On his new album, Fishscale, the Monster of Don a.k.a. Ghostface Killah does what he does best—spitting crack tales in vivid details. To illustrate that he is still the hardest-working dopeman in the business, Ghost chucks out the hooks and pushes 64 bars straight in “Shakey Dog” right off the bat. He sounds hungrier than ever. Packing words into the beat like a crack dealer stuffing his cocaine into a bag, Ghost’s energy brings a filmic experience to his narration: “Frank pushed me into the door / the door flew open / Dude had his mouth open / Frozen, stood still with his heat bulging / Told him, ‘Freeze, lay the fuck down and enjoy the moment.’ / Frank snatched his gat / Slapped him, asked him, ‘Where’s the cash, coke, and the crack?'”

If I need a recipe for making cocaine, no need to look further than the crackmasters in “Kilo.” With Raekwon who is also a descriptive lyricist joining him, Ghost lays down the process of manufacturing coke like Emeril prepares his favorite soup: “Big heavy pots over hot stoves / Mayonnaise jars and water / With rocks in ’em / Got my whole project outta order / Kilo is a thousand grams / Beige, gold, brown, dirty, fluffy, tan / Extract oil come from Cuban plants.” Another flavorful collaboration between these two Wu-Tang members is “R.A.G.U.,” a violence scene in which Ghosts finishes with, “Yo Lord! I knocked out his teeth / Now he’s rocking those false joints like everything’s peace.”

Fishscale’s productions are tight, but what drive the recordings are Ghost’s dynamic deliveries. In “The Champ,” Just Blaze’s orchestration is crazy—hard beat fused with chaotic guitar and harsh horns arrangement—Ghost’s flow is crazier, and he lets nothing overpowered his voice. On the sentimental “Whip You with a Strap,” the late J Dilla sampled Luther Ingram’s “To the Other Man” and provided a soulful beat for Ghost to reflects on his childhood memory in which he was belted by his mother for his rudeness: “Mama shake me real hard / then get the big gat—that called the belt. / ‘Help me,’ as I yelled / I’m in the room like ‘huh, huh, huh’ with mad welts / Ragged out, bad belt / Yes her presence was felt.”

With a solid release filled with aesthetic qualities, Ghost has proved that he still stands strong in the hip-hop community at the age of thirty-five while many of his peers have gone. He has not only maintained his style, but also improved and refined his techniques over the years. Fishscale confirms that Ghost is keeping the game on lock.

What I missed the most about Tupac Shakur a.k.a. Makaveli was his realness. True, he was a dope lyricist, but it was the sincerity in his delivery that brought his rhymes to life. So when he said, “Fuck the world,” I felt him. His death shook me because he always rapped about gun and annihilation as if he knew he would catch them sooner or later. His posthumous The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory (the only piece of my ex I have not destroyed) sounds like he has planned his earthly departure.

On the opening “Bomb First,” Pac’s ferocity gushes like adrenaline rushes—as if it is his last chance to rhyme before fading to black. In the beginning of “Hail Mary,” he screams, “Uhh, feel me!” I could sense the hopelessness in his voice; therefore, when he rhymes, “I ain’t a killer but don’t push me / Revenge is like the sweetest joy next to getting pussy,” he was convincible. The antagonism continues on “Me and My Girlfriend,” a Pac’s version of Bonnie and Clyde that laced with sex and violence: “I love finger fucking you, all of a sudden I’m hearing thunder / When you bust a nut, Niggaz be ducking or taking numbers.” On “Just Like Daddy,” Pac wants to become a father figure to his girl and promises to take away her pain. Not sure how he would do that since he claims that you’re “screaming like you’re dying every time I am fucking you.” I suppose he takes away her emotional pain by giving her pleasurable pain. But that’s Pac, a man who had nothing to hide when it comes to speaking out his mind. And the self-expression is what I love about hip-hop.

A few readers still find it surprising when I write about hip-hop. Their perception is that I am not the hardcore or tough type of guy. What does my personality have to do with the music I listen to? My appreciation for hip-hop based purely on its aesthetic values: the beats, the flows, the rhymes, the structures, the techniques, the deliveries, the wordplays, the imageries, and the experiences. Hip-hop is a form of art that allows artists to truly bare their soul, and that was exactly what Pac did.

