Movie dialogue samples, unrecognizable chopped-up soul samples, gritty imagery, and New York’s hip-hop scene have all declined in popularity and influence since their heyday with Jay-Z and Nas in the mid-‘90s. Sure, A$AP Mob and Pro Era are making moves to place New York squarely back in hip-hop’s spotlight, and everyone appreciates a nice soul sample, whether it’s from a booming Just Blaze heater or a soulful RZA production. But the times where menacing Mafioso rappers like Wu-Tang’s Raekwon defined hip-hop are long gone, replaced (for better or worse) in the mainstream by the likes of Kanye West and Drake. Roc Marciano, however, is unapologetic in his throwback approach to his music - he’s straight out of the ‘90s drug game. Hip-hop has seen plenty of revivalists, particularly in the last few years, but few are as talented or authentic as the former Flipmode Squad member. Reloaded is one of the finest works of music to emerge from New York in recent memory, and it’s almost flawless – all that holds it back are hardcore rap’s inherent limitations.
Far from fictitious, the cars attract the bitches, I hear the whispers, my palms got the blisters.
It’ll almost certainly take several listens of a given song to begin to understand the depth of Marciano’s wordplay. His endless barrage of internal rhymes and Curren$y-esque pop culture references (Roc seamlessly name-drops Tyson Beckford, Robert White, and Russell Westbrook within five bars on “Not Told”) are the trademarks of one of the most unique and singularly talented lyricists alive. It’s like watching a rapper go “22 Twos” - except for 55 minutes of vividly violent imagery and twisting lyricism. Marciano’s rapping voice is menacing, but not in the same off-the-hook manner of rappers like ScHoolboy Q. Roc is scary, but it’s more “mob boss” than “crazy druggie” or “street gangster.” On the hook of “Pistolier,” Marciano snarls, “Bust a move, make a shoe tear, take off your ear like a souvenir, swing from the chandelier, Richard Gere with the gear, Ric Flair.” He constantly twists pronunciations to achieve his signature assonance, but Marciano’s delivery is too smooth to feel forced. At one point halfway through “Death Parade,” Roc raps “They see us wearing chains and amulets, handle this, evangelist condo in Los Angeles,“ ripping off an absurd sequence of rhymes without any effort. His uniqueness goes without saying.
If Marciano’s phenomenal lyricism wasn’t enough, his production is custom-made for his rapping - and it shows. His ability to take soul samples and chop them and flip them into unrecognizable, but brilliant, beats is almost unparalleled. On “Peru,” Roc Marciano takes a jazzy piano riff and flips it and a guitar note into an instrumental that it’s hard to imagine anyone else rapping on, while earlier on “Not Told” he made a guitar riff chop not unlike Domo Genesis’ “Power Ballad”. Roc Marciano provides possibly the best instrumental on the album on the best song of the album, “Deeper,” where he chops up a sample into a melodic murmur over his own virtuoso lyricism. Reloaded’s distinctive lack of typical New York boom-bap drums is worth noting, but Marciano’s rapping makes the quiet drums a minor concern. If anything, it’s another defiant touch from a rapper who’s made a career out of disregarding every single mainstream hip-hop trend of his time.
Kendrick Lamar’s good kid, m.A.A.d city has been rightfully applauded for its emotionally volatile portrayal of life in California’s Compton. Roc Marciano’s Reloaded will likely (and less rightfully) be ignored, despite its similar achievements. It’s not tied together by skits, and it isn’t told in a strictly concept album structure like Kendrick’s latest is. However, it’s certainly a compelling account of the drug game, and when he asserts that “it all boils down to that green” during the hook of “Death Parade,” few listeners will be caught up in doubt. Respect and admiration are far more likely responses to one of this young decade’s most phenomenal albums.