Wu-Tang Clan - "Method Man"

[The b-side of the first official Wu-Tang Clan 12" and a highlight of their debut album, "Method Man" is the perfect mix of cinematic atmosphere and party-rockin' funkiness. RZA's piano loop sets a steady groove, the beat kicks, and Meth rhymes over it like he's been preparing for this moment his whole life. Then, two-thirds of the way in, the breakdown hits. A quick spoken aside, eight measures of infectious shout-along debauchery, then the beat swoops back in and (as they say on TV) resistance is futile. The final verse blasts away, and the listener has no choice but to revel in the finest groove Staten Island has ever delivered. Like the Man says, this is, in fact, "the jam".]

spoken intro:
(From the slums of Shaolin: Wu-Tang Clan strikes again!
The RZA, the GZA, Ol Dirty Bastard, Inspectah Deck, Raekwon the Chef, U-God, Ghost Face Killer and the Method Man)

M-E-T-H-O-D, MAN
M-E-T-H-O-D, MAN
M-E-T-H-O-D, MAN
M-E-T-H-O-D, MAN

Hey, you, get off my cloud
You don't know me and you don't know my style
Who be gettin' flam when they come to a jam?
Here I am here I am, the Method Man
Patty cake, patty cake, hey the Method Man
Don't eat Skippy, Jif or Peter Pan
Peanut butter, 'cause I'm not butter
In fact, I snap back like a rubber band
I be Sam, Sam I Am
And I don't eat green eggs and ham
Style will hit ya, wham!, then goddamn
You be like "Oh shit, that's the jam!"
Turn it up now hear me get buckwu-wu-wild
I'm about to blow, light me up
Upside downside inside and outside
Hittin' you from every angle there's no doubt
I am, the one and only Method Man
The master of the plan, wrappin' shit like Saran
Wrap, with some of this and some of that
Hold up, (what?) I tawt I tat a putty tat
Over there, but I think he best to beware
Of the diggy dog shit right here
Yippy yippy yay yippy yah yippy yo
Like Deck said, this aint your average flow
Comin' like Ra, ooh ah, achie kah
Tell me how ya like it so far, baby pa
The poetry's in motion, coast to coast and
Rub it on your skin like lotion
What's the commotion, oh my lord
Another corn chopped by the Wu-Tang sword
Hey hey hey, like Fat Albert
It's the Method Man ain't no if ands about it
It's the Method

(All right, y'all get ya White Owls, get ya meth, get ya skins
Don't forget your forty
And we gonna do it like this...)

I got fat bags of skunk
I got White Owl blunts
And I'm about to go get lifted
Yes, I'm about to go get lifted
I got myself a forty
I got myself a shorty
And I'm about to go and stick it
Yes I'm about to go and stick it

Uhh, H-U-F-F, huff and I puff
Blow like snow when the cold wind's blowin'
Zoom, I hit the mic like boom
Wrote a song about it, like to hear it, here it goes
Question: what exactly is a panty raider?
Ill behaviour, savior, or major flavor
All of the above, oh yeah, plus I do so
Also flam, I'm the man call me super
Not an average Joe with an average flow
Doing average things with average hoes
Yo, I'm super, I'll make a bitch squirm
For my, Su-per Sperm (check it)
Check it, I give it to ya raw, butt naked
I smell sess, pass the Method
Let's get lifted as I kick ballistics
Missles and shoot game like a pistol
Clip is loaded when I click bang, dang
A Wu-Tang slug hits your brain
J-U-M-P jump and I thump
Make girls' rumps like pump and Humpty Hump
Wow, the Shaolin style is all in me
Child, the whole damn isle is callin' me
P-A-N-T-Y-R-A-I-D-E-R, mad raw, I don't cry
Meaning no one can burn or toss and turn me
Ooh, I be the super sperm
Chim chiminey chim chim cheree
Freak a flow and flow fancy free
Now how many licks does it take
For me to hit the Tootsie Roll center of a break
Peep and don't sleep, the crew's mad deep
Wu-Tang fadin' motherfuckers like bleach
So to each and every crew
You're clear like glass I can see right through
Your whole damn posse be catchin' 'em all. 'cause you vicked
And ya didn't have friends to begin with
I'm the:

M-E-T-H-O-D, MAN
M-E-T-H-O-D, MAN
M-E-T-H-O-D, MAN
M-E-T-H-O-D, MAN

Here I am, here I am, the Method Man

spoken outro:

Straight from the slums of Shaolin
Wu-Tang Killa Beez on a swarm
Your soul have just been taken through the 36 chambers of death, kid...

