Album: Murs

Murs 3:16 - the 9th Edition, Def Ju

This follow-up to Murs' debut, ...The End of the Beginning, finds the Los Angeles rapper still fighting a fairly lonely corner against the deadly tide of knucklehead criminal clichés that continues to afflict hip-hop. It's a demeaning battle, particularly as regards the effect it has on his sex life, with potential dates singularly unimpressed with someone who admits, "I'm more Coldplay than I am Ice-T". It all seems so unfair: as he acknowledges in "The Rain", "They say good girls like bad boys, and that might be/ But a bad girl with a good guy is unlikely".

Working here solely with the producer 9th Wonder, Murs extends further the reputation of Def Jux as the pre-eminent home of thoughtful hip-hop lyricism and inventive breakbeats. The upside is critical acclaim and a clear conscience, but the down- side is poor sales (and, presumably, scant sexual opportunities) compared to the dead-eyed thugs preferred as role models by young black (and increasingly, white) American kids. Not that Murs isn't already used to such sacrifices, admitting in "The Hustle" that instead of selling crack, his own youthful scams included the much less glamorous collecting of aluminium cans and selling them to recyclers. "Cheap-dirt hustles, no glorious tales," he concedes, "But it did keep my black ass out of jail."

The message is taken up further in "And This Is For...", an intelligent analysis of racism which both criticises white wannabe gangstas who think they understand the black struggle because they dig 2Pac, while at the same time objecting to the corrosive lies that have contributed to the death of thousands of young black men. "Contrary to what the legendary BIG had to say, you don't have to sell drugs or make the NBA," he asserts, "It's easy to get a grant and an NVA." But as he and Little Brother's Phonte implicitly acknowledge when discussing their shared struggle to promote their style of hip-hop in "The Animal", it's hard to sell the notion of hard work and personal development to kids captivated by the concept of the quick buck.

Murs is at his best here, though, on "Walk Like a Man", a different take on the familiar drive-by theme which is in its own way even more harrowing than previous examples by Ice-T, 2Pac and Biggie, because its focus on conscience leaves a lingering sense of dread that goes deeper than bravado. This time, there's no gang allegiances involved, just the pointless murder of an unarmed friend, and the narrator's search for revenge which ultimately leaves him tainted. "I thought that's what I wanted till the problem was confronted," he admits, after settling the score a year later. "Now I'm haunted by remorse and I wish I hadn't done it."

Eschewing bogus glamour for emotional realism, Murs manages to say more about the corrosive cancer of hip-hop's gun culture than all the thousands of column inches lavished on 50 Cent's bullet wounds.