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?

Hov’s back and still arrogant as fuck: “I don’t know what life will be in H.I.P. H.O.P. without the boy H.O.V.” But don’t blame him for his cockiness; blame the game for it. Hip-hop is damn near dead that Jay-Z has to roll out of his CEO’s chair and step back into the lab to revive her. With Kingdom Come, Hov shows, once again, that he can’t leave rap alone. The game needs him, and he loves you.

Right from “The Prelude,” Jigga knows exactly what hip-hop is missing—”The game’s fucked up / Nigga’s beat is bangin’ / Nigga, ya hooks did it / Ya lyrics didn’t / Ya gangsta look did it / So I would write it if yall could get it”—and he knows damn well how to fill in the gap. Whether he’s reporting on the Katrina crisis, addressing his lost ones, expressing his trouble, or bragging to his mama that he made it, Hov’s flow gets more intricate while his delivery becomes more effortless. With precise wordplays (“Fuck that exclamation, comma, quotation, I love drama, period.”) and sharp punchlines (“Keep my enemies close / I give them enough rope / they put themselves in the air / I just kick away the chair.”), he still proves to be a skillful lyricist who gets even better with time. And the mellowness in his vocal tone shows the matured Jay-Z who makes “30 is the new 20.” Gone is the misogynist, which is good, and remain is the champion of the lyrical roulette who still digs holes to bury his opponents.

As the owner of his 40/40, Jay-Z obviously wants to hear his shits, like “Anything” (with Usher and Pharrell), “Hollywood” (with Beyonce), and “Show Me What You Got,” bumping in his joint. What could be more pleasurable than watching sexy ladies shaking their booties and bouncing their titties to your own tunes in your own club? But Hov has been walking the thin line between big pimping and street hustling all these years without suffering his credibility because he knows how to balance himself. The album-closer “Beach Chair” is where Hov’s skills sold. Over the dope, bizarre, rambunctious beat from Dr. Dre, Hov spits with calm bravado and serene spiritual: “Some said, ‘Hov how you get so fly’ / I said, ‘from not being afraid to fall out the sky.’ / My physical’s a shell so when I say farewell / My soul will find an even higher plane to dwell / So fly you shall so have no fear / Just know that life is but a beach chair.”

With his previous release, The Black Album, Hov rapped every track as if it was his last. He wanted to make sure that we would miss him when he fades to black. With Kingdom Come, he even apologizes that he’s back. Not that he wants to return as a rapper, but as a hip-hop’s savior—“Just when you thought the whole world fells apart / I take off the blazer loosen up the tie / Step inside the booth Superman is alive”—and we might owe him a favor.

Life is hard enough for an average person. Imagine what’s life would be like to walk in Cindy Thai Tai‘s high heels? Even though she has transformed back to her feminine side, the road ahead as a transsexual is still rough and lonely, and she recognizes it in her debut Noi Long… Co Don, an album filled with personal expression. From the bosa-nova “Cho Nhau Loi Nguyen Cau (Tinh Yeu Da Mat)” to the jazzy “Cho Em Ngay Gio Xanh” to the sentimental “Noi Dau Ngot Ngao” to the wistful “Uoc Gi,” Cindy’s voice—sweet, slightly smoky with a touch of Thai Thanh’s sensation—floats like a deserted songbird that went through a sea of pain to get a whole new set of feathers. So get past the queer shit, and you will feel the sorrow of a woman who trapped in a man’s body.

“Look What They’ve Done to My Song” should have been the title track for Ray Sings, Basie Swings, a retouch-up album in which Ray Charles’s vocals get supported by the Count Basie (without Basie) orchestra—courtesy of technology. Although the album is enjoyable, thanks to Ray’s colossal voice and his interpretation of standards, neither Ray’s virtuosity nor Basie’s exotic tincture on the keyboard is presence.

Who wouldn’t feel bad for the grown-ass Barbie Thanh Thao? Her personal relationship is a wreck. Her albums flop from one to the next. Her vocals don’t get any better, if not worse. No matter how hard she tries to reinvent herself, she moves nowhere beyond mediocrity. The day of “nà… nà… nà… ná… na… nà… na… na… na…” is long gone. What we have left is a lonesome star trying to glow before fading away. After patiently listening to the entire album of Ngoi Sao Co Don, the two mesmerizing tracks are the intro and outro, in which she sincerely expresses her solitude without having to sing a note.