Notorious B.I.G. - "Hypnotize"

[Interpolating a section of the classic "La Di Da Di" and turning it on its head, "Hypnotize" might be the late Christopher Wallace's defining moment... A steady-bouncing beat (courtesy of Puff Daddy) creates the a near-perfect club track, a mid-tempo rumble of bass overlaid with a springy synth riff, Biggie's pinpoint rhythmic delivery, and a disembodied female vocal refrain. Put it on the system, and watch the dancefloor catch fire.]

Ah, sicka than your average poppa
Twist cabbage off instinct, niggaz don't think shit stink
Pink gators, my Detroit players
Timbs for my hooligans in Brooklyn
Dead right, if they head right, Biggie their Air Nike
Poppa been smooth since days of Underroos
Never lose, never choose to
Bruise crews who do something to us, talk go through us
Girls walk to us, wanna do us, screw us
Who us? Yeah, Poppa and Puff
Close like Starsky and Hutch, stick the clutch
Dare I squeeze three at your cherry M3
Bang every MC easily, busily
Recently niggaz frontin', ain't sayin' nuthin'
So I just speak my piece, keep my peace
Cubans with the Jesus piece, with my peeps
Packin', askin' who want it, you got it nigga, flaunt it
That Brooklyn bullshit, we on it

(Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see
Sometimes your words just hypnotize me
And I just love your flashy ways
Guess that's why they broke, and you're so paid)

I put hoes in NY onto DKNY
Miami, D.C. prefer Versace
All Philly hoes, dough and Moschino
Every cutie with a booty bought a Coogi
Now who's the real dookie, meanin' who's really the shit
Them niggaz ride dicks, Frank White push the sticks on the Lexus
LX, four and a half
Bulletproof glass tints if I want some ass
Gon' blast squeeze first, ask questions last
That's how most of these so-called gangsters pass
At last, a nigga rappin' 'bout blunts and broads
Tits and bras, menage-a-trois, sex in expensive cars
I still leave you on the pavement
Condo paid for, no car payment
At my arraignment, note for the plaintiff
Your daughter's tied up in a Brooklyn basement
Face it, not guilty
That's how I stay filthy Richer than Richie
'Til you niggaz come and get me

I can fill ya wit' real millionaire shit
Escargot, my car go, one sixty, swiftly
Wreck it buy a new one
Your crew run run run, your crew run run
I know you sick of this, name brand nigga wit' flows
Girls say he's sweet like licorice
So get with this nigga, it's easy
Girlfriend here's a pen, call me round ten
Come through, have sex on rugs that's Persian
Come up to your job, hit you while you workin'
For certain, Poppa freakin', not speakin'
Leave that ass leakin', like rapper demo
Tell them hoe, take they clothes off slowly
Hit 'em with The Force like Obi, dick black like Toby
Watch me roam like Gobi, lucky they don't owe me
Where the safe, show me, homey...

Ol' Dirty Bastard - "Shimmy Shimmy Ya"

[Now, there are those who might wonder why "Shimmy Shimmy Ya" is worthy of annotation. After all, it's only one verse, and it makes no sense whatsoever, right? EXACTLY! It's pure free-associative referential gobbledygook, prime Ol' Dirty "BRAAAAARRGGHHH" vocal stylings over a killer RZA loop, a 1000% perfect party tune. It does not, in fact, get any better than this. Act like you know.]

Shimmy shimmy ya, shimmy yam, shimmy yay
Gimme a mic, so I can take it away
Off on a natural charge, bon voyage
Yeah, from the home of The Dodgers, Brooklyn Squad!
Wu-Tang Killa Bees on the swarm
Rain on your college ass, disco dorm
For you to even touch my skill
You gotta have one killer bee, and he ain't gonna kill now
Chop that down, pass it all around
Lyrics get hard, quick cement to the ground
For any MC in any fifty-two states,
I get Psycho KILLA, Norman Bates
My producer slam, sharp like Bam
Step onstage and then I "DUN DAHHHHHHH"!

Fugees - "Ready Or Not"

["Ready Or Not" was the third single to be taken from the Fugees' blockbuster second album, and might be the strongest of the bunch... A killer Lauryn Hill vocal hook (lifted from a Delfonics hit) and an instrumental track rich in atmosphere (partially due to the unlikely use of an Enya sample) set up individual verses that are by turns impressionistic (Wyclef), confrontational (Lauryn), and just plain strange (Pras). The beat rumbles steadily along, providing rock-solid foundation beneath the delerious fog of words and the razor-sharp melody fighting to keep the darkness at bay.]

Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide
Gonna find you, and take it slowly
Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide
Gonna find you, and make you want me

Now that I escape, sleepwalker awake
Those who could relate know the world ain't cake
Jail bars ain't golden gates
Those who fake, they break,
When they meet their 400 pound mate
If I could rule the world
Everyone would have a gun, in the ghetto of course
When giddyupin' on their horse
I kick a rhyme drinkin' moonshine
I pour a sip on the concrete, for the deceased
But no, don't weep, Wyclef's in a state of sleep
Thinkin' 'bout the robbery that I did last week
Money in the bag, banker looked like a drag
I want to play with pellet guns from here to Baghdad
Gun blast, think fast, I think I'm hit
My girl pinched my hips to see if I still exist
I think not, I'll send a letter to my friends
A born again hooligan only to be king again

I play my enemies like a game of chess, where I rest
No stress
If you don't smoke sess, lest
I must confess, my destiny's manifest
In some Gore-tex and sweats I make treks like I'm homeless
Rap orgies with Porgy and Bess
Capture your bounty like Elliot Ness, yes
Bless you if you represent the Fu
But I'll hex you with some witch's brew, if you're doo doo
Voodoo
I can do what you do, easy, believe me
Frontin' niggas give me heebie jeebies
So while you're imitating Al Capone
I'll be Nina Simone
And defecating on your microphone

(You can't run away
From these styles I got, oh baby, hey baby
'Cause I got a lot, oh yeah
And anywhere you go
My whole crew's gonna know
You can't hide from the block, oh no)

Ready or not, refugees takin' over
The Buffalo Soldier, dreadlock rasta
On the twelfth hour, fly by in my bomber
Crews run for cover, now they're under, pushin' up flowers
Superfly, true lies, do or die
Toss me high, only puff la with my crew from lock high
I refugee from Guantanamo Bay
Dance around the border like I'm Cassius Clay

Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide
Gonna find you, and take it slowly
Ready or not, here I come, you can't hide
Gonna find you, and make you want me...

Das EFX - "They Want EFX"

[Oh yes, "They Want EFX". The track that put Das EFX on the hip-hop map, the song that popularized the 'dippity" style of rhyming, one of the most infectious beats of the era (courtesy of a sample from James Brown's "A Blind Man Can See It"), and more references per square inch than pretty much any other rap lyric. There's really nothing more that needs to be said. Read on...]

Bum stiggedy bum stiggedy bum, hon, I got the old pa-rum-pum-pum-pum
But I can fe-fi-a-fo, diddly-bum, here I come
So Peter Piper, I'm hype-er than Pinocchio's nose
'Cause I'm a supercalafragilistic tic-tac pro
I gave my oopsy daisy, now you've got the crazy
Crazy with the books, googley-goo where's the gravy?
So one two, unbuckle my, um, shoe
Yabba doo, hibbidy-hoo, crack a brew
So trick or treat, smell my feet, yup I drippedy-dropped a hit
So books get on your mark and spark that old censorship
Drats and double drats, I smiggedy-smacked some whiz kids
The boogedy-woogedy Brooklyn boy's about to get his, dig?
My waist bone's connected to my hip bone
My hip bone's connected to my thigh bone
My thigh bone's connected to my knee bone
My knee bone's connected to my
Hardy-har-har-har
The jibbedy Jabberjaw ja-jabbing at your funny bone, um
Skip the Ovaltine, I'd rather have my Honeycomb
Or preferably the sinsemilla, lets spiggedy-spark the blunts, um
Dun dun dun dun dun, dun dun

They want efx, some live efx
They want efx, some live efx
They want efx, some live efx
Snap a head for some live efx

Well I'll be darned, shiver me timbers, yo, head for the hills
I picked a weeping willow, and a daffodil
So back up, bucko, or I'll pulverize McGruff
'Cause this little piggy gets busy and stuff
Arrivederci, heavens to mercy, honky tonk, I get swift
I caught a snuffleupagus and smoked a boogaloo spliff
I got the nooks, the crannies, the nitty gritty fodey-doe
So all aboard, cast away
Hey where's my boogaloo?
Oh, I'm steaming, agony
Why is everybody always picking on me?
They call me Pudnin Tane, and raps my game
You axe me again and I'll t-tell you the same
'Cause I'm the vulgar vegemitarian hon, stick 'em up, freeze!
So no Park's Sausages, Mom, please?
A-Blitz shoots the breeze, Twiddly-Dee shoots his lip
Crazy Jazy shot the sheriff, yup, and I shot the gift
And that's pretty sneaky, sis, oh yo
I got my socks off, my rocks off, my Nestle's cup of cocoa
Holly Hobbie tried to slob me, tried to rob me, silly stunt
Diggedy-dun dun dun dun dun, dun dun

