Hip-hop is a form of music that people either love or hate. As soon as they hear “we don’t love them hoes,” they immediately dismiss hip-hop as unaesthetic, and they disdain the whole culture. Rap is only the voice of hip-hop. There are other elements to hip-hop such as DJing as the sound, b-boying as the motion, and graffiti as the visual. My appreciation for hip-hop is deeper than the music itself. Unlike many Vietnamese Americans, I struggled to learn English through books and classes; therefore, I used hip-hop to study English, which explains the tone, grammar, sentence structure, and style in my writing.

As much as I love rap music, it is damn near impossible to convince my cousins, who are doctor, dentist, pharmacist, college professor, and computer engineers, that hip-hop is a work of art. Back in the day, it was not so hard to breakdown how Rakim‘s lyricism is art even when he uses the analogy of an addict to describe his obsession with hip-hop: “I’m just an addict, addicted to music / Maybe it’s a habit, I gotta use it / Even if it’s jazz or the quiet storm / I hook a beat up, convert it into hip-hop form / Write a rhyme in graffiti, and every show you see me in / Deep concentration, cause I’m no comedian.”

With today’s hip-hop, breaking down the music as an art form is much harder. As much as I dig Cam’ron‘s vibrato flow as well as his silly but witty figure of speech, his lyric is unfeasible to support. How could we even explain something like this: “First pile up in the rear, I style up in my gear / Stallion of the year, medallions in my ear / Whips on my fists, houses on my wrists / Your budget on my neck, your spouse on my dick / Posters on the wall, posted on my balls / Dick in her mouth, I tell her (I’m getting money nigga)?” Well, as you can see, all he’s saying is the money you spent buying his record is on his bling while your wife is on his thing.

Not that I need to persuade anyone to listen to hip-hop, but I still believe that rap is a powerful music that allows artists to express themselves. As far as I am concern, rap music will never be fully blossomed in Viet Nam. Besides the lack of knowledge from the imitated Vietnamese MCs, Viet Nam has no such right as freedom of speech.

Vpop chicks nowadays are like imported sport rides. Each needs to get supped up with at least a set of rims and an occasional rear spoiler in order to be in the club. Not too many appreciate their manufactured features the way Vy, a recent pop star from Van Son Entertainment, does. She may not be blessed with fats in the right places, but she works with what she has. I enjoy some of her video performances. Her reminiscent of Aaliyah doesn’t bother me since someone has to take on the stature of the Queen of the Damned.

With a lovely face, groovy steps, and eccentric attire, Vy fits into the mold of Vietnamese pop culture; however, what sets Vy apart is her ability to express her own drama. Vy’s first solo, My Story, comes straight from her pen. Neither her lyrical skill nor her voice is at Mariah Carey’s level, but Vy could definitely articulate herself. The album opens with a fluster of gossips before Vy tells her side of the story about her pipe dream: “Once upon a time I was this young girl / Who had a love for the stage / Never wanted to be a doctor / or a layer to get paid / And now I am all grown up / Still doing what I love.” In “This Is Me,” she speeds up her flow over the physical-enhancing production to give us a bit more details about her: “I’m sweet and chic / And got a little naughtiness in me.” That’s good to know baby. Nothing is sexier than a good girl gone wild, and a little bit of naughtiness can always spike things up too.

Highlight of My Story is when Vy addresses the “Haterz.” The lyric is witty, the beat is catchy, but Vy’s voice is a bit understated. Yet, I have to give props to the girls on the intro for sounding just like two white-washed banana heads. The turning point of the album is when Vy becomes a “Lovaholic.” The worst hook is in “My Man.” The way she refrains—“my man, my man, my man… yeah…”—bugs the hell out me. To the point where I just want to scream out, “Enough of your man, fuck him.” To make shit worse, comes a lame-ass rap from Aposle Son whose stilted flow is no less infuriating. And just as I thought the torturing is over, “Doin’ to Me,” which comes right after “My Man,” continues to irritate my nerves with the sped-up sampling (a straight jack from Just Blaze’s production for Jay-Z’s “U Don’t Know”) of a high screeching voice crooning, “you don’t know what you’re doing to me baby.” Yes, I do. You’re killing my ears harshly with your sound, Gopinath.

Besides Tuan Ngoc, Nguyen Khang is the only hope left for the male vocalist in the Vietnamese-American music scene. And no, Nguyen Khang does not imitate Tuan Ngoc. That’s an erroneous statement I have heard and read over and over again. So let me set the record straight. Tuan Ngoc is a technical master. He could make a straightforward ballad like Dieu Huong’s “Vi Do La Em” sounds complicated with his skillful delivery and vocals manipulation. The only drawback is that average listeners would have a hard time absorbing it. How many times have people complaints that Tuan Ngoc is boring? On the other hand, Nguyen Khang simplifies his performances and allows his emotion to pour into the songs. His technique is not to use technique; therefore, his style is accessible to a broader audience without suffering the aesthetic values.

