Curtis ”50 Cent” Jackson’s sixth album was heralded not by an extensive media campaign — pleading itchiness about internet piracy, his label sent The Massacre to journalists after the album’s release date — but by a hail of gunfire. The more Waspish observer might suggest that, in 50 Cent’s case, the two amount to the same thing. You would certainly be hard pushed to find another gangsta rapper who has traded so heavily on violence, who has turned a propensity for getting himself stabbed or shot into a career.
And what a career. 50 Cent’s last album, Get Rich or Die Tryin‘, sold 11-million copies. Piggy Bank, its follow-up’s key track, notes correctly that his achievements did not end there. Not even Eminem can interest the public in his Detroit ”posse”, D12, but — as Piggy Bank puts it with phrasing you could consider either deeply unfortunate or disarmingly honest — 50 Cent can currently make even his friends’ ”shit sell”. Those friends included the Game, Young Buck and Lloyd Banks, whose name raises the hope that future 50 Cent protégés will be called things such as Bark Layz, First Die Wrecked and Halle Faxx.
The hail of gunfire that preceded this album came outside New York radio station Hot 97 last month. Inside, 50 Cent was broadcasting another squabble, oddly with one of the chums whose success Piggy Bank lauds. In fact, Piggy Bank was the problem. When not gloating about the marketability of 50 Cent’s ordure, the track picks fights with rappers including Fat Joe, Nas, Shyne and Jadakiss, who he claims have been sending him subliminal messages in their lyrics. The Game declined to back 50 Cent up, thus adding himself to a shitlist that must resemble the manuscript of a 19th-century Russian novel. Whether the Game was party to the violence is unknown. Either way, it provided good publicity for The Massacre, as 24-year-old Kevin Reed, who was shot in the leg, will doubtless be delighted to learn. Then again, if he has heard The Massacre, Reed might well be furious: I took a bullet for this twaddle?
Get Rich or Die Tryin‘ featured various thrilling Dr Dre productions. Production on The Massacre, however, is handled by lesser talents, proffering wan-sounding imitations of the Neptunes’ sparse, breathy funk on Candy Shop, Timbaland’s oriental motifs on Disco Inferno, and even Dre’s old 1970s-soul-influenced ”g-funk” on Ski Mask Way. With nothing musically fresh, attention is focused on 50 Cent himself. Bad idea. When Eminem makes a guest appearance on Gatman and Robbin’, you cringe on 50 Cent’s behalf, so marked is the difference between his halting, monotonal mumble and his mentor’s deft, livewire voice.
50 Cent is no big shakes as a rapper, but as a lyricist he’s a disaster. He can’t do metaphors and his idea of humour involves referring to fellatio as ”licking the lollipop”. He can’t even insult people properly.
For all the controversy, Piggy Bank‘s slurs are witless. He calls Fat Joe fat, which, given that he already calls himself fat, seems unlikely to sting the very core of his being. Fat Joe is hardly among hip-hop’s rapier wits, but even he managed a better put-down in response: ”Them steroids is getting to him.” Looking at The Massacre‘s cover — 50 Cent stripped to the waist, pectorals like barrage balloons — you can see his point.
The album is devoid of any of the factors that make the best gangsta rap disturbingly compelling: the nihilistic self-loathing of the Geto Boys, Snoop Dogg’s sly humour, NWA’s social anger. There’s nothing except a string of clichés so limited that repetition is unavoidable.
The Massacre sounds like the work of someone for whom music is merely a sideline, a distraction from the serious business of perpetuating a violent, ghoulish sideshow. Depressingly, you suspect 50 Cent knows exactly what his audience wants. — Â