We begin with a track from the debut album by one of Nate’s most frequent collaborators…

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Zach Lyon: When I listened to NPR’s audio obituary thing for Nate Dogg, I was originally just pissed to hear that so much of this less-than-three-minute tribute is dedicated to discussing how Nate’s singing made “hypersexual, misogynistic lyrics” sound listenable to a liberal audience, and making that his main hook — like, of course NPR would pull that shit in a tiny overview of a man’s entire life, making sure he’s whitewashed enough to properly mourn. It’s sad, because they’re close to getting to an actual, important point: Nate Dogg was not a soul or R&B singer, he was a hip-hop singer, and he sang lyrics you would only expect to hear rapped, and it does create this weird dissonance you won’t hear in an R. Kelly song. It sort of sounds like a joke sometimes, especially here, where the man soulfully croons about getting his balls licked. The obit could’ve spent a bit more time discussing his incredible voice, but on a lyric level, there really hasn’t been anything else like him.
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Ian Mathers: I was going to try and ignore the misogyny, but it’s just too thick in here, great production notwithstanding. Dude, she licked your balls. Show a little class.
[5]

Alfred Soto: Neither the theremin-anchored beat nor Nate’s wobbly vocal compensate for the track’s general grossness. I may be the only human alive who prefers the kinder, gentler Snoop of the last few years to the phlegmatic gang rapist of his early Dre tutelage.
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Martin Skidmore: Like many people, I do have problems with misogyny in music, and this is one of the more explicitly stated examples of that. On the other hand, I rarely listen to lyrics terribly carefully, so they usually don’t wreck my enjoyment. The g-funk backing here is terrific, relaxed but propulsive, Nate is smooth, Kurupt and Snoop particularly are on top, bouncy form. Misogyny has rarely sounded so cheery and fun.
[8]

Asher Steinberg: For a time-tested classic, this song sure has a lot of flaws. There’s Nate’s aimless intro that goes on for several too many bars (presaging his disappointing solo career), Kurupt’s needlessly mean-spirited and not very fun or funny verse, the part where Warren G sounds like one of the “rappers” on Dangerous, the way none of the individual parts link up to each other at all, and even Snoop’s verse, which begins on an unfortunately aggressive note and doesn’t hit the appropriately breezy stride until midway through. But all that’s (mostly) made up for by Nate’s classic hook and the way Dre plays those terrific synth horns under Nate’s “fun” and “none.” All of a sudden there’s this lovely burst of harmony, in a way that recalls mid-60s Beach Boys just as much as it does the Isaac Hayes and Lyn Collins records the song actually samples.
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Tal Rosenberg: Casual and ruthless misogyny, which is gross and not worth endorsing. But Dr. Dre’s beat is one of his best, a sunny and perky speed-up of Isaac Hayes’ “A Few More Kisses to Go” that is probably the second-best beat on the best Dre-produced full-length in his entire oeuvre. And the song is totally weird and perplexing: Nate Dogg loses respect for the girl because she gives it up too quickly, but then gets it so good that he’ll acquiesce if she gives it up so easily again, and then falls for her, only to have his boys show up to treat women as disposable accessories. The rapping has attitude, the chorus has a hook that fastens like a seatbelt, and Nate’s melody is sublime, all the more appealing because the lyrics are so gratuitous, producing laughter that’s either uncomfortable or contagious, depending on your purview.
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Jonathan Bradley: “Ain’t No Fun” is unforgivably, irredeemably horrible. I doubt any sentiment as obnoxious as Nate Dogg’s puerile insult to the woman he’s serenading has ever been sung so sweetly. The only question is, who following him has the better (that is, nastier) opening line: “Well if Kurupt ever gave a fuck about a bitch, he’d be broke” or Snoop’s “Guess who’s back in the motherfucking house with a fat dick for your motherfucking mouth”? Worse, the ambiance lacks even the decency to be as threatening as Dr. Dre’s production in this era could be; in fact it’s utterly celebratory. If you can conjure a purr as amicable as that of these gentlemen, then even your foulest come-ons might be mistaken for charm, but being this much of an asshole anywhere but on record is really ill-advised.
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