The Game is the Red Lobster of rap; not altogether terrible, but cheap, easy and exactly what you’d expect every single time. His eighth studio album 1992 contains all the familiar flavors and dishes that have come to define him. You have your gangster tales, your club bangers and the odes, which come often and fast. It’s a menu that needs a drastic overturn, but at this point in his career it may be too little too late.
Production-wise 1992 follows the Puff Daddy model. The Game commissions a stable of average producers who simply loop familiar tunes. He’s banking on nostalgia and a general ignorance towards history to corral old and new fans. There are bright moments, specifically when he’s embracing his age and not shouting out a better lyricist. But those are few and far between, typical Game work with predictable narratives at every turn.
‘Savage Lifestyle‘
Sampling a song as familiar as Marvin Gaye‘s “Inner City Blues” is tricky, it’s such a recognized tune it can overtake the lyrics and leave a sour taste. The Game luckily doesn’t veer too far from the truth, embracing the theme of injustice and civil unrest. He’s modernizing the sound in an attempt to show how little things have changed. A noble cause from a wildly inconsistent lyricist: [LISTEN]
‘True Colors / It’s On‘
The hostile bass creates an atmosphere of rage and indignation, an appropriate landscape for the Game to revisit his dark past. Again he samples a familiar song to help revitalize a dusty narrative and it works, particularly for the audience he’s trying to reach; the aging rap fan from the early aughts. He’s being as candid as can be revealing just how deeply rooted he was in the life: [LISTEN]
‘Bompton‘
Rehashing old beats is a hack move; one or two times is fine, but more than that and you’re hitting amateur hour. It’s NWA all the way and The Game is pretending he was there cutting it up with them. He’s adding his own story to the mix with a verse that shows how insane his life was before the rap game. Fact or fiction it reads as just another day in Compton. Good idea, poor execution: [LISTEN]
‘Fuck Orange Juice‘
A shot to the gut, aimed directly at the Juice. “The Message” is the backdrop, and it has the same feel as on old suit; outdated and exhausted to the point of redundancy. Jabbing at a defeated has-been is a shameful display of artistry and exemplary of a rapper on the decline. He’s reaching for material, grabbing content from social media trends. The motivation is there, but it lacks refinement: [LISTEN]
‘The Juice‘
Reminiscing over a glass of Hennessy, and talking smack all along the way. As an aging veteran he sounds more at ease in this capacity rather than riding whatever trend is smacking him in the face. Credibility takes center stage and in the rap game there’s nothing more valuable. The beat is romantic with a nostalgic hook, something both the ladies and fellas can get down to: [LISTEN]
‘Young Niggas‘
Way back rap that has the man of the hour getting all misty-eyed. The piano licks are a staple when it comes to this familiar tale and it counters his aggression well despite the cliche elements. Lyrically it’s a page out of a Greek tragedy, capturing a wide range of complex emotions. Leave it to the Game to open this door and show the world the drama behind his reality: [LISTEN]
‘The Soundtrack (1992)‘
The hook is a cheap knock off of an Erykah Badu standard. It sets an awkward tone that the Game can’t recover from. In the end it hardly matters as he’s rewriting the same story over and over again. Dr. Dre is his muse, and he shouts him out at every turn. The constant praise is taking the album in a strange direction, turning more into a name dropping frenzy than an actual project: [LISTEN]
‘I Grew Up On Wu-Tang‘
The shout outs have gotten out of hand, but his ability to focus on one subject makes it a little more tolerable. Rapping about his influences is him ripping a page out of his diary, and it’s comforting to know that Wu-Tang reached him the same way it reached the rest of the world. It’s a short, but sweet ode. A proper way to praise his peers without straight up jocking them: [LISTEN]
‘However Do You Want It‘
You knew it was coming, unavoidable like a comet hurling towards Earth. The Game is the unofficial president of the Tupac fan club and this is the token cheer he does for every album. The Soul II Soul sample adds to the foolishness and waters down the drink even further. At this point it’s all starting to meld into the same song, which is a sign of an aging mind. Old man rap that goes in circles: [LISTEN]
‘Baby You‘
The buttery synth, the wah-wah guitar and silky melodies make for the most 1992 song on the album. The more talented artist knows how to turn that into g-funk, but the Game opts for the Puff Daddy treatment. The simplicity of the beat sets the bar low and the lyrics fail to evoke any sympathy. He’s getting sensitive, pleading to his lady but to no avail. Yet another sob story with no end: [LISTEN]
‘What Your Life Like‘
If you asked the Game to make an album with no name-drops it would amount to 45 minutes of silence with an occasional shout out to Compton. Predictably he carries on the tired tradition, and makes no attempt to stray from the norm. Consequently the lack of substance hampers the effort in ways that make his songs of praise read as trite, the lack of originality noticeable from the jump: [LISTEN]
‘92 Bars‘
Typical Game phrasing, a return to form that has him resurrecting a familiar style. He’s finally finding his stride but it isn’t enough to save the album. The simple rhyme scheme has him throwing one punchline after another in an attempt to score late in the round. Flurries aside, there is no weight behind the words; not enough pop to do any real damage, which in the end works against his cause: [LISTEN]
‘All Eyez‘
Punctuating the album with a lust-laden rap is an unorthodox move. He’s been making calculable decisions every step of the way, and the one time he should do what’s expected he goes and flubs that too. The energy is noticeably deflated and as he limps across the finish line he sounds as if he’s had it. Too many knocks to the dome has left him punch drunk and delusional: [LISTEN]