Yah-hoo, hi-de-ho, yup I'm coming around the stretch
So here Fido boy, fetch, boy, fetch
I got the rope-a-dope, a slippery choker, look at me get raw
And I'm the hickory-dickory top of the morning boogaloo big jaw
With the yippedy zippedy Winnie The Pooh Bad Boy Blue,
Ah yo' crazy, I got the gusto, what up, I swing that too
So nincompoop I gave a hoot and stomp a troop without a strain
Like Roscoe P. Coltrane
I spiggedy-spark a spliff and give a twist like Chubby Checker
I take my Froot Loops with two scoops, and make it a double decker
Oh Vince, the baby, come to Pepe Pew
A babalu, ooh, a babalu boogedy boo
I went from Gucci to Stussy, to fliggedy-flam a groupie
To Zsa Zsa, to yibbedy yabba dabba hoochy koochy Tally-ho, I, I'll take my stove top instead of potatoes, so
Maybe I'll shoot 'em now (nope), maybe I'll shoot 'em later (yep)
I used to have a dog and Bingo was his name oh, so uh, B-I-N-G-O-oh,
You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around, hon, so uh
Dun dun dun dun dun dun, dun dun

Gang Starr (featuring Nice And Smooth) - "DWYCK"

[If you were gonna pick one track from the early 90s NYC hip-hop scene as an example of an "anthem", DWYCK would be an excellent candidate. DJ Premier lays down one of his finest beats, Greg Nice delivers a verse with his typical panache (spelling out words, mispronouncing words, referencing a range of cultural icons, throwing in some french, and ending up in regions uncharted by the lucid), Guru asserts his street cred while talking about lemonade, and Smooth B. steps in to wrap it up with rhymes about smoking up and some brilliant silliness about rhinos. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, and that's pretty much the beauty of it. Three MCs and one DJ at the top of their game, having a blast, and bringing you the sound of the party.]

Gang Starr has gots to be the sure shot
Nice & Smooth has gots to be the sure shot
Gang Starr has got to be the sure shot
Nice & Smooth has got to be the sure shot

Greg Nice! Greg N-I-C-E!
Droppin a bass oh, ah oui oui
Rock for a fee
Not for free
Maybe I'll do it for charity
Now my employer, or my employee
Is makin' Greg N-I-C-E very M-A-D
Don't ever ever think of jerkin' me
I work too hard for my royalty
Put lead in ya ass, and drink a cup of tea
Peace to Red Alert and Kid Capri
Ooh la la, ah oui oui
I say Muhammad Ali, you say Classius Clay [sic]
I say butter, you say Parkay
It's alright if you wanna make a sway
I'm a way up town, took duece to the tre
I originate, they duplicate
I praise the lord and keep the faith
It's alright, keep bitin' at tha bait
'92, ooh, one year later
Peace out, Premier, take me out with the fader...

I chant eeny meeny, miny, moe
I wreck the mic like a pimp pimps hoes
Here's how it goes, I am a genius, I mean this
I shake this you'll take this
I'm kinda fiendish
You wish that you could come into my neighborhood
Meaning my mental state
Still, I'm 5 foot 8
Crazy as I wanna be
'Cause I make it orderly
You could say I'm sorta da boss, so get lost
The brotha that will make you change opinions
Dominions, I'm in them when it's time to kick shit
From the heart, plus I get a piece of the action
I'm feelin' satisfaction from the street crowd reaction
Chumps pull guns when they feel afraid, too late
When they dip in the kick they get sprayed
Lemonade was a popular drink, and it still is
I get more props and stunts than Bruce Willis
A poet like Langston Hughes and can't lose when I cruise
Out on the expressway
Leavin' the bodega, I say "suav-eh"
Premier's got more beats than barns got hay
Clips are inserted into my gun
So I can take the money, never have ta run...

I left my Phillie at home, do you have another?
I wanna get blunted, my brother
Now may I make a mark
Then make a spark over this fat track,
Or should I say dope beat?
Subtract, delete
All of the wick wack that wanna be abstract
But they lack the new knack that's comin' from way way back
Hey yo, Premier, please pass that buddah sack
You hear we quit?
No way, bullshit
I told ya before we come back wit' more hits
I provide bright flava, so you can sketch me
Do me a favor, don't try and catch me
Step me ahead of the game, I'm not a lame
Ask him, he'll tell you the same, he knows my name: Smooth
I drop jewels like paraphernalia
I'm infallable, not into failure
Like a rhinoceros, my speed is prosperous
And pure knowledge expands from my esophagus
I write here tonight to bring truth to the light
My dialogue is my own, 'cause Smooth B will never bite...

[Additional reading: An interview with Guru wherin he explains the meaning of the term "Dwyck", a well-worded appreciation of the song in question. Peace out, Premier, take me out with the fader...]