Straight Outta Compton was not the first gangsta-rap album, nor was it the first album to use such disconcerting and scabrous blasts of sound, but the music was revolutionary for two reasons. First, Dre and Yella took the vitriolic, cacophonous rampage of Public Enemy and discarded all the motivation and history behind the anger; second, they sampled laid-back jazz, psychoastral-lovetron p-funk, sweetly romantic soul, naïve doo-wop, Martha Reeves, Charles Wright and Marvin Gaye, and proceeded to lay it under the most gruesome narratives imaginable, dead ho’s and cop killers. This is tantamount to using a “Happy B-Day, Grandma” Hallmark card to inform a family you just slaughtered their grandmother. It’s cruel, duplicitous, perverse, horrifying, hilarious.
In some ways, Straight Outta Compton is the archetypal rap album, the one you would send into space if you wanted to ignite a stellar holocaust. It unites the paranoia of It Takes a Nation of Millions with the chill of The Chronic, while still retaining an old-school, Run-DMC-style playfulness. The opening squall of “Straight Outta Compton”, “Fuck tha Police”, and “Gangsta Gangsta” is still as confrontational and decimating as it was at the dawn of the 1990s. The bass throttles, the funk combusts, and the sirens deafen as Eazy-E dispenses with tired romantic clichés: “So what about the bitch who got shot? Fuck her!/ You think I give a damn about a bitch? I ain’t no sucker!” And this is the least misogynistic of N.W.A.’s albums.