Prince Charming Quang Dung invited ten top pop princesses—including Thanh Lam, Hong Nhung, Ho Ngoc Ha, My Tam and, of course, his Barbie Thanh Thao—to join him on his latest release Em. Although he takes on each one at a time, the album feels like a groupie love with Barbie on “Loi Cuoi Cho Em,” Phuong Thanh on “Hoa Hoc Tro,” Hong Ngoc on “Xin Dung Noi Yeu Toi” and Le Quyen on “Them Mot Lan Yeu Thuong.” Even Hong Nhung is the victim of his romantic syndrome on “Binh Yen.”

Thanh Lam is the only one who is not caught up into that affectionate matrix. On “Nuoi Tiec,” she is more like a queen than a princess to him because she is in control with her authoritative performance. Their relationship on the song is best described as Mrs. Robinson and Benjamin Braddock in The Graduate. Thanh Lam sounds mature enough to be his mother. And to continue with The Graduate‘s analogy, Ho Ngoc Ha is like Elaine, Robinson’s daughter, to Quang Dung. Their collaboration is a luscious one. Her small, slightly scratchy vocals complemented his clear, handsome timbre in a marvelous way.

Weakest duet is “Con Yeu Em Mai” with Phuong Thuy. The up-tempo arrangement doesn’t work too well with their voices. Even though the album is only listenable, I have to give Quang Dung the credits for having all these gorgeous females worked with him. I am not too surprise, however, that he could pull it off because Quang Dung is a good-looking guy with a fine voice; and he dresses decent most of the time. Freaking pimp!

Tuan Ngoc and Cam Van’s Loi Ve is a straight jack-off. I am very disappointed with Tuan Ngoc since the album released under his production (Bich Thu Van). The back cover listed twelve tracks altogether: Five from Cam Van, four from Tuan Ngoc, which could also be found on other albums of his, and three labeled as song ca (duet). I assumed that the duet is from Tuan Ngoc and Cam Van, yet it turns out to be Cam Van and her hubby Khac Trieu, and his name didn’t even get listed. Not only I don’t dislike Khac Trieu, but I also feel bad for the man who hides behind his woman’s shadow like a ghost. Cam Van is the better half when it comes to music, but sneaking in on an album without even being acknowledged is just pathetic. He only makes more obvious that he isn’t anything without her. I am in no way trying to ruin their relationship, but he needs to stand on his own feet, and handles his business like a man. If I can’t design better than my wife, I’ll go filing nails or do something else.

While many singers pour out their hearts, souls and guts to articulate Trinh Cong Song’s lyricism, my Lady Lan didn’t have too. She approached his music as quiet as meditating. On “Dem That Ta La Thac Do,” her lithe delivery reinvigorated the standard. I could simply block out the arrangement and enjoy the purified acapella performance by itself. Even the sunlight was touched with the way she phrased “goi nang” on “Ha Trang.” Furthermore, Tham Lam’s feathery sound on the sax floated like clouds around Ngoc Lan’s ethereal vocals. With “Chieu Mot Minh Qua Pho,” her sense of simplicity created a gorgeous graphic of a lovely lady strolling down the lonely town. When Thanh Lam’s languorous sax took over the break, the sound added filmic details to the scene. (Can’t help it, I have been making too many motion pieces lately). Even on the mid-tempo like “Ben Doi Hiu Quanh” and “Biet Dau Nguon Coi,” her flows were still effortless and she never missed the beats. On “Xin Mat Troi Hay Ngu Yen” and “Roi Nhu Da Ngay Ngo,” she moved toward the upper register without breaking a sweat. Again her coolness and gracefulness refreshed “Nhu Canh Vat Bay” and “Diem Xua.” Then she gave “Ru Em Tung Ngon Xuan Nong” a soul-soothing rendition. Donny, stop worshiping the ground she spitted on. I know but I can’t help it, honey! At least I am doing it out of pure love, unlike some record company who threw together an album, Ngoc Lan va Dong Nhac Trinh Cong Son: Nghe Tieng Muon Trung, to make some money.