Phu Quang is a renowned songwriter who treasures every second of his life. 69’59”—the title of his latest work (Phu Quang Vol.11)—signifies the pulses of his heart and the lifespan of his songbook as he welcomes listeners into his “Quan Thoi Gian” (Stall of Time) performed by the young singer Ngoc Anh. Their collaboration is a fruitful one because she brings beautiful drama to his simple, lyrical compositions with her gravel pit of a voice.

Ngoc Anh has the right chops for the bossa-nova “Lang Dang Chieu Dong Ha Noi.” She knows how to float her dirt-flecked timbre around the Latin-inflected groove and the exotic keyboard licks. And she pours when she rains. Ngoc Anh streams her heart out on the acoustic guitar in “Khuc Mua Thu” and drowns her emotion in the sentimental “Truoc Mo Cha.” With “Chieu Phu Tay Ho,” she surprises the listeners with her handling of traditional folk. Her overcooked quality gives the piece a soul-soothing touch.

69’59” is a savory album because Phu Quang’s compositions are easy to listen and his lyrics are straightforward but never comes across as mundane. The producers—Thanh Phuong, Do Bao, Vinh Tam, and Viet Anh—also earned their proper for the effervescent arrangements. As much as I admire Ngoc Anh’s dark, warm sensuousness, I am still not contented with her aspirate delivery. Although she has reached deep into the music with her soulful interpretation, she needs to silence her breathing to complete her perfectionism.

As I am listening to Nguyen Khang’s rendition of Dieu Huong’s “Vi Do La Em” from his boxed sets with the same name, I wish that he had applied to this track his rough, raw, and rugged delivery that was used on Elton John’s “Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word” from his debut Cung La Tram Nam. The result would have been so damn wicked because he has the ability to metamorphose the basest metal. Imagine what he would sound like kicking off the song with, “Khong can biet em la ai” in his thuggish flow. Too bad, he played safe and performed it in a straightforward approach. If I get a chance to see him in concert, I’ll make him sings the ballad the way I want to hear it (dream on, Donny). Speaking of live performances, the collection included two exceptional recordings—Pham Duy’s “Tam Su Goi Ve Dau” and Vu Thanh An’s “Tinh Khuc Thu Nhat”—in which he ripped live like a professional assassin, efficiently perfecting his execution. Out of all the forty tracks selected, Nguyen Khang made more hits then misses on the standards of well-known songwriters including Trinh Cong Son, Ngo Thuy Mien, and Tram Tu Thieng. I have accumulated both Nguyen Khang’s box sets from Bien Tinh Music, but I rock Vi Do La Em more often than Trai Tim Ben Le.

Da Nhat Yen is my video girl. I love to watch her on Asia. I am not ashamed to say, her moves groove me most of the time. She keeps me looking forward to her performances on Asia series because of the constant transformation in her concept and execution. Under the guidance of Truc Ho, musical director of Asia, she could maneuver her ways around various styles. With her Princess Entertainment (still distributed by Asia), however, she is drowning in her own pool of potpourri. Her album, which has no title, is ranging from bubblegum pop, pop rock, pop jazz, disco rap, Latin cha cha to Vietnamese ballads. I wonder why she can’t pick out a title track. One song can’t represent her entire repertoire.

The album starts off with R. Williams and G. Chambers’s “Kids,” a pop/rock production from Peter Siebert. Joining along side DNY is the girlish-voiced Justin. Their duet on the refrain annoys the hell out of me. On the club-friendly “Voi Anh Dem Nay,” penned by DNY and Sy Dan, the Vietnamese-English hook is nerve-raising. I thought Spanglish is bad, until I hear how DNY weaves English into Vietnamese. With the new-wave groove, Sting’s “Send Your Love,” DNY sports a Twista’s speedy flow. The main problem is that I have no idea what she is singing with her unclear enunciation.

