#just thinkin bout that one women in National Treasure

[slav-every-day]

[mywifeleftme]

195: Run the Jewels // Run the Jewels

Run the Jewels Run the Jewels 2013, Fool's Gold

Even as someone who was very hyped for this monster mash album to drop back in 2013, I could’ve used El-P and Killer Mike’s chances at becoming mainstream music stars as a creative simile for extreme remoteness. Run the Jewels started life as a Watch the Throne joke—e.g. while you pay obeisance to the supposed kings, we’re behind them jacking their shit. The name seemed right: any time you put Mike on a pop-adjacent track, he sounded too brash, too angry to fit the scheme, whereas El-P probably scanned to most listeners as like, Comic-Con Bubba Sparxxx or something. It remains bizarre to contemplate that El-P’s original crew, Company Flow, released their groundbreaking Funcrusher EP a year before Jay-Z’s Reasonable Doubt, and Mike had been OutKast’s war dog since the turn of the century. In other words, these were two rapper’s rappers who made a living on rhymes but didn’t seem likely to have say great prospects of retiring comfortably.

It just goes to show what a creative release strategy (Run the Jewels dropped for free at a time when that concept still had some novelty) and an absolute banger record can do for ya. After years of ambitious, CD-stuffing projects by both men, Run the Jewels is a trim 33-minute object lesson in the power of elite shit-talking. Ten years on their particular chemistry is fixed enough to be fondly roasted, but at the time I’d never heard either man rap as freely, or hilariously, as they did here. Some particularly treasured bars:

Woo, they done let that fuckin' Mike out It's like Tyson in the '80s Nigga snap and punch your lights out, yeah It's like Tyson in the '90s, if I'm losing, take a bite out I'm so motherfuckin' grimy, so motherfuckin' greedy, gritty Mama said she couldn't breastfeed 'cause I was bitin' at the titty — Mike

Yo, Killer Mike and El-P, fuck boys, think about it Fuck you gonna sell me? You don't know a thing about us Women dosed with ayahuasca drum circle and sing about us Dolphins prone to rape'll hear the tape and stop to think about it Monks will immolate themselves until the record hits the shelves Yetis walk right out the woods to cop it without thinkin' bout it Workers at the sweatshop kill they boss to how the vets drop Worker ants surround their queen and chew the bitch's head off Drug dogs bark at the tour bus when it park Priests take the cock out of their mouths To hum along when the chorus drop — El-P

It's time for Skywalker talkers t’meet the true Darth Vader I hit your mom in '03, but a G ain't ate her So baby boy, you should tighten up and show some respect Before I Melvin on you, Jody, put my arm on your neck Or worse yet, be the reason your girl want a divorce Be at her crib with your kids saying ‘Fuck your fort, lil' nigga!’ — Mike

Born to the next-gen system Slow water drip to the temple to live in a prison When the walls don't appear to your vision One floor down from that mall's that prison Where shower stalls'll get all y'all missin' Pardon me, I got half-wit vision But fuck I know? I just crawled here, cap'n — El-P

I'm fat but I dress nice, and bitches finesse Mike They suck the dick and squeeze on my belly like bagpipes — Mike

I'ma smoke 'til the planet erases Build a white flag out of Zig Zags, wave it — El-P

And so on. Alongside El-P’s signature production, limber and consistently knocking, it is the sheer “What will they say next?” pleasure of two elite battle rappers trading the mic back and forth (something that doesn’t happen on Watch the Throne as often as you might remember) that scratched the deep itch of boom-bap-bro nation. Over three more excellent LPs to date, they’ve expanded their sound and skewed ever more topical, but RTJ have never abandoned the template that made them unlikely stars. And for my money at least, it’s this first one that best stands the test of time.

195/365