychecks”, “Gorilla Hood” and “Drummer” all finally appear somewhere other than on SoulSeek. For the third consecutive album, the Wally Champ proves his ability to put together a cohesive and well-produced album without enlisting the help of any big producers whatsoever -- Anthony Acid, Nexus and Self could wander right up in Loosie headquarters and beat us within an inch of our lives and we would have no idea who they were unless one of them gasped out, “I produced Theodore Unit’s “Be My Girl,” during the pummeling. Then we could refer to the liner notes and chuckle maliciously, “Milestone, whoever you are, you’re going to pay dearly for your cruelty”. Oh, K-Def of “Real Live Shit” fame does three beats too (sans Larry-O, sadly).

Some of 718 sounds as if was recorded in a basement with the air conditioner accidentally left on. That’s fine. Some of the samples are so grainy their native 45’s were probably used for skeet-shooting. That’s fine too. Theodore Unit henchman Superb is not on the album, presumably due to killing someone for not bringing him his motherfucking cognac. That sucks, especially for him. But the point isn’t that 718 is a masterful hour-plus of music that somehow changez the game (ed. note: the phrase “changes the game” is used courtesy of GameChangerz Inc. in association with GamezPeopleChange Ent.) and makes us all kowtow to the temple of Hip-Hop offering up mp3 tithes. Nah, this is just an album that, for a short time, takes us to a magical land where DOWN SOUTH HIP-HOP DOES NOT MATTER. Even when Atl-stomper Bonecrusher makes an appearance on “Who Are We?”, the South doesn’t exist in the realm of rap as anything other than a place where S. Dot gets money on Wednesday the 3rd. Granted, 718 passionately returns to the vintage sound of New York Hip-Hop instead of carving out a new path for regional solidarity, but who gives a fuck? Ghostface and a horde of solid emcees over real beats -- our Theodore Unit CD stays at the beginning 'cause that's how it rewinds.