New York rap aficionados gave New Jersey MCs about the same respect they would accord a Connecticut B-boy – none at all. In fact, ever since members of New Jersey's Sugarhill Gang bit elements of Grandmaster Caz's rhymes to spawn rap's first blockbuster – 1979's "Rapper's Delight" – the beef has been on between New York and New Jersey on a deeper level than sports rivalry.

Not that Jerseyites didn't have enough drama to rival anything Brooklyn or the South Bronx had to offer. Then Naughty by Nature rose from East Orange, N.J., where the concretehued wasteland was every bit as tough as New York's. Lead rapper Treàch's nihilistic lyrical prowess equaled or surpassed his peers', while his distinctive stutter-step cadences of spitfire rhymes set a genre standard.

Without resting on their multimillion-dollar laurels for an instant, Naughty by Nature have managed to maintain the hunger that pushed them to the top in the first place. Poverty's Paradise, their third album, is divided up like their previous efforts – a few party-starting tracks ("Clap Yo Hands," "Craziest"), some social commentary ("Chain Remains," "Holding Fort") and a barrage of lyrical fury ("Klickcow, Klicow," "Respect Due"). They're formulaic, sure, but their sheer funkability is undeniable.

Kay-Gee's production stylistics come off like an electrified version of Fat Albert's junkyard band: heavy bass, kinetic drums that sound like they were pounded out on the bottom of empty ice buckets. Vin-Rock emerges from the shadows with much improved rhyme skills, proving himself a worthy sidekick, but the group's shining star is still Treach. It's not really what he says, it's how he says it. He's either playful or menacing, depending on the demeanor of the sonic backdrop; his lyrics flesh out the songs and slowly seep into the subconscious, ultimately proving that there's emotional substance behind the flashy verbal pyrotechnics.

As rap music makes the transition from the dance floor to the rumble seat, the best hip-hop songs – even the slowest ones – have to convey a sense of forward motion. This is especially important for the New Jersey Drive soundtracks, since the listening experience must push the heart rate the same way the rip-roaring cinematic images do. Vol. I and Vol. II (an EP) work together like one long radio broadcast that gets better the later it gets, reaching a steamy "midnight hour" pinnacle by the time the second disc sequence warms the woofers.

Of the two discs, the only lag spots fall on Vol. I. Once Sabelle gets her silky-smooth groove thang moving on "Old Thing," however, the longer album's creative gas pedal touches the floorboard. Young Lay's "All About My Fetti" slow-rolls with buttery thump; the Notorious B.I.G. takes James Brown's "The Payback" groove and rips it to shreds underneath "Can't You See."

The more concise Vol. II hits a consistent stride and never stops. It's seamless from the first moment the lullaby keys and violin groove combine on the E. Bros.' fabulous "Funky Piano" to the last fade-to-black crash of a monster hook called "Flip Squad's in da House." This EP represents the perfect mix tape.

Deep down, the soul of New Jersey Drive belongs to the old school. When Biz Markie's seminal 1987 hit "Nobody Beats the Biz" commandeers your eardrums, nothing else in life seems all that important. One part groove machine, the other pure funk grunter, the Biz overtakes the track with unquestionable authority. He's obviously the father of one of Ol' Dirty Bastard's countless wild styles. Like Treach, Biz Markie follows the Godfather's golden rule: Execution counts just as much as content. (RS 710)

CHEO H. COKER