Rating: 7/10
Lyrically speaking, if Rakim is the father and Nas is the son – Black Thought is the Holy Ghost of emcees that completes the holy trinity of lyricism. After 28 years in the game, the man whose stage name is more than apropos has finally released his first solo project. Kind of sort of that is.
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Streams of Thought vol. 1 is another brief (5 songs, 17 mins) aptly titled EP where 215ās finest is paired with North Carolinaās beat wizard 9th wonder to infuse a fresh dose of fundamental hip-hop into todayās consciousness; ya know, the way Phryme 2 was supposed to but disappointed the shit out of you after a couple of I love and respect these dudes listens.
Thoughtās biggest accomplishment may be that very few upper echelon lyricists have maintained that stature as age as crept in. Thought is Benjamin Button in hip-hop lore; the man you hear on Organix (The Roots 1993 debut) would get annihilated by the forty something assassin who will show up and show out on your favorite rapper (Method Man anyone?).
The evidence of Thoughtās murderous mic intentions is immediate on the EPās intro āTwoFifteenā where he laments: āCasualties I seen emā like a French foreign legion/On the streets, they used to carry out bizarre procedures/In jackets and Jabar Adidas, back when local R&B was just as soulful as orthopedicsā
You have to be well versed to appreciate the verses sometimes is the point. But where Rakim is mysterious and scientific to his detriment at times, and Nas is enigmatic and a victim of fame at times, Thought is steely, confident, and makes love songs like āHypnoticā āYou Got Meā as opposed to āYou Wonāt See Me Tonightā and āYou Owe Meā.
The biggest drawback to the album may actually be that its strongest moment surfaces in the two years old āMaking Of A Murderā feat. Styles P. In a career of what the hell did he say verses, this is right up there:
āItās disturbing when a murder enjoys homicide/Talented Mr. Trotter-Sois, beyond qualified/Multiplying the dollar sign, the grind Is-Real (Israel), itās Palestine/My sidekick came from Columbine…From the breaker send these toys to the undertaker/My pen smoking like a rude boy from Jamaica/While I be racing every fuck boy from the face of the earth, whatās up boy? Time for you to get weight up/ā with the grandiose metaphorical finishing move: āIām an ocean without a coast, going back to Cali ni#%@!ā
Heavy on fundamentals, hard beats & bars-virtually nonexistent on hooks this brief opus will satisfy Tariqās core base with his relentless yet effortless inner city blues make me wanna holler delivery and mentality. A solid and unassuming project from arguably rapās most solid and unassuming top tier craftsman.