The worse cover has to be Jesse Harris’s “I’ve Got to See You Again.” DNY can’t express the sex quality like Norah Jones could. In particular, when Jones phrases, “To not touch your skin is not why I sing,” her smoky contralto makes us want to get our freaks on, but DNY comes off so mundane. Another significant difference between the two renditions is the musical production. The intoxicating Latin flavor on Jones’s piece is perfect for baby-making music while Nhat Trung’s banal arrangement and Vu Anh Tuan’s toneless saxophone is more appropriate for elevator music. Again on Pham Dinh Chuong’s “Nua Hon Thuong Dau,” the ear-breaking sound waves of the saxophone makes DNY’s weak, breathy voice sinks like a Titanic.

Why be so tough on such a sweet darling who tries her hardest to bring us some entertainment values? I have nothing against Da Nhat Yen. In fact, I still have mad love for her, but crafting an album takes skills and experiences. Can’t just throw in everything for everybody. Be selective, be focused, and be original. But don’t lose the eye-candy juice, baby!

When someone said that she would marry a piano rather than a man, I don’t blame her. I am in love with the keyboard sounds myself. I spent An Evening With Chick Corea and Herbie Hancock and was seduced by their prodigious playing. Both Corea and Hancock are virtuoso pianists and their improvisations are endlessly inventive. The way they performed together feels like they were making their instruments copulating to produce a unifying spirit that flows free and flies high. While the two found their soul mates in their duets, I found a soul mate in their music.

Workboy (homeboy at work) Tim got me hooked on The Beastie Boys through iTune’s sharing. I’ve been rocking Paul’s Boutique like it is the freshest shit since LL’s “Rock the Bells.” The ingenious samplings—old-school beats, metal-guitar riffs, and jazz-keyboard licks—are groovy as hell. Getting past their in-your-face voices, one can find their skillful trading lines to be exhilarating. Their punch rhymes are witty as well: “A lot of parents like to think I’m a villain / I’m just chillin’ like Bob Dylan / I smoke cheeba it helps me with my brain / I might be a little dusted but I’m not insane / People come up to me and they try to talk shit / Man, I’ve been making records since you were sucking on your mother’s dick.”

One of jazz’s techniques always mesmerizes me is scat singing—an improvisation of nonsense syllables. Louis Armstrong is the father of scat and he invented the vocabulary singlehandedly. During a recording session, he dropped the music sheet so he mimicked the trumpet with his voice. On “Hotter Than That,” Pops improvises, “rip da du da du da / du-ya dad a dit dip bah!” He sings like he would play his trumpet—full of emotion, tone, and virtuosity.

If Satchmo was the pops of scat, Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughan were the mamas. Like Pops, they both could produce horn-like sounds with their vocals. While Ella was known for her nimble-voice, Sarah was famous for her gorgeous vibrato. Ella’s rendition of “Rockin’ in Rhythm” and Sarah’s “Sassy’s Blues” are perfect illustrations.

Recently, I was introduced to Martin Sexton from someone who shares my passion for jazz. Sexton’s scat improvisation on “13 Step Boogie” is eccentrically beautiful. His voice is an instrument in itself, and I love his cool, effortless style and versatile vocals range. What strikes me is that Sexton is not even a jazz singer, and yet he could move in and out of jazz so freely.

As for Vietnamese singers, the only one (I know of) that could scat is Tung Duong. On “Lua Mat Em,” the way he weaves his voice around the female background vocalist is stunning. As if he is a trumpet complementing her singing.

Tuan Ngoc is still the king of Vietnamese ballads. On the title track of Vi Do La Em, he heightens Dieu Huong’s standard with his dexterous delivery. He starts off the first two bars with an exotic-gruffed, low baritone then gradually moves into his archetypal, superb phrasings. The changes are subtle but electrifying. As if he could color the timbre of his voice, stroke a gradient from dark to light, and progress from frostiness, “Khong can biet em la ai,” to fondness, “Ta yeu em bang may ngang bien rong.”

Tuan Ngoc does it again on Ngo Thuy Mien’s “Noi Dau Muon Mang” just like what he has done with “Rieng Mot Goc Troi.” He soars like a bird with a broken wing, especially when he ends with, “Em co hay khi mua thu toi, ta mat nhau mot doi.” From Nguyen Dinh Toan’s “Can Nha Xua” to Dieu Huong’s “Phien Da Sau” to Chau Dinh An’s “Tinh Khuc Mot Ngay Buon,” his execution remains undisputable: the breath control, the sophisticated rhythmic sense, and the immaculate intonation.