What I find interesting about Nguyen Khang is that he could bring a new dimension to timeless standards as well as providing a raw, unique quality to popular tunes with his dark, throaty, and broody voice. In his new album Dong Doi, released by Asia Entertainment, he revives Frank Sinatra’s classic “My Way” in a Vietnamese rendition translated by Nam Loc, and reinvigorates Nancy Sinatra’s “Bang Bang” (Vietnamese lyrics by Pham Duy) with the help of Diem Lien. I rarely find translated tunes to be listenable, but the lyrics in these two tracks are well crafted, the vocals are tight, and the arrangements are refreshing, especial “Bang Bang,” which comes with three different flavors.

Truc Ho is undoubtedly a talented producer, and also a reputable songwriter. The problem is that he always spoon-feeds Lam Nhat Tien, even though the whippersnapper has not been able to articulate Truc Ho’s compositions to their fullest potential. Thank goodness, Truc Ho handed his weeds to the right carrier this time. With a bohemian style, astringent voice, and unconstrained flow, Nguyen Khang delivers “Nho Den Em,” “Chang Khac Gi Nhau,” and “Neu Khong Co Em” the way they should be: powerful, thoughtful, and soulful. In Vu Tuan Duc and Truc Ho’s “Nhung Dieu That La,” Nguyen Khang rides effortlessly inside the tasty keyboard licks and swinging programmed drums.

Out of the three guests—Diem Lien, Lam Nhat Tien, and Vu Tuan Duc—the lady is obviously the ideal companion. Diem Lien’s sweet, tangy voice reflects perfectly with his hoarse, bad-boy’s timbre. Together they soar and sting like birds and bees on Anh Bang’s “Mai Toi Di” (poem by Nguyen Sa) and the savory medley of “Ky Dieu” (Anh Bang, Nguyen Sa) and “Anh Con No Em” (Phan Thanh Tai). With Asia’s unmistakable sound, Nguyen Khang’s gifted voice, and a handful of well-chosen tunes, Dong Doi is not a letdown at all. So don’t beat yourself down, man. The new generation of Vietnamese-American music is on your shoulder. Keep pushing that weight, Khang.

Andy Quach’s K.O. damn near knocks the musical taste out of my ears. It’s a globalization (not world music) album with pop, hip-hop, r & b, and Chinese all roll in one. The problem is that I don’t hear any Vietnamese aesthetics in there. If Andy doesn’t team up with Cat Tien to croon them Chinese-translated ballads, he partners up with Nguyen Thang to bring us bubblegum pop, pseudo hip-hop, and soul-deadening r & b. The lamest shit has to be “Gotta Be,” in which Nguyen Thang does his fagottized vocalization for some “Fake McCoy” to rhyme over, and Andy’s voice is lost somewhere in the groupie chaos. How the hell did Andy even become a singer? He has no voice, no skill, and no style. His half-ass singing/half-ass rapping in “Vien Dan Tinh Yeu” is cheese-fucking-z, and he could hardly ride the beat. Why trying to beef up the masculine image on the album cover when the vocals can’t live up to it? Let the voice defines the music, not the hairless chest, pretty boy.

DMX was one wicked demon with an unbaptized mouth. After a brief intro, he opened his second album, Flesh of My Flesh, Blood of My Blood, with, “I got blood on my hands and there’s no remorse / and got blood on my dick cause I fucked a corpse.” That was my dawg X: hardcore, ruthless, and raw. The first time I encountered Dark Man X through “Get At Me Dog,” he struck me like a bullet zipping by my brain. His voice was murky; his flow was rough; and his bark was vicious. In his debut, It’s Dark and Hell is Hot, X moved from the street into the bedroom into the church without feeling awkward. The beats were harsh; his deliveries were harsher. Too bad, X lost his swag after the second album. With three consecutive flops and three years later, X is now in studio preping up his come back. We’ll find out if 2006 is the Year of the Dog, Again.

I hate to grab hot chicks by the bundle, but Loan Chau is another one of Thuy Nga’s sexy foxes who could glamorize the screen much better than she could sing. She has the kind of look that makes me want to hurt her (in a good way), and the kind of voice—saccharine, soulless, no range, and zero vibratos—that makes me want to choke her (in a bad way). Her newest release, Khuc Tuong Phung, which featured twelve brand new tracks written by Hoai An, is filled with mundane romances. She hardly pushes her delivery (yet still blows mad air), and the arrangements are full of Chinese accents and smooth saxes. The combination is suitable for bedroom music that could easily put people to sleep. By the time I get to the fifth or sixth tracks, I have already been knocked out.

