Shyne Coldchain II: Vince Staples' Obsession with Progression
find Common (featuring Vince Staples') "Kingdom," & Vince Staples' "Nate" on the music player @ the footer.
SHYNE COLDCHAIN VOL. 2, by VINCE STAPLES
RELEASE DATE: March 13, 2014
TRACK-BY-TRACK REVIEW by HALLEY RUSSELL
Understanding what Vince Staples does lies deeply in appreciating the progression listeners saw from his first project through his latest, the “progression” of an entire community, the progression of hip hop music, and the concept of progression as a whole—with Shyne Coldchain Vol. 2 he proves that progressive isn’t just something he names his intro tracks. “Progressive 3” and its accompanying screaming synth are indicative of the Dialated Peoples production that propelled the mixtape into existence. The only features are two supporting singers, and even then—they are subdued. The tape is a conservative ten songs, most in the two to three minute range, although sparing, every single second is extremely busy vocally, sonically, and lyrically. With Staples assertively “Back and blacker than ever” in the booth—just three seconds into the tape—literally—it is obvious that this project is not one for the lighthearted pop-rap listener, or the slighted racist sympathizer.
This is one of the aspects that made Shyne Coldchain Vol. 2 so appealing—Staples flow is dense, unlike the comparatively sparse sprawl of his hometown that the heavy, thumping bass and the thick, soupy smog encapsulates. The frequently light, airy, and ambient backing tracks are reflective of an opposite sonic reality—the palm trees and the eighty-two degree weather that bleeds LA as red as South Central. Heavier and more suggestive of Staples reality are the racial themes that ubiquitously pervade the set. On the former track, he contrasts life as a young urban black man struggling with the trappings that come with the territory—figuratively and literally, as well as the fleeting promise that success in the entertainment industry is a golden parachute out of a life based around bloodshed, criminality, and simply wanting to escape. This concept was most properly outlined by the verse:
“Got sick of waiting for these actors to get it together
Still in them gutters, all my brothers is birds of a feather
Tried to get this money cause my people done struggled forever
Son of my father, gunning for stardom, it's worth a shot…”
Along with clever wordplay, I’m thinking: “son of my father, gunning for stardom, it’s worth a shot”, Staples continues his observations and criticisms regarding the black community, proceeding to employ one of his most pointed criticisms on the tape, referring to President Obama as “just a house nigga to me,” supporting the fact that Staples sees the President as the old “Uncle Tom” caricature. With this declaration, he bridges the preceding line with the following few lines in an effort to make social commentary on the fact that even though African Americans can be in immense positions of power, the race as a whole—especially its youths—continue to struggle in the face of misconceptions due to the misrepresentations that are undeniably magnified by mainstream hip hop culture. He then takes this association and as anyone in his situation would conceivably do, Staples stands in the face of hopelessness—still chained to either his gat or his rap contract:
“Seen black, same crack, so they gave us that
Give us hope then take us back
To the 1800's with these rap contracts…”
The tongue-in-cheek, yet extremely serious and (purposefully) grammatically incorrect ushering out of the last verse—which states, then questions—“my chain heavy, is you ready for that revolution?” is brought to a strange kind of fruition with the haunting, nonchalant, and submerged half-singing that is vaguely reminiscent of the unsettling moan heard toward the end of Public Enemy’s anthem, “Fear of A Black Planet,” contrasts the high pitched, biting backing production that introduced the song, similarly to how the monologue at the end of the latter was used as a complement. However, in “Progressive 3” the variance was even more prominent and effective. Magnified by the rawness in Staples voice as the pitch is heightened, his lazy baritone cracks during this utterance; the tone is so chilling and fervent that it gives the listener the feeling of impending doom. This half-singing drone is one of the most original applications of foreshadowing that I have ever seen practically applied.
