Not really having a finger on anything you could describe as a pulse, I'm not quite sure what's been happening with this guy since Revenge of the Barracuda. I can state with some certainty that he isn't President right now - more's the pity - and I don't think he's hosting any game shows, but otherwise I have no idea. I get the impression he still hasn't quite achieved the kind of recognition which would justify a magazine cover, at least not without being stood next to Ice Cube pulling a face; and so the only thing I can really say for sure is that this is a great album.
The name is pronounced Dub-C, in case you were wondering, therefore sparing us any comic misunderstandings involving Charles Hawtrey. He was one third of Westside Connection, with Ice Cube and Mack 10, and has been looking more and more like one of rap's most underrated as the years have passed. Rap, lest we should have forgotten, wasn't really designed for albums, not at first - being more about tunes spun in the park then quickly onto the next one while we're still squinting at the deliberately obscured label trying to catch the name of what the hell we just heard. Most rap artists have trouble filling an album, particularly since the advent of the compact disc, without a few duds being snuck in under the radar. Exceptions to the rule are just that - exceptions, but even those rare artists who manage the occasionally consistent album have rarely kept it going for more than a year or two; except for WC, so far as I can tell. Every single album has been great, no filler to be heard, and - Holy Mary mother of God - even the fucking skits are funny!
So let's have a listen to this one and see if we can't work out how the magic happens. There's probably not much joy in attempting to identify the greatest rapper who ever lived, so I won't. It probably isn't WC, but he's nevertheless in the premier division with an immediately recognisable voice no-one could possibly mistake for that of anyone else. It's the rhythm, the way he twangs those syllables making the words jump and pop like an instrument, combined with an above average wit, dexterity, and a weirdly jovial menace. He sounds like he'd be a fun guy to hang out with, but you really wouldn't want to get on his wrong side.
Combined with what I guess must be an ear for just the right sort of track, WC shines as few others have done without really doing anything obviously different to anyone else. Most rap albums, or most of those that don't quite get there, are usually let down by substandard beats which, as I say, never seems to occur with this guy. The west coast bounce harks back to p-funk ancestors without getting bogged down in mere karaoke, slow, soulful, but with a hard edge, never getting drippy, modern touches without ostentatious displays of weirdness - it all adds up to something almost stately, even mythic without having had to try too hard, and which packs one fuck of an emotional punch; and yet it's still music for those cars which go up and down. I'm hesitant to describe anyone as a genius, but as the single factor common to at least three other albums as great as this one, WC seems like a contender.
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