Only nine months after the release of Fishscale, Ghostface is giving us More Fish. The album is choked full of guest appearances including Trife Da God, Red Man, and Kanye West. A Ghost’s joint, however, should only be Ghost alone spitting sixty-something bars straight with no hooks, and no one else should interrupt his flows—not even an r-&-b singer. The remake of Amy Winehouse’s “You Know I am No Good” is the only exception. Ghost’s energetic delivery heightens the tune with hip-hop and jazz flavor, and his aggressive crescendo increases the sizzles to the bittersweet affair: “I love you like my coffee: so hot and so sweet.” What makes Ghost so damn pleasure to listen to is his restless drive and his astonishing breath control. Even when he rhymes over Eric B.’s old-school beat and flips Rakim’s script, Ghost proves that he still got juice.

With all the hip-hop-is-dead controversies floating around, Clipse are the real hip-hop’s saviors. On their newest release, Hell Hath No Fury, Pusha-T and Malice cut their coke-slinging tales like movie directors over the Neptunes’ dark, dense scores. From one episode to the next, the album’s twelve solid tracks are packed with accessible images, vivid rhyme patterns, restless flows, and precise productions. The Virginia duo had stepped their game up and crafted a masterpiece that could be experience again and again with guilty pleasures: “I’m at your door, your eyes are like ‘why are you here?’ / Judging by my steel, I got something to do here. / Give up the money or the angel cries two tears / Front of your crib sounding like Chinese New Year.”

In 1959, Ornette Coleman broke into the scene and set jazz free. His groundbreaking The Shape of Jazz to Come earned him the avant-garde stature and changed the rules of the game—less rules that is. Today, Coleman’s Sound Grammar is as fearless as it was five decades ago. At 76, his tone and virtuosity on the alto saxophone and trumpet had yet to suffer. Backed up by his son Denardo Coleman on the trap set, Greg Cohen on pizzicato bass, and Tony Falanga on bowing bass, Coleman wailed like a wild horse roaming free on “Jordan,” and stung like killer bees on “Song X.” Both tunes sounded chaotic on the surface, yet embedded inside them were deep, sensational melodic lines. On slow-tempo, sweet ballad, “Sleep Walking,” the interaction between Coleman’s sentimental alto and Falanga’s soul-sawing bass was breathtaking and captivating. Although he took one of my favorite instruments, the piano, out of the jazz band, I ain’t mad at him. With complete freedom from harmonic lines, Coleman’s unmistakable solos together with the hypnotic rhythm section created irresistible and unforgettable experiences.

At 60, Keith Jarrett still had his chops as a solo pianist. The Carnegie Hall Concert marked a historical event for the master of improvisation. With two hours of nothing but pure energy, passion, mood, and emotion, Jarrett poured his heart and soul out on the keys as if it was his last chance to perform. If you’re a solo-piano freak like me, this live album is no way to be missed.

In 1994, Nas dropped his debut, Illmatic, and elevated hip-hop to another level. Since then, he represents the street lyricist, hood spokesman, and ghetto American Idol. Today, Nas drops a bold statement that Hip-hop is Dead and rappers that commercialized the game is responsible for killing her.

Now, at thirty-three, Nas has many roles to fill. As a hip-hop’s veteran, he’s speaking out for the legends of the game who were misrepresented. As a rapper’s MC, he’s accountable for “Carry on Tradition” and teaching the young heads the true meaning of hip-hop: the art form that comes from the gut, blood, and soul—not the papers. As a father, he’s praying that his daughter won’t grow wild like the Hilton sisters. That would kill him. As a grown, wise man, he’s not going back to the hood. You can take the man out of the hood, but you can’t take the hood out of him. At this point of his life, he’s rather be chilling than rhyming, which has always been Nas’s weakest spot. Even as a gifted storyteller, his tales turned stale. He spends more time reminiscing on hip-hop’s golden age than moving forward.

One of jazz finest drummers, Art Blakey, once said, “I’m gonna stay with the youngsters. When these get too old I’ll get some younger ones. Keeps the mind active.” That is what Nas needs—some young bloods to push his button. And we can witness it on The Game’s collaboration. Both Nas and Game rhyme like true “Hustlers” over Dr. Dre’s eerie arrangement, and Nas sounds hungrier than on most of the tracks where he seems forced to flow when he’s rather not. At the end of the day, hip-hop hasn’t died, just passed him by.

Let’s the class begins. Thug Motivation 102: The Inspiration is now in session. Young Jeezy might not be a professor, but his street tales being told in a straightforward approach and vivid lyricism will force you to pay attention. With his white powder-saturated timbre and slow-burning delivery, the young blood is at the top of his game. So you better watch out. The snowman is back in town.

From the up-tempo swing (including “Jingle Bells,” “Winter Wonderland,” and “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”) to the mellow groove (such as “I’ll Be Home For Christmas,” “Christmas Time is Here,” and ” Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”), Diana Krall did it again with Christmas Songs: skillfully reinterpreted classic tunes with her exotic vocals, exquisite scatting, and extraordinary keyboard chops. With the Clayton-Hamilton Orchestra backing her up, Krall gives the holiday season a jazzy spirit.

Love is blind. In the condition of Ho Ngoc Ha and Duc Tri, however, love is deaf. Their latest project, Muon Noi Voi Anh, demonstrates Duc Tri’s least imaginative effort behind the board and Ho Ngoc Ha’s drowsing voice in which she sounds like she’s rather be sleeping than singing. Duc Tri is a talented producer, but his creativeness has seemed to take a toll on him in Le Hieu’s De Tron Doi Thuong Nho, and continues to gravitate. Without good beats to ride through, Ho Ngoc Ha’s aspirate vocals get nowhere.

While young broads like Khanh Ngoc still puts out Chinese-contaminated records, Minh Thu goes for the Vietnamese’s authentic flavor. That’s the good part. The not-so-good part is that her voice is not strong enough to tackle traditional folks. Listening to her breathy delivery and stiffed flow on Pho Duc Phuong’s compositions, you wish that Khuc Hat Phieu Ly were cut for Thanh Lam or Ngoc Ha. Furthermore, the tedious productions do nothing but bring down her performances. Where is Quoc Trung when they need him?

Like Madonna’s Confessions on a Dance Floor, Thu Minh’s Thien Dang is geared toward the club heads. Unfortunately, Vo Thien Thanh doesn’t have enough grooves to keep your feet stomping throughout. After the second track, the beats start to get aerobic. Even as you’re getting your exercise on, you just have to stop, when Okio joins in with his wack-ass rhymes and stuttered flow on the remix of “Bong May Qua Them” and “Xich Lo,” and wonder, what the fuck is he rapping about?