No homo! Cam’ron refers to the term more than once in his latest release Killa Season. Does he need to clarify that he’s not a fagot? Coming from a cocksure misogynist whose rhyming skill is indisputable when he bashes women, I find it to be amusing and ironic. In “Touch It or Not,” featuring Lil’ Wayne, Cam’s lyrics are malicious—“On your knees, show you how to top a boss / Lick, suck, deep throat, stop, cough, hop on, hop off, lollipop off / I know it’s white, but here come the hot sauce”—but his flow is so tight that he could makes the nastiest word sounds witty. Not that I worship the ground he spits on nor I support his violation of women, but the motherfucker knows damn well how to swing his dick to the beat, and at the same time, he manages to get the ladies to groove along.

Like Purple Haze, Killa Season’s narrations are nothing more than “Girls, Cash, Cars,” which exemplify the gangster’s glamorousness. The pitfall of the album, however, is way too many guest appearances, and is lacking hot beats. Even Cam’s virtuous deliveries can’t hold the recordings together. The sped-up sampling of Etta James’s “You’re Gonna Make Me Cry” in “Leave You Alone” is irritating. Cam’s off-key singing in “He Tried to Play Me” is awful. Stick with rapping, Killa. Cam also throws shots at Jigga in “You Gotta Love It,” but his punches are so weak that Jay-Z doesn’t even give him half a bar. When it comes to hustling and battling, Cam’s rhymes are nowhere near Hov.

Just when I thought Cam’s wordplay is vulgar—“I collect the chicken, call me Purdue”—he catches me by surprise with the cocaine metaphor in “White Girls.” Backed up by The Beat Firm’s Spanish-tinged production, Killa Cam steps up his game with his sharp, whimsical relationship with Snow White: “My pride and joy, I call her butter / When she bakes a cake, we’ll be lovers / She lives with me right, I hide her from my mother / See, she wouldn’t understand, I’m supplying the gutter / I let my baby hang outside with the brothers / Come back, cake on the bed the size of the covers / Shot five with a sucker, another five with a trucker / Took a hit without paying, won’t get a dime for my butter.” Too bad, Cam couldn’t swagger his way throughout the whole joint. No Killa classic.

Dorchester-based a cappella group, VariAsians, is consisted of Asian-American faces from various background such as Vietnamese, Chinese, and Philippines. By weaving eastern aesthetics into gospel, r & b, and soul, VariAsians give a cappella a new experience. Check out their rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” for the Celtics’ game, and various sample clips, which include “Do Ai,” “Nguoi Oi,” and “Qua Cau Gio Bay,” in the “Media” section of their site.

Just happen to stumble upon Thao Music. Even though the site doesn’t give any information about the young Vietnamese girl who has a marvelous voice—raspy and clear at once—it does provide some full-length samples. Love the way she delivers “Hills.” Her singing is both playful and effortless, and she knows how to curl her throaty, bad-girl’s timbre around the waltzing arrangement. Enjoy her clear strumming guitar in “Moped” and “Feet Asleep” as well.

Although the album cover of Thanh Lam-Trong Tan—the most anticipated collaboration of the year—is as impressive as necrophilia, the use of typography tries to hint you something. The white-and-red color and the intertwined type treatment—Red Cross’s style—serve as a warning that you could get a heart attack listening to this album. That’s how powerful the recordings are.

Don’t give me wrong. I love strong voices. Trong Tan has to be one of the most authoritative male vocalists in Viet Nam. In fact, his voice is overpowering. I am talking about the hair-raising, nerve-stinging, in-your-ear kind of power, baby. And Thanh Lam’s voice is no less strident. So what happens when these two amplified crooners consolidate? The outcomes can be experienced on Le Minh Son’s “Hat Cho Con Ngay Mua,” “Xa Xa,” and “Thoi Con Gai.” Just imagine two motorbikes’ mufflers competing for your ears or making out to the sound of a buzzsaw. Trong Tan’s excessive use of vibratos in “A I A” and “Mua” could make bubbles rise in your blood stream. And please Tan, spare me some soul from those opera shit.

Besides the newly written compositions from Le Minh Son, Thanh Lam recovered Thuan Yen’s “Em Toi” and Thanh Tung’s “Giot Nang Ben Them.” Even though Tran Manh Hung’s semi-classical orchestrations breeze new vibes to the aged tunes, Thanh Lam’s breathy deliveries and heavy flows don’t make them sound any better than what she had done before—just another approach of getting things off her silicon chest.

Thanh Lam-Trong Tan is no way a flopped album. Le Minh Son has done his best to weave these two voices together as well as fuse Vietnamese traditional music into western vibes. I just hope that they weren’t overwhelmingly loud. Maybe I am just getting old for rambunctious music, which explains why I still haven’t been able to appreciate the boisterous aesthetics of rock.