A smooth transition into the next track, “Locked & Loaded” resourcefully plays with the words locked and loaded (i.e. think locked up, and loaded into a slave ship or loaded into the prisoner transport van.) It also picked up percussive elements and a reverberating “Oh lord, oh lord, oh lord, oh lord” which ultimately assisted in speeding up the album with respect to tempo and content (added sarcasm), while continuing the themes seen in the last track: “I got a .25 Beretta in my mama car. Same one my brother use, same one my father bought…” This track can be seen as the natural successor of “Progressive 3”, with lines like:
“Since back when there was white men under them sheets
Riding horseback, walking on the backs of the free
You see we in it to survive, what the fuck did you think?
At the blink of an eye niggas could die in these streets.”
With the title’s underlying meaning taken into account, Staples brings to surface that the black community has always been threatened by adversity even without the internal shortcomings that he highlights throughout. He amplifies the fact that since the days of slavery to the days of the Ku Klux Klan—Black Americans have survived under the constant cloud of external threats. He also employs a double entendre considering the implications of the latter two lines relating to inner city street violence and black on black crime (“…niggas could die in these streets). After this point the beat really begins to hit hard, probably having something to do with the organic-sounding yet nonetheless, synthetic, resonating bass. This sound is extremely influential with respect to the film-set imagery which evokes thoughts of directors yelling “cut!!” and slamming their clapperboards to commence the film. This is especially relevant when heard in context to the accompanying verse. “My life a movie, hope you liking the show. They act, we shooting, just a part of the role…” What’s more is the use of “shooting” as a homonym (shooting a gun, contrasted with shooting a film) ties in the point that Staples wishes to solidify: his reality, and the reality for many inner-city, likely-black people, is just that—a fantasy which is observed by the white community from the outside looking in, and—in a sick and twisted way—enjoyed by the latter group by listening to it lackadaisically as hip hop—as entertainment, just like a movie (“hope you liking the show.”) Vince Staples, however, plays the part of the victim of the streets as he’ll “lock and load” and be “ready to go,” figuratively locking and loading the gun that he simulated with the jarring hook while simultaneously stimulating the mind of the listener:
“Lock and load and I’m ready to go.
Lock and load and I'm ready to go
When I'm ready to go, when I'm ready to go …”
During this hook, Staples is unequivocally trying to communicate that literally locking and loading, and being ready to go is reminiscent of someone picking up a gun and being ready to go use it. What is less evident is the fact that he is also figuratively trying to communicate that being “locked and loaded, and ready to go” readily translates to being “ready to go” as in ready to die, as denoted by (I’ll) “lock and load…When I’m ready to go (die), when I’m ready to go (die).” Staples concluded “Locked & Loaded” with one of his best organic verses of all time, one that brought the song to a concise, thoughtful and captivating end, which was structurally, sonically, and thematically parallel to the first verse. He readily worked with creative contrasts to further critique the black community on the potential that it has to be respectable, as well as its contradictions concerning religion, his own agnosticism, trigger happiness and reparations:
“Hey, tell these niggas let the black man shine
This little light of mine, a nine I hide inside of my drawers
Ain't nothing ancient, mama, ayy lil mama, ayy don't start
I only pray when asking Allah how we made it this far.”
He finished the verse by juxtaposing the past with the present, proving that nothing has changed from “niggas being on the bottom” of the slave ship hundreds of years ago to “niggas being on the bottom” of the food chain today: “The thoughts of niggas on the bottom (are) what I offer to y'all. We’(re) from the slaveship, (so) all my niggas ride for the cause.” This reality—likely being the most cohesive and pervasive theme of the album is contrasted with the stark reality that be it the slave ship, no snitchin’ rules or the “county blues”, symbols for being black in America are ever so reflective of struggle, violence, and attempted reconciliation:
“Because we can't snitch, know you niggas heard it before
A child was murdered before, he had a chance to mature
And bet the one they didn't ever see outside of the bars
We the pride of Raymond Washington, they washing us off
Them baggy True’s fit just like them county blues
Mac 10 match well with my black skin
Little black boy shooting up the avenue.”
