DJ Kurupt made a DVD called G-TV. A revolutionary “G-Cam” reveals how a true G lives. And instead of releasing his latest swathe of well embroidered g-funk classics, he let them soundtrack a film showing “the true life of a g” through the cinema vérité of the “G-Cam”.

It’s constant tour footage of Kurupt from 2001-2002, edited for the single. Produced after the death row executive president and occasional rapper starred in a series of unambitious films with competent commercial success after producing very competent and ego-less gangsta verses, the rapper felt significant and confident to film his daily conceits, and turn them into a quick edited melange of partying, menacing talk, and manicured gangsta images that resembles the television show Cops more than any other television show, and rap music videos without the music more than anything else.

It all starts with a faily silly conceit: this depicts how a gangsta lives (which involves staring into space and telling people to get away from you, exclusively, then verbally affirming your “gansta”ness as the camera creeps away. The fact that they all leave, that is what gangsta means). But you do stick around a little bit. Sometimes, people gather in arenas to watch them perform. And while the only words you can garble from their songs are often “blasting” or “parking lot”, it’s soon apparent that these men do not car about communicating at all. They throw their words like Charlie Parker threw his spit through metal: nimbly, too abstract to argue with, to dazzling to deny, and too virtuosic to follow.

And when some great voices come together, and interrupt each other nimbly?

Yea, Kurupt’s someone who can sometimes that, and he surrounds himself with people who can, often much better than him, too. The few moments when he tries making verses on his own are often full of charming mistakes, a model hiccuping a little before slinking into a much more striking pose.

The appeal of gangsta rap lies in the execution, not the message. And the execution here, elaborate as it always is, has another side to it, one that the spontaneity of the “G-Cam” allows, so it can show rap that is more beholden to the moment that creates it (freestyling verses) than it is to prerecorded music. The context that Kurupt surrounds the homemade rap with, footage of the stars in concert rounds and performing their best, as well as sputtering their worst, gives the DVD an unusual lo-fi gangsta charm: language can concentrate an entire audience on one speaker, and it can also allow an individual to explore something new.

[a music video embedded in the DVD and released to entertainment news sites to little effect]

Normal music videos would show well groomed extras in brightly lit parking lots showing off expensive jewelry. Instead of being annoyed at the useless braggadocio, it’s hard not to be won over by its lo-fi charm. Thousands of images of different, well smoked, well thudded out parties race at you throughout the video. They’re all trying to be glamorous models, but they’re all a little bit off. They couldn’t quite shave off all their character, so they have to settle for being “real”.

If there’s one thing about Kurupt, though, it’s that he never has to pay people to make a situation happen. Or, if he did to create this film, he is a fool. Often, he just has to start playing a beat. And these are the moments when the movie arises from its normal gangsta haunted chatter into more concentrated cypher moments. In one particularly dramatic moment, Xzibit starts killing the beat, with rhymes like ‘you ain’t a rider with god/ you just sittin in the parking lot”, and then one of his crew mates begins a freestyle, slipping into one of his well rehearsed moments as he sips orange juice from a sippy straw. Xzibit finishes his rhymes for him, and begins to spit dfirectly at the camera, loudly, and with those eyes. The master had caught one of his students passing off his verses as spontaneous, and he kept on killing it. It’s humiliating.

The channel changes.

the movie’s also compulsively filled with images of its own characters as menaces. This is a place where speech goes to die: to become empty threats filling the space between violence.

It revels in its character’s anti-hero moments. and there are lots of boobies.

It’s all the mindless gangsta rap this fool needs.

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