About three days ago, I acquired stomach flu. Vomiting has become laughably mundane, as buckets and various bowls litter my bedroom floor, making it easy to hurl the contents of my stomach into a wayward receptacle.
Why is this relevant? Well, for some reason, this illness has conjured a dire need to listen to Dr. Dre’s The Chronic. At first I thought the desire was ludicrous–Ludacris?–and I went back to my traditional obsessive downloading of psych compilations. Eventually, though, I realized that Dre was the only one who could make me feel better.
What is there to say about this album that hasn’t already been said? Well, of course, it approaches perfection with the urgency and precision of no other hip-hop album. It’s fantastically polished, well thought out, genius–it’s a masterpiece. But I feel as if the universal quality of this album is striking. Even though I am a teenage white girl from the suburbs, I can relate to the heartbreak, the betrayal, and the grandiose trauma that greets every single member of the Death Row crew.
I have been cheated on, lied to, and, above all, I have had problems with my television working. I am quite enamored with my town, so much so, that I often loudly proclaim allegiance to its various establishments and public figures. When I am upset, I try to talk it out with my friends. Also, I love to smoke large joints and demean women. Dre and I are kindred spirits, truly.
So, I invite you (whether or not you are also in bed, clutching a bucket of vomit, and loudly proclaiming your penchant for blunts) to listen to one of my favorite tracks off of The Chronic, “Lil’ Ghetto Boy.” Perhaps it’s just my secretive affinity for the jazz flute backdrop in the latter parts of the song, but I feel that Snoop’s second verse in this track is one of the highlights of his career. “Macadamien” doesn’t have to be a word to sound cool.