In a way, Dre’s ensemble approach-his movie-making mentality-perfectly illustrates why no one seemed to really care that Drake may (or may not) have used a ghostwriter.
Dr dre compton movie#
You've even got a 'Pause for Porno.' It's got everything that a movie needs." So you've got buildups, touching moments, aggressive moments. “ a movie, with different varieties of situations. “Everything you hear is planned,” Dre told The New York Times in 1999. Dre is first and foremost an orchestrator, someone who is more than happy to re-direct the shine elsewhere. So, then! Why does Compton succeed where, say, something like Magna Carta Holy Grail was a deflated balloon of middle-aged meh? Part of it is because Dre is an all-time great string-puller, more than happy to outsource the album’s vitality to more youthful, less calloused hands. (Dre is also using the album's proceeds to fund a new arts center in his hometown, which is pretty dad.) Or maybe there's wisdom in killing your darlings. Maybe that says more about us, the fans, and managing our expectations than it does about the people actually making stuff. But rap and youth have been so tightly interwoven that the Venn circles of good albums made by guys over 40 is woefully thin-especially if you’re not named E-40 and didn’t have a verse on Enter the Wu-Tang-that Compton’s quality is almost a sigh of relief, considering the potential for disaster Chinese Democracy this is not. And it’s definitely not a lament over the way hip-hop used to be. This is not a bad thing, or maybe even a thing. In fact, as the closing set to the weekend, when most everyone in attendance had already pushed their zombified bodies to the edge, Dre and Snoop were so surgical, so mesmerizing, so revitalizing-from the way guests stars like Kurupt, Warren G, Eminem, 50 Cent, and 2Pac’s hologram who were all trotted out in ascending order of whoa, mindfuckness, to the perfect sensory cocktail of eardrum-rattling sonics and visuals-that all anyone in my little festival platoon could think was: This shit is on another level, and it isn’t even close.Ĭompton’s quality is almost a sigh of relief, considering the potential for disaster Chinese Democracy this is not. But far and away the best performance of the whole three-day affair belonged to a late-forties pile of pectorals crammed into a way-too-tight black tee: Dr. Sure, there were plenty of whoa, mindfuck performances that made me want to crush an empty PBR can with my skull-At the Drive-In, Girls, and an assuming quiet lad with funky hair who called himself The Weeknd were easy highlights. (If you are familiar with every refrain of 2001 as listened to via a Sony Discman on your lap-because that shit skipped like a motherfucker and demanded near zen-like stillness-then there’s a very real possibility that we can be best friends forever.)įast forward a decade or so, however, to Coachella 2012. In an era when Kazaa and burned CDs were just beginning to be a thing, there was perhaps no force more unifying among my high school’s enviably multicultural taxonomy of social circles than (Chronic) 2001.
As a proud product of the Long Beach public school system (Snoop is Long Beach Polytechnic's most-esteemed alumni, followed by Tony Gwynn and Cameron Diaz, FOR NOW), Dr.
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