Master P: Only God Can Judge Me : Music Reviews : Rolling Stone

Album Reviews

Master P likes to call himself the ghetto Bill Gates, but he's really the ghetto Regis Philbin, a glad-handing game-show host peddling a fantasy of big money. To be a millionaire in this game, you don't need finesse or even musical talent - just luck, hustle and a final answer. (In Master P's case, the final answer would be "Uunngh!") With his blockbuster No Limit empire, P has used this fantasy to turn the South into hip-hop's land of dreams, inspiring scenesters all over the region to play up their loudest, liveliest cartoon visions of fame and fortune. Along with his New Orleans neighbor Juvenile (of the Cash Money posse), P sells tons of records with no concessions to pop, R&B or even the national hip-hop audience. These born-on-the-bayou ballers thrive on showing the world their asses, defiantly parading their down-home crudeness as a sign of freedom, and that crudeness is what gives their music its kick. If the Wu-Tang Clan is Pink Floyd, Master P is ZZ Top and Juvenile is Molly Hatchet.

At the time of his last album, MP da Last Don, Master P officially announced his retirement as a solo artist, officially fooling about six people. It's no surprise that he's already returned with a comeback album, Only God Can Judge Me, especially since his abortive stint as a basketball pro wasn't exactly bout-it bout-it. However P spent his brief retirement, he wasn't conducting research into new musical strategies, because Only God Can Judge Me is the same album he always makes, a fact sure to excite hardcore fans and alienate outsiders. For seventy-two minutes, the good Master growls his gruff, artless boasts about how he's the scariest guy you've ever met in your life, over off-kilter bass bounce and low-rent synth trinkets.

But his real sonic signature lies in those trademark No Limit choruses: male voices that chant maddeningly catchy singsong hooks, sliding in and out of tune. The choruses sound sloppy, almost painfully country, the musical equivalent of No Limit's brilliantly garish album covers, which look like they should have been painted on the side of a Chevy van in 1972. Upscale urbanites may gag, but that's the whole point - P loves to blow a big fat uunngh! in the face of West Coast jigginess and East Coast sophistication. The best track is "Ghetto Prayer," in which P praises the Lord while the chorus boys chant, "Hail Mary, hail Mary, hail Mary" - pax vobiscum, G! The New Orleans second-line tribute "Get Yo Mind Right" rocks harder than the Neville Brothers ever did, while the Latin-style "Oh Na Nae" sums up the Master P ethos: "I'm a savage savage/But I like to live lavish/I'm addicted to corn bread, greens and cabbage."

Juvenile's style is even cruder than Master P's, if that's possible. Forget Cristal and caviar - as the intro to his new album proclaims, "Nigga, I still eat Popeye's chicken!" Tha G-Code is all-the-way minimal, with creamy lite-jazz keyboards and sparse, tough percussion. As his breakout hit, "HA," proved last year, Juvenile specializes in tossed-off insults that sound improvised on the spot, but Tha G-Code might be too casual to make an impact on newcomers. He isn't as catchy as P. The closest the album comes to eloquence is, "Tiger Woods but I won't/Eat no pussy/'Cause I don't."

But Tha G-Code is unpretentious fun, with guest shots from Cash Money cronies like Lil Wayne, Big Tymers and B.G. (who for some reason doesn't call himself Medium-Size B.G.). Juvenile spends most of the album describing his cars, his ladies and his ladies' cars. He also takes a hysterical potshot at wanna-be hustlers in "Lil Boyz," sneering that in addition to other faux pas, "y'all lil boyz don't even respect your mama!" Like Master P, Juvenile has won himself a loyal audience by rebelling against the gentility of bicoastal hip-hop. While Jay-Z flosses with Mariah and the cover of Vogue proclaims, "Puff Daddy Conquers Couture," these New Orleans ballers keep giving love to the Southern heads who made them stars in the first place. Like Otis Redding proudly declaring himself "a tramp" in 1967, Juvenile and Master P demand - and earn - respect on their own ghetto-country terms.