We close out Friday with more stars, one of whom is moderately well-preserved.
Thomas Inskeep: As a rule, I’m not a fan of posthumous we-scraped-together-some-old-verses-and-added-new-production records, and this is no exception. Really, Faith, “when we party on the west coast”? This is excessively lazy on both her part and that of Snoop, from whom I expect much more than the same old rhymes about getting high etc. Not to mention that this sounds as if it was produced and mixed in an elevator, all clattering and noisy and dated as hell.
David Sheffieck: No question this is nostalgia fodder, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. Faith sounds great, Snoop sounds solid, Biggie sounds like he’s been piped in – but they all work together, interwoven and in sync, and the beat pops infectiously. I feel like you could drop this into a party playlist and everyone would accept it like it was a vintage track they’d forgotten they knew, which is probably the best case scenario here.
Alfred Soto: To my surprise, the two living stars are in good form, and the resurrected track by the dead star doesn’t sound mummified either. I can’t quite recommend it without reservation because the prouduction — stalwartly eighties, or, rather “eighties” — sounds mummified.
Juana Giaimo: “When We Party” not only has the right amount of funk to reflect a party spirit, but it also features a very relaxed mood, mainly thanks to Snoop Dogg smooth lines.
Maxwell Cavaseno: I’ve dated someone who, to this day, hopes to obtain my teeth when I die. I’ve made friends with one other girl who aspires to hold onto the human body parts of her lovers, and as of last month I tried striking up a conversation with someone who’s admitted to wanting to do the same. Memories aren’t enough, sometimes people want to own parts of you. Christopher Wallace’s mother seems like the kind of old-school Jamaican mother that would throw acid in your face if you suggested owning her son’s remains, but is too practical and worldly to be concerned about how tirelessly the recordings of her son’s rappings remain metaphorically dismantled and sold wholeshare. Its served former manager Sean Combs an excess depth that in reality he doesn’t personally possess to cloak himself, but it’s hindered Faith Evans (a woman I consider one of the greatest singers of her generation) to become little more than a professional widow. Even here, she serves as little more than a guest in her own home to a corpse, doing a throwaway chorus for a visitor (Snoop, who’s as usual no worse than adequate) and the long gone host. This is a rapper that has lost all value in how we’ve stripped everything that’s left and refuse to leave behind even the bones.