Jay-Z is undoubtedly one of the slickest hustlers in the game. On his debut Reasonable Doubt, Jay spits rhymes like spending G’s. On the opener, “Can’t Knock the Hustle,” Jay flows like hustling is the only thing for a black man: “All us blacks got is sport and entertainment, until we even / Thievin’, as long as I’m breathin’ / Can’t knock the way a nigga eatin’—fuck you even.” In addition to his hustling tales—“Politics as Usual,” “Dead President 2,” “Can I Live”—Jay also reveals his battling potentials on “22 Two’s.” Throughout his career, Jay dropped anyone, including Mop Deep, 50 Cent and Nas, who had beef with him. Even Cam’ron wanted a piece of the action not too long ago, but Jay didn’t even bother to response. Besides the fact that Cam’s diss was weak, Jay knows damn well that he’s too good, and Cam simply can’t touch the hustler. Reasonable Doubt proves that Jay is the hip-hop’s kingpin who could “produce G’s like sperm.”

Notorious B.I.G. to hip-hop is like Ella Fitzgerald to jazz. What do I mean by that? They both were versatile artists. While Ella could improvise with scatting, Biggie could freestyle on the spot with spelling (“Cause G-E-D, wasn’t B-I-G / I got P-A-I-D, that’s why my mom hates me”). In addition, they both had an incredible rhythmic sense, which allowed them to ride up-tempo beats as effortless as breathing. Besides his extraordinary technical skill, Biggie was also a gifted lyricist, and his debut Ready to Die showcases both. On the savory “Juicy,” Biggie pushes simple but astonishing rhymes over the flavorful beat produced by Jean “Poke” Oliver; and the single landed Biggie on the forth front of mainstream hip-hop. In jazz, the call-and-response effects usually existed when two voices (vocals or instruments) interact with one another. On “Give Me the Loot,” Biggie created an exhilarating dialect of a sticking-up scene by alternating his flows and vocals. When it comes to the ladies, Biggie wasn’t bashful either. On “Me and My Bitch,” he confesses in the first two lines, “When I met you I admit my first thoughts was to trick / You look so good, huh, I suck on your daddy’s dick.” The song, however, takes a shocking turn at the end. Ready to Die opens with a baby being born and closes out with “Suicidal Thoughts.” Biggie starts off with, “When I die, fuck it I wanna go to hell / Cause I’m a piece of shit, it ain’t hard to fuckin’ tell,” then he pulls the trigger on himself at the end of the verse. The album just leaves listeners hanging in the cold while the image lingers on even after the CD stops reading.

Followed Rakim footsteps, Nasir mastered his techniques: flow, rhyme and delivery. Picked up where Ra left off, Nas took the mic off the stage and out on the streets. His debut Illmatic is filled with streetwise literary. On “N.Y. State of Mind,” Nas gives a chill vibe when he spits, “I never sleep, cause sleep is the cousin of death.” His descriptive lyric is startling on “One Love,” especially with these lines, “Then I rose, wiping the blunts ash from my clothes / then froze, only to blow the herb smoke through my nose.” And the track that leaves me breathless is “Life’s a Bitch.” AZ, Nas’s tightest collaborator, kicks off the first verse like he has been waiting forever to be heard and it is his time to blow off. The hungriness in his flow made it seems like he could rhyme on forever. Then Nas brings it back with his cool and smooth delivery on the second verse. Yet, what leaves me speechless is the ending when Olu Dara, Nas’s pops, blows that intoxicating sound from his muted trumpet over the hip-hop beat. With nine solid tracks back to back, Illmatic is a hip-hop classic.

When I get sick of hip-hop’s gang banging, blunt puffing, gender dissing (mostly women and gays), jews blinging and all the ghetto fabulousnesses, I kick back to Rakim’s Book of Life—the retrospective side of The 18th Letter/The Book of Life‘s double album—for some nerve-calming, brain-messaging, and just pure rejuvenating hip-hop experiences. From “I Know You Got Soul,” “Follow the Leader,” “Microphone Fiend,” “My Melody,” “Move the Crowd” to “Let the Rhythm Hit Em,” the soul-controller Ra and cut-master Eric B. bring out the good old time without a word of profanity. With a raucous voice, perfectionist flow and waxed-poetic rhymes, Ra rips through “Lyrics of Fury” like John Coltrane erupted his sheets-of-sound lyricisms. Every time I bang, “Know the Ledge,” the chill image of Bishop played by 2pac in Juice, a film that revealed Pac’s acting talent, strikes my memory chord. I used to watch the movie almost everyday after school for about a month. I was able to recite very line Pac said in the film, and one particular narration stuck in my brain till this day, “I am crazy, and you know what else? I don’t give a fuck.” I could still visualize the cold, heartless look on his face. Besides the Juice‘s theme song, Ra’s “Casualty of War” and “The Punisher” were no less hardcore and crucial. Ra had laid down the foundation for hip-hop and I hope to see him takes her back to her positive vibe.