Produced largely by No I.D., the album doesn’t use samples and most of it is stripped down to its core. Two of the three top standout tracks were not produced by No I.D., however by comparatively newer producers such as Scoop DeVille and Dialated Peoples, who are less minimalistic in their approach. No I.D.’s approach was not a 1990’s Chi-town rap sound that is indicative of “reading Qurans and going to college,” or actually just listening to some old recycled Common, his angle was indicative of “I Used To Love H.E.R,” because like all things, hip hop is dynamic, even today, 20 years after Common Sense passionately said, “It’s all about stopping the violence... and Afro-centricity is a thing of the past.” What would Common have to comment of the commentary Staples made just two tracks in with Shyne Coldchain 2? Would he understand that Staples was saying the same thing that he was saying 20 years ago? The answer is probably not, because he only used to love H.E.R. No I.D.’s beats do, however, bridge this gap, popping in like gunshots beginning the next track: “Humble”, with a hook consisting of repetitious, successive, violent and threatening “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you’s.” The heavy reverb lowers and the tempo gets a little slower as the album transitions into “45”, a direct assault, with a sweeping synth that rains on the casual listener like napalm, igniting the latter with a hook that, although repetitious in structure, feels like you are holding a 45 caliber in your weak hand, “even though you’re just another nigga…” The real turning point for me, was the following track that asks, “Oh, you scared, ain’t you” and sweeps in softly with a subdued, evocative supporting vocal hum that has just enough inquisition to keep you scared of what may happen next, but much more intrigue, as you can tell that the album has made a paradigm shift—almost as though Staples has come to a crossroads, a less technically refined realization that evokes memories of the shift witnessed during Kendrick Lamar’s Good Kid, M.A.A.D City after hearing the last note on “Sing About Me, I’m Dying of Thirst” Staples, similarly to Kendrick Lamar, expresses the doubts he has of his revelation, and the same judgmental conscience that asked “oh you scared, ain’t you” asks the audience “you gettin’ bread, ain’t you?” Staples still answers defiantly “nigga, where my money at?” as the hook of the song transforms into verses chronicling home invasions and other disreputable activities that have served a broad appeal to his audience and subject matter, thus far. With lines like: “food stamps and dope deals, hood life with no frills,” the listener realizes that the character’s realization was just that—a realization that his life is reflective of what he has criticized, but the reality that the intense subjugation that his archetype has experienced is, in reality, too oppressive to overcome for many who share the same unfortunate fate, or at least it is thus far in the album.
As we roll into Trunk Rattle, the song introduces itself with what sounds like a flick of a lighter and a low static noise, a freshly lit crack pipe sound effect, or matches being struck in succession—the sharp, piercing piano notes that unthreateningly flow in over the top of the present-but-weak drum line and contrast the latter static noise, carries over the more toned-down vibe of the previous song that shares a simplistic style, yet has enough added flair to envelop the listener and conceive the message that Staples is trying to convey at this particular moment—“my momma cried when I got put on the hood, never wished for better days, only wished a nigga would…” Also at this point, the song picks up, and a piano triad is assimilated, deepening the sound, Staples hook is parallel in terms of wordplay and repetition:
“Trunk rattle like a body in that bitch
Catch a body in this bitch, check the body on my bitch…”
Bitch, bitch, bitch…all used differently, “crib” was manipulated in the same way:
“Got a whole lot of problems at the crib
Got a chopper at the crib since I hopped up out the crib, nigga…”
The most in-depth line outlines external struggles with familial obligations as well as the social commentary that is being exhibited along the lines of progression of hip hop, and the general trappings of religion in the black mainstream:
“Called us if she had a problem, Cousin Jerry had a rock
And back when Common had you tryin’ to read Qu'rans and go to college
Some of the most observationally astute lines in the entire body of work, Staples employs the use of sarcasm regarding how listeners perceive Common’s philosophy, which furthers his superfluous point about understanding the harmfulness of Staples and his cousin’s lifestyles contrasted with the reality that the continued pursuit of said lifestyles are destructive long term yet furnish immediate rewards such as false senses of money, power, and influence—things that could actually be obtained by going to college, yet not likely through sitting at home with a Qur’an in your hand. Staples highlights this point by alluding to Common’s song G.O.D., ironically:
“My mind had dealt with the books of Zen, Tao the lessons
Qur'an and the Bible, to me they all vital
And got truth within ‘em, gotta read them boys
You just can’t skim 'em, different branches of belief
But one root that stem 'em, but people of the venom try to trim 'em
And use religion as an emblem
When it should be a natural way of life
Who am I or they to say to whom you pray ain’t right."