Together with his sister Khanh Ha, Tuan Ngoc refreshes Doan Chuan and Tu Linh’s ballads with an intoxicating, blues-inspiring medley and rejuvenates Vu Thanh An’s standards with a mid-tempo flavor. Often time, Tuan Ngoc can’t ride groovy beats, but Khanh Ha pulls him on board with her. He also seems to like the technique of singing two separated songs simultaneously when performing with someone else. The method works well on Vu Thanh An’s medley because they both have an astonishing sensibility for harmonic. The effect is sumptuous when Khanh Ha’s full, flawless vibrato balances with Tuan Ngoc’s free-floating falsetto on the overlapping delivery, and they know how to stay out of each other’s path.

Vi Do La Em is a solid album because of Tuan Ngoc’s music selection. He knows how to make a song his and how to express the lyrics as a personal statement. For instance, many singers have succeeded in performing the title track, but none has brought a new dimension to it like the way he does. He is a virtuoso interpreter of ballads.

Out of all the Asia’s princes, including Lam Nhat Tien, Le Tam and Gia Huy, Duy Linh is the only one that has a distinctive style. Although he could move in and out of trendy pop tunes, his forte is in the Vietnamese folk tradition, and his Tra Em Cay Dang Mong Vang proves it. Too bad he only recorded one solo album before Asia dropped him.

Most of the time, Vietnamese folk songs required strong and clear voice from the singers. Duy Linh is rare scenario. He doesn’t have a powerful voice, and his range of emotion is limited too. In a way, Duy Linh is similar to Miles Davis who found his own comfort zone in the middle register while Dizzy Gillespie was the master of playing high notes. So instead of reaching for the upper range, Duy Linh focuses his style in the cool, relaxed vicinity. As a result, his phrasings are more natural, which brings a new sound to the traditional folk. He also knows how important is it to secrete his breath. That’s a bonus.

What makes Tra Em Cay Dang Mong Vang works is not Duy Linh’s skillful delivery alone, but also the crisp, ingenious and flavorful production from Truc Sinh. Without the colorful sounds, especially from the traditional instruments, to complement Duy Linh’s effortless approach, the album might end up in the sleepy zone. From the mid-tempo rhythm section (Anh Bang & Tu Nguyen Thach’s “Tra Em Cay Dang Mong Vang” and Dai Phuong Trang & Quang Tu’s “Qua Cau Hat Ly Xa Nhau”) to the soothing groove (Vu Duoc Sao Bien’s “Dieu Buon Phuong Nam”), Duy Linh has plenty of rich, soulful beats to ride with.

With the special appearance of Yen Phuong whose voice is as clear as crystal and as sweet as sugarcane (in a natural sense), the album featured three delicious duets. On Nhat Thien’s “Mai Tranh Mo,” they have created a scene that is filled with lyrical romance of a young, loving couple whose dream was to build together a tree house next to a cool waterfall surrounded with singing birds. The sounds of various traditional instruments add gorgeous details to the piece, which helps me to visualize the pure and lovely image in my mind. On Dinh Tram Ca’s “Trang Hon Tui,” I envy the way they harmonized together as if they could connect and feel each other’s vibes for real. For instance, when he croons, “Ho… oi, em di lay chong,” she completes with, “Em lay chong nhu ca can cau.” The chemistry between the two is unbreakable just like a fish caught on a hook. On Han Chau’s “Ve Que Ngoai,” the way they try to convince each other to visit their mother’s mother homeland gives me a nostalgic sentiment. Imagine taking a sweet girl with a Chinese-TV-series-actress appearance like Yen Phuong to see your grandmother, wouldn’t she be proud? Even my dead grandmother would be glad to witness that in heaven.

Tra Em Cay Dang Mong Vang is an album that could bring listeners the aesthetic beauty of Viet Nam no matter where they are in the world, even in the caves where Bin Laden is hiding, and all they need is an iPod. I can’t even remember how many times I rocked this joint back-to-back when I first copped it eight years ago. The music is still fresh every time I come back to it for an experience of escapism.