CHECK THE TECHNIQUE

All I really need to know I learned from Brian Coleman

By CHRIS FARAONE

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Big disclaimer here: Brian Coleman is my muse and mentor. Ever since I reviewed his self-published Rakim Told Me three years ago and conceded that I slept alongside it like an all-night pay-by-the-minute prostitute, he's hooked me up with countless editors, MCs and opportunities. His selflessness and devotion to real hip-hop and those who respect the art are what essentially render Check the Technique the most important genre text in recent years, if not of all time. I would have delivered this review sooner, but I decided to let everybody else fellate it first so you knew I wasn't shilling.

Play Fair

In Check the Technique, subtitled "Liner Notes for Hip-Hop Junkies," Coleman lets artists speak for themselves. Whereas overzealous quasi-academics such as S. Craig Watkins and Bakari Kitwana interpret every rhyme, beat and gesture to fit their hypotheses, Coleman allows artists to immortalize their own work, which means we never once have to negotiate the sociopolitical significance of tracks about crack, smack and pussy. Virtually every rapper, producer, DJ and engineer who contributed to the 36 albums dissected in these pages gets a word in, which in itself makes this the quintessential hip-hop tome.

Hits, People

One commonality amongst the albums celebrated in this book—from 2 Live Crew's As Nasty as They Wanna Be to Common's Resurrection to M.O.P.'s Firing Squad—is the sheer amount of bangers. Not hits that were designed to move units and impress Casey Kasem, but tracks that heads religiously bumped without being told to do so by MTV's narrowly exposed "Brain Trust" sharecroppers. Not every track on all of these records was necessarily golden, but at least there's a story behind them all. How much do you want to bet that Fabolous can't differentiate between the cuts on whatever disc he dropped last quarter?

Take Things That Aren't Yours

Ever since Puff Daddy spoiled hip-hop and Tupac's legacy was compromised by that Don Henley interpolation, I'd forgotten that this culture is, was, and always shall be based on samples. No, no, no—not the type of easy rips that Kanye West cheats with, but instead the sort of dusty vinyl jacks that comprised the old school repertoire. Just a few mysteries that Coleman unlocks: The Beastie Boys classic "Pass the Mic" samples a guitar riff from Bad Brains' "Big Takeover" and the bass line from Johnny Hammond's "Big Sur Suite"; Buckshot is a colossal Barry White fan; "Peter Piper" spawned from "Take Me to the Mardi Gras" by Bob James; and RZA whittled "Wu-Tang Clan Ain't Nuthing Ta F' Wit" from the Underdog theme song.

Live a Balanced Life

When you're stuck in this book, it doesn't matter that Caucasian-run entertainment conglomerates decided circa 1995 that they can fuel the cycle of oppression by advertising material ideals that minority youths can only attain by perpetuating foul stereotypical behavior. Nor does it matter that the underground is over-flooded with trite monotonous nonsense. While getting lost in the labyrinthine intricacies beneath these records, anyone who's ever loved or even liked hip-hop can return to a moment when originality trumped jock riding, and when groups ranging from The Pharcyde to Cypress Hill and Brand Nubian shared the visible rap landscape.

Be Aware of Wonder

While I listen to hip-hop now more than ever, I've forgotten how much more enjoyable the experience once was. When reading Coleman's book, I remember the ski mogul-sized goose bumps I got the first time that Redman taught me how to roll a blunt, and when Flavor Flav first insisted that I not believe the hype. Before I checked the technique, it had been years since I remembered pulling down my pants and shitting in my hand to scare off a pack of thugs who jumped me for my Das Efx tape. I sure as hell can't think of anything that's dropped in the past couple that I'd stoop to that for.

Goldfish and Hamsters and White Mice—They All Die. So Does Hip-Hop

I'm not sure that Coleman would put it in those words, but this is the most resounding message in his book. It's difficult to reminisce about Raising Hell, The Infamous..., The Low End Theory, Power, Goin' Off, Dead Serious, Strictly Business and The Score without thinking, "Hey—why the fuck don't they make hip-hop like this anymore." Even more depressing is that nearly every legend, king and icon in this book—from Buckshot and Grand Puba to CL Smooth and Sticky Fingaz—has been sentenced to the underground railroad while new age rap-slaves who they built tracks for take the game for granted. Sometimes my only comfort is knowing that hip-hop wasn't always like this, and thanks to Brian Coleman, I'll be reminded of that every time I'm on the toilet dropping science to the tune of his interviews.