Las Vegas Review-Journal

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25th-anniversar­y reissue of “Death Certificat­e,” his second solo effort, which remains one of rap’s most incendiary records, registerin­g like a tire iron to the teeth of detractors.

Cube’s also featured in “The Defiant Ones,” the excellent four-part HBO documentar­y series on Interscope Records founder Jimmy Iovine and Cube’s N.W.A. groupmate Dr. Dre, which premiered last week.

In chroniclin­g Dre’s rise, “Defiant Ones” spends ample time exploring the developmen­t of gangsta rap in the late ’80s, of which Cube was a leading figure, his stone-cold scowl a totem of the genre.

It’s important to remember the hysteria with which this music was treated when it first hit like a musical mushroom cloud in mainstream America.

You had politician­s from both sides of the aisle denouncing the music, turning it into a political football that they repeatedly fumbled in increasing­ly embarrassi­ng fashion. Time Warner was pressured to distance itself from acts like Ice-t’s Body Count or sell off its subsidiari­es that were home to various hip-hop artists. The FBI and numerous police organizati­ons railed against gangsta rap for its anticop sentiments, which the artists claimed was a product of police brutality.

There were death threats, even.

Decades later, it’s hard to imagine musicians ever being subjected to this kind of scrutiny again, no matter their viewpoints. We’ve come to realize that if you don’t like a particular message that a given artist imparts, your right to critique those words is the same right that enables himorherto­saythemto begin with.

Can’t have one without the other.

We’ve also learned how foolhardy it is to suggest that it’s music that catalyzes the ugliness that certain artists document in their songs as opposed to it being the other way around. N.W.A.’S songs, for instance, didn’t provoke violence. Rather, the violence that the members of N.W.A. witnessed on the streets of their Compton, California, home turf provoked their songs.

Watching Ice Cube perform Thursday, in a crowded club of beachwear-clad revelers, underscore­d all of this palpably, viscerally.

He opened his five-song, 20-minute performanc­e (this was a club gig, remember) with “No Vaseline,” the final cut on “Death Certificat­e,” which remains staggering­ly brazen and confrontat­ional even for the artist in question, a brutal takedown of his former N.W.A. brothers in arms. From there came G-funk classics like “Check Yo’ Self ” and “It Was a Good Day,” songs whose Parliament Funkadelic­derived bounce contrasts sharply with the grim worldview detailed within.

This was the opposite of party music, in terms ofcontent,andyetitwa­s soundtrack­ing what was a pretty great party.

Decades ago, these songs stirred outrage. On this night, it was drinks that were stirred.

Both remained plenty potent.

Contact Jason Bracelin at jbracelin@reviewjour­nal. com or 702-383-0476. Follow @Jasonbrace­lin on Twitter.

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