The Chronic (1992)

I’m normally opposed to the very idea of “guilty pleasure,” which is usually about toxic social pressures and often involves hit pop songs—KISS fans secretly liking the Carpenters and Olivia Newton-John, stuff like that. In a natural development people have come to pride themselves on their guilty pleasures. But for me, in the case of Dr. Dre’s auspicious debut album, both parts of the term apply. I genuinely feel guilty about liking this set so much. Swearing a lot is just the start of it. All the N-words hamper singalongs. The sexism goes beyond mere sexism and proceeds directly to misogyny (“Bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks,” etc.). Powerful automatic weapons, grotesque street violence, and swaggering Black-on-Black crime are frequent themes. The sex talk and scenes are so explicit they verge on revolting, viz., the “walnuts / chestnuts / deez nuts” skit. Speaking of skits—as I was just last month, complaining about them—they bust out all over here. I admit they have their moments even as my general objections to skits stand. One, “The $20 Sack Pyramid,” is nearly three minutes. “The Doctor’s Office” is a full minute and coarse as it can be. I worry about my neighbors when I start sneaking up the volume on The Chronic, which brings us to the “pleasure” side of the equation. I take it as entertainment so I can evade the problematics, as a full-on musical revue complete with comedy interludes. The only thing missing is a guy spinning plates at the top of sticks. I know it’s a tough balance here. The comedy may not land reliably, but “The $20 Sack Pyramid” is lacerating social critique. As for the songs, all team-written by Death Row principals, they just roll from one great one to the next, with fresh hooks and poised raps and melodic jams and no question about who they are or what they’re doing. You have to accept that to get to the wonders of, say, “A [N-word] Witta Gun,” with its ominous chorus “Who’s the man with the master plan?” Full disclosure, I mostly missed Dre until Eminem opened his catalog for me 10 years on. I was all over Snoop Doggy Dogg at last then too. But here I am squeamish to engage, or reproduce, the language featured on this album, which I find entertaining and even funny more often than I would think. It’s not hard for me to play the whole thing at once—mostly enjoyable, with its pitfalls, most of the way. Maybe a little long. They push the Death Row label constantly and attack with announcements like: “This should be played at high volume, preferably in a residential area.” You know what to do next, despite perhaps feeling guilty about it. P.S. I also admit, somewhat sheepishly, that I love the cannabis positivity. Inspirational line: “Make my bud the Chronic, I want to get fucked up.”