There’s a movie called Killa Season too, though chances are you didn’t see it. The thinly veiled autobiography of Harlem rapper Cam’ron went pretty much straight to DVD after its gratuity and mookishness had been notarized by nonstop jeers and a river of goober vomit. For Cam supporters, the movie was particularly tough, since it third- and fourth-guessed the verbal feats and pointed confrontation we thought we heard in 2004’s possibly-unbrilliant-now Purple Haze. Maybe we’ve been snowing ourselves? So this is the album tie-in. It’s not that terrible. It perforce doesn’t have the visuals of the two Latino girls shitting out vials of smuggled heroin or the two Italian guys chopping off that other guy’s bird, so we’re already in two-star territory. Beats are mostly of the flimsy, plastic-trumpet Dipset anthem variety, and Cam’s lyrics stick to over-the-top depictions of sex and drug dealing and, in one song, irritable bowel syndrome, venturing into the absurd occasionally on “It’s Nothin” (“Call me NASA, man/Inside plasma fam/You gotta warrant? I’m in orbit/Come after Cam”). Elsewhere, though, the skill never fully exonerates the content, which is a problem. When misogyny runs this in-your-face, it’s hard to make a case for metaphors.
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