Tupac Shakur and I have two things in common. We admire Lady Day and love our mothers dearly. When I first heard “Dear Mama,” I was speechless. It was like a hip-hop version of Y Van’s “Long Me.” Other than the crack fiend, Pac spoke out the words that I could relate to: “When I was sick as a little kid / To keep me happy there’s no limit to the things you did / And all my childhood memories / Are full of all the sweet things you did for me.” In addition to being an appreciative son, Pac was also a lovable prince who tried to convince a girl to leave her abusive man on “Can U Get Away.” Yet, the occurrence subject Pac touched on throughout the album is death: “If I Die 2Nite,” “So Many Tears,” “Lord Knows,” “It Ain’t Easy” and “Death Around the Corner.” Pac also had his shares of misogynist content, “Pissing while practicing how to pimp and be a playa / Overdose of a dick, while drinking liquor when I lay her.” But that’s Pac, and Me Against the World is the album I reach for over and over again for the poetical aesthetics.

Back in eighth grade, a sweet senorita in my class slipped a bare cassette (without the case) into my hand and said, “Listen to this shit, you’ll like it.” I read the label and asked, “Who the hell is Wu-Tang Clan?” She replied, “Just take it home and listen to it.” So I was like, “Alright.”

Eva was her name. Although she came to school like once every two weeks, we were cool because we both admired Rakim. So when she handed me Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers), I was quite excited. I rushed home quickly after school and popped the tape into my radio, and it shocked the hell out of me. It was the most raw, rugged, idiosyncratic music I had heard at the time—the kung-fu fightings, the rare voices, the ill rhymes, the dope beats, the trippings, the buggings, and the obscenities. Thank goodness, mom didn’t understand English or else she would have whooped my ass, especially the torturing battle at the beginning of “Method Man” (I’ll fuckin’ sew your asshole closed and keep feedin’ you). I still can recalls those lines from Meth that we used to sing along, “I got myself a fortie / I got myself a shortie / And I’m about to go and stick it.”

Get past the partying and the bullshitting, the Clan members touched on heartfelt hoodtales like “Can’t It Be All So Simple” and “C.R.E.A.M” (Cash Rules Everything Around Me). Yet, the track that struck my mind was “Tearz.” RZA’s and Ghostface Killah’s lyrical, storytelling skills changed the way I listen and appreciate hip-hop. Their narrations were so real.

I didn’t see Eva for a like month after she loaned me the tape, but I blasted it everyday. So when I returned the cassette and told her how blazing it was, she replied, “I told you so.”

On Duong Nhung Ta Da, My Tam brings out the rocker side of her. No violation in that. I am not a rock punk, but still feel her head-banging rendition of “Tinh Phai” by Nguyen Ngoc Tai and Phan Thi Nguyet Hong. I haven’t heard that song for ages (way back in Lam Truong’s golden years), and she has revived it with her clear, full-of-vibrato and powerful voice.

With Trinh Cong Son’s “Doa Hoa Vo Thuong,” My Tam stretches out to nine minutes long moving from patriotic vibe to hardcore, rocked-up flavor. As if we aren’t convinced yet how much love she has for her country, she boasts up Luu Huu Phuoc and Huynh Van Tien’s “Len Dang” like she really feels her Service Men. The first line, “Nao anh em ta cung nhau xong pha len dan,” sounds awfully familiar—as if I had sung it back in grade school. Besides the vocals differences, My Tam sounded much more enthusiastic than I was.

When not making noise with the electric guitar, My Tam eases back to a soothing mode on “Nho,” her own composition. Her technical skills on here show tremendous improvements. She sounds effortless and breathless. Other than the romantically dull title track (her spanking new piece), the album has a few rockable moments, something for a change from a sweet-pop chick.