A successful singer needs both vocal and aural skills. She has to be able to sing as well as hearing what she sings. Van Quynh has a fantastic voice, yet lacks the ear for good tunes. Her debut Uoc Mot Ngay kicks off with a dynamic, hypnotic rendition of “Mot Thoi De Yeu” giving the album a promising start. Unfortunately, even her powerful vocals couldn’t save the rest of the lackluster tracks. She’s still young and inexperienced at crafting an album, but Thuy Nga’s producers should have known better.

On Tinh Khuc Cho Em, Quang Dung throws Thai Ha a bone. She’s only a passable singer with soft and rangeless vocals. On their duet “Vung Lay Cua Chung Ta,” Quang Dung pulls her out of the mud. Her insomnia-cured voice only makes his sounded more superior than it actually is. Charity is the only reason he made this album. Whether he did it for the kids or for her, the profit should (as she has claimed) go to help the children in Viet Nam. So if you cop this album illegally, you should go to hell. Fuck it, I’ll be there with ya.

On her fourth solo, Nuoc Mat Mua Thu, produced by Asia Entertainment, Ngoc Ha brings back the nostalgic vibes. What makes her covers of the classic tunes sound so damn fresh are the youthfulness in her performance and authoritativeness in her voice. With such passionate power, she makes me wonder how tones like that could come from petite a physique. I guess it is true that good things do come in small packages.

On the title track, “Nuoc Mat Mua Thu,” Ngoc Ha proves once again that she is one of the best female vocalists in her generation when it comes to covering Pham Duy’s compositions. With brilliant use of vibrato, Ngoc Ha pours her tearful soul out like autumn rain. Her emotional transformation could easily place next to Le Thu’s rendition. Pay particular attention to the way she expresses “troi oi,” and you’ll know what I mean.

Beside her voice, Ngoc Ha’s other strength is the wide range in her repertoire. Soaring like songbird on Pho Duc Phuong’s “Ho Tren Nui,” she demonstrates her skills for handling traditional folks. With an astonishing breath control and a sleek maneuverability around ballroom beats, she rocks the dance floor with Khanh Bang’s “Ngay Ve Que Cu” in paso-double style. Backing up by an orchestra, she gives Pham Duy’s “Kiep Nao Co Yeu Nhau,” a striking semi-classical recital.

Weakest track on the album is Van Phung’s “Gia Tu Dem Mua.” The imperfection is more on the arrangement than Ngoc Ha’s delivery. The cha-cha groove is jerky and weirdly mixed with the acoustic guitar riffs. Still, Ngoc Ha’s vocals and Asia’s productions are a wonderful coil to one another. What I want to hear next from Ngoc Ha is a Pham Duy’s album with the collaboration of Duc Tuan. Imagine that!

In “The La Qua Du,” Kim, a fifteen-year-old chick straight from Ha Noi, attempts to rhyme, “Doi voi toi, hip-hop la mot phan tren co the / Khong the mat no, chac toi se thanh nguoi tan phe.” After listening to her debut album, Kim Vol. 1, I raise the question, “What hip-hop is she talking about?” She can’t ride the beat. She has no flow. Her lyric is elementary. Shortie needs to get her ass back to school and stop fronting like she got game.

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.