The Brooklyn rapper follows up his 1995 debut with an ornate sequel that indulges nostalgia on its own terms.
Doe or Die, the 1995 debut by Brooklyn rapper AZ, suffers critically for its flawless execution. A coming-of-age treatise and a doctorate-level technical exercise, it’s Illmatic’s cosmopolitan sibling and Cuban Linx’s sober cousin, bridging their ideas and surpassing their acrobatics. Where its closest peers—ruggedly hard-won classics like Word...Life and operatic genre favorites like 4,5,6—commit more fully to autobiography or ambiance, Doe or Die explores weighty themes but doesn’t leave quite as much to chew on. Its modesty is unique among rap masterworks: AZ is all polish and rolled consonants, his rhyme patterns nested like Russian dolls so as to belie their complexity.
The album’s subtle magnificence extends to its exposition. On Doe or Die