For a while, hip-hop heads had certain annual occurrences to look forward to. With the dependability of Christmas, the Beatnuts gifted us with a summer jam. Like commemorating George and Abe, we saluted the yearly Red and Mef collabo. And like the debauchery of the Fourth, one “Sir” Too $hort always brought another trunk-rattling album. But the new millennium has proven unkind to our forefathers. Last I saw of JuJu was at the EPMD reunion. Meth caught an L this year . . . and his shit was named 4:21! How does that not sell, at least with the Warped Tour demographic? Meanwhile, President Carter forgot to send a birthday card to Reggie. And, for the first time, $horty the Pimp took more than two years to release an album.
In spite of slowing a bit since his “retirement,” Too $hort has kept his salty sense of swagger in shape. Sixteen albums deep, $hort Dog remains the go-to man for anybody who ever dreamt of “bangin’ in [somebody’s] pussy like it was [their] hood.” Virtually ignoring hyphy’s recasting of the spotlight on his original home, aside from a few loose references (he still earns young’un cred for backing Wolfpack’s mega-hit “Vans”), he keeps his pimp and player game in the southern comfort of Lil’ Jon and Jazze Pha. Sure, the album is too long (no nine-inch limp dick) and some of the beats are plain lazy, but bitch? What were you expecting?