By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
KRS-One, though, has run into delusion as dead-on as a 9mm going bang. Always a heavy-handed didact, KRS is at his most sermonic on his latest album, The Sneak Attack. This time, though, he isn't afforded the sympathetic social context surrounding his previous efforts. Hip-hop no longer yearns for a conscious elderKRS's favorite role even when he was a pudgy-faced youngsterunless that elder's been produced by the Neptunes. So The Sneak Attack is riddled with incessant reminders of KRS-One's everlasting place in hip-hop history, the demonizing of today's artists as corrupt outgrowths of corporate greed, and more rah-rah purist jingoism than a Canibus songall in the name of trying to get in where he fits in.
One of the album's opening tracks, "Attendance," rattles off quiz questions: "Who was the first to go a cappella in a video replay?/Who was the first to lose a DJ?/Who was the first to teach at Yale?/Who was the first to hit hip-hop reggae on the nail?" Presumably, you know the answer, and the subtext is clear: Know KRS-One's history and you know hip-hop's. While braggadocio is inherent in this pantheon of poetic battle, KRS-One's adamant self-righteousness gives off the desperate stench of a man searching for validation. The odoriferous prattling continues on "Hiphop Knowledge" when, at song's end, KRS speaks about his nine elements of hip-hop culture (as opposed to the four commonly ascribed), and the semantic difference between "rap" as music and "hip-hop" as culture. He first fought that battle on the classic B side "Hip-Hop vs. Rap" seven years ago, but now, instead of flipping crafty lyrics to make his point, he's walking on moralizing crutches to guilt you into understanding.
Be thankful you were spared the press advance of The Sneak Attack. Guiding journalists through his album as condescendingly as anthropologists give museum tours, KRS again reviews his history and the eight albums he's "published." Ostensibly, only plebeians "release" albums. He fills us in on where he's been since he proclaimed I Got Next in '97: not just living in Los Angeles as a low-rent, high-profile A&R shill for Warner Bros./Reprise records, but, according to him, "developing and studying general philosophy with an emphasis on metaphysics." (And you wondered what happened to that Kool Moe Dee comeback album.)
The press advance was intended for "serious journalists" onlythose who know, KRS says, "music and art is not to be rated and reviewed, it is to be comprehended, enjoyed, and written about." In between tracks, he quotes Michelangelo, Picasso, Jefferson, JFK, and Aldous Huxleyshamelessly justifying his ego through their words and sounding like the most clumsily earnest academic in the process.
Then again, KRS has always suffered from the ultimate God complexthe desire to be both above and among the people. He never tires of telling us about his beginnings in a South Bronx group home or of the fact he once "taught" (guest lectured, actually) at Yale. KRS-One's delusions of grandeur motivated the creation of the Temple of HipHop, an organization formed four years ago to define the music's culture and police the actions of its denizens. His past movements like Stop the Violence, Self Destruction, and HEAL were rooted in civic responsibility, but KRS's Temple is an attempt to cage the evolving spirit of the culture and transform it into a rudimentary curriculum. The Temple's manifesto comes bound in an 8 1/2-by-5 1/2-inch spiral notebook, complete with Bible-like index and laughable terminology (e.g., kulture, Hiphoppas, Refinitions, and overstanding). It reads like a brilliant parody.
For example, the difference between a Hiphoppa and a True Hiphoppa: The latter is so named because he or she is "kulturally self aware and complies with the codes of Refinitions . . . puts HipHop, the collective consciousness, before the individual consciousness . . . and are instinctive seekers and defenders of truth and justice." Put down the cape, homeboy, it gets better. "When true Hiphoppas take the vow 'I am Hiphop' and begin training for inner-city victory," the book continues, "the last name of the Hiphoppa is no longer acknowledged. Instead, 'true' Hiphoppas replace their last name, or family name, with 'One.' " One piece of advice to aspiring rap superheroes: Don't drink the Kool-Aid.
KRS-One's desire to institutionalize the living, breathing energy of hip-hop permeates The Sneak Attack at every turn, and it is abusive in its consistency. With the Temple, KRS has aligned himself with, if not the powers that be (check those Koch Records accounting books), then old-guard principles he once rebelled against. By playing the roles of brother, teacher, preacher, and, ultimately, deity, it seems he's not only trying to convince others of his significance but himself as well. And it's not like the beats save himthe stripped-down production by KRS and brother Kenny Parker elicit neither profound minimalist allegory nor even nostalgia. So The Sneak Attack exposes an aging icon who's been outwitted by hip-hop's evolution.
And yet, one can't help but listen. KRS-One's most prodigious possession is his voice, a sometimes lumbering but always booming bullhorn that has not changed in the 15 years he's rapped on wax. Even today, KRS's timbre cuts swaths through the icy glare of Jigga's jewelry and the Babylonian chatter of baby rappers like Ja Rule who can't even pronounce "Edutainment." Indeed, because he's lived hip-hop in all its forms, KRS understands that a real MC is a communicator, whether the communication is a call to action, a hand-clap party rhyme, a scathing dis in the heat of battle, or, his specialty, a self-aggrandizing ego stroke ("I'm the teacher but you still can't see, because while you respect Tupac, Tupac respected me," he yells in "Attendance"). And for a man who's long been criticized as contradictory, that is his greatest contradiction today: being a man who so obviously has lost perspective but remains the eternal essence of the MC.