Clearly Common isn’t trying to persuade his listener of any religion in particular, however just to be religious in general—he supports this argument with the lines “Qur’an and the Bible, to me they all vital.” And “You just can’t skim 'em, different branches of belief.” This association is particularly relevant considering the fact that Common isn’t necessarily too fond of what he doesn’t consider to be “hip hop in its essence.”(i.e. I Used To Love H.E.R) Vince Staples could very well be using this excerpt to highlight Common’s contradiction in the outright acceptance of religion, yet outright disillusionment regarding the transformation—or progression of hip hop: Common’s line “Who am I or they to say to whom you pray ain’t right” seems as though it is a direct attack on his own philosophy in the extended metaphor of “I used to love hearing every rhyme.” Staples, an established critic of religion, and an obvious supporter of progression—in any capacity—turns nearly everything Common’s discography has stood for on its head, while simultaneously proving his own point of intellectuality in the hip hop community—and the immense lack of it: “But forget about it,” he says. It is much easier to praise something one can’t comprehend. Vince Staples covers all grounds, talking about Common’s close-mindedness, modern Afro-centricity, religion, and stagnation, still realizing the futility and bleakness of what he is criticizing. The nearly minute long instrumental outro on “Trunk Rattle,” its tacking drum beat, and eerie barely-deeper-than-white-noise is the perfect bridge into the production’s magnum opus, “Nate.”
“Nate” comes in much softer and more refined than any other track. The old black gospel organ is swinging in the gallows while backing synth that rings like church bells conjures up images of bitter nostalgia and painful reminiscing. Like much old soul, blues, and black gospel, “Nate” is bathed in this kind of pain. The song has an undeniably melancholy feel about it, likely from the natural-feeling tempo lag provided by the low-pitched horn after the pops of the synth dissipate. Vince Staples bursts onto the track that is unquestionably his best performance to date, in terms of structure and the creative use of lyricism, he autobiographically professes: “As a kid all I wanted was to kill a man. “Be like my daddy's friends, hopping out that minivan…” Even as a small child, he could see inklings of the strife that his father’s life caused his family:
“Knew he was the villain never been a fan of Superman
Beaten on my momma in the kitchen screaming:
‘Bitch you better listen when I speak my mind!’
Used to think he was unbreakable he did fed time.”
At this point in his life, however, he clearly realized the immense pain and suffering that his father inflicted on everyone intimately involved in his life, however he saw this lifestyle as the status quo through the filter of being trapped by it, proudly displaying the fact that he “Knew (his father) was the villain (and he had) never been a fan of Superman.” The hook furthers this observation using “Fuck the county building, never seen that,” and toys with the fantasy that this is somehow a sustainable lifestyle: “Cause my daddy did it, eyes bloodshot, with the caddy tinted, fuck handouts.” Dissonance existed in reality—as his father was literally “riding round the city with his seat back,” figuratively trying to conceal the stark reality of his existence. Since many of the hooks in Shyne Coldchain 2 were simple repetitions, this hook would seem stylistically dull if the point it was solidifying wasn’t so masterful—that his father’s efforts to “protect” his son from this dangerous environment and addictive lifestyle were superficial, as he was the one who was placing it directly in his home, and acutely into the life of his young child. The most physically chilling, vastly biographically formative, and downright poignant excerpt on the collective body of work was the embodiment of the transformation that the progression witnessed throughout the album, and especially on “Nate” encompassed:
“Black bandana on his arm, needle in his hand
Momma trying to wake him up, young so I ain't understand
Why she wouldn't let my daddy sleep, used to see him stand
Hear him screaming from my momma at the backdoor
Sometimes she wouldn't open it, sitting on the couch
Face emotionless, I don't think they ever noticed that I noticed it…”
His parents were too caught up in their own trappings to realize the impacts they had on their child, and Vince Staples, although young, was ambitious enough to understand that in this moment he didn’t want to be like his father, like he thought he did—he didn’t want all of those same trappings of dealing, using, and abusing. As a kid, although bound by birth to this lifestyle, he desperately wanted out—as he hopelessly soliloquized “As a kid all I wanted was a hundred grand.” Although it may be the listener’s natural inclination to think that this is the final moment of enlightenment, the persona of young Vince echoes the prior hook, “Cause my daddy did it…,” finally solidifying the ongoing theme of disillusionment and contradiction that growing up knowing the evils that people riding in DeVille’s and sitting on surface-street corners of Compton, Long Beach, and Lynwood, California have lived. In choosing James Fauntleroy to sing the outro that I assume is his consciousness, he sings a mellow yet intensely passionate verse that is unquestioningly paradoxical of the themes of forgiveness, or complacency that Staples employed for rhetorical effect.
With “Turn,” The album moves very quickly from the somber and distressing, previous track to an amalgamation of intense feelings of pure anger, pure joy, and pure freedom. It is quick, and quick witted and furthers the thematic “turn” that occurred in the previous track. The background vocal which is stitched over the beat is an enthusiastic high pitched singing chant” “let’s get higher! Let’s get higher!” The entire first theme is embroidered with sacrilegious imagery, most prominently sarcastic attacks on religion that simultaneously allude to the preceding song, “Made a lot of mistakes from mimicking ways of my father, father can you forgive me? Sinning since I remember, Back when granddaddy died, that was a cold December…”Staples furthers the religious criticism by asking, “When it's judgment time I doubt that God can look me in my eyes (be)fore he send me down to hell cause imma ask a nigga why?” He continues the “imma ask a nigga why” theme stating that the “book was full of shit,” and the “preacher’s full of shit,” to support the argument in the hook. This argument is centered around the reality that oftentimes crack rock, lies, and in especially in this case—religion are things that people turn to when “that’s all a nigga got”—clearly a metaphor for hopelessness, according to Staples, this is a kind of unique hopelessness that can only be achieved by people who turn to long-dead, non-existent idols and dirty crack pipes for saving. Also according to Staples, “Jesus way too far gone for him to reach me.”
The penultimate track “Shots” cascades in with another looping, bluesy sounding organ that is underneath some fast-moving, tinny trap drums. Honestly, this song definitely, solely musically speaking felt slightly less sticky than many of the other tracks, but however, also lacked the lyrical and structural depth witnessed in nearly every other track. The only noteworthy lines connect the listener back to broad racial themes that may have been slightly blurred to the casual listener as the album progressed,
“Martin Luther had a dream, I thought Tookie dream was better
Bunchy Carter had a plan, but they shot him 'fore he led us
To that Ghetto Promise Land, it ain't no hope for the darker man…”
Likely the name of the seventh-period high school class that the girl he speaks of on this track compelled him to attend., “Earth Science,” the most unobtrusive track on the album, dramatically sweeps in with a beat that uses orchestral elements and a similar to the heavy accompanying music at a the end of a superhero movie, where the villain wins. The song properly closes the project, using a broad double entendre that serves as an extended metaphor for Staples’ internal conflicts about leading a life retrospective of his father’s—a life that seems destined for someone walking in his shoes to lead—and the challenge of distancing himself from that same lifestyle that has trapped and will continue to trap young African American men and women, with the entrapments of rampant self-deprecation, guns, drugs, money, and religion. Spelled out most accurately by the hook, “I never said I never had love for you.” Staples professes that he was a victim of his environment, however, just as he told his old girlfriend, he told the baggage of his environment, of his race, and of his past that he was moving on, and progressing:
“Sorry if you called me and told you I can't talk today
Pain in my voice when I speak in these songs
Same tone as the day I told you leave me alone.”
Try to claw your way out of the abyss. You can't.
ON THE SCALE OF DOPENESS:
Download Shyne Coldchain Vol. 2 for free @ datpiff.com:
http://www.datpiff.com/Vince-Staples-Shyne-Coldchain-Vol-2-mixtape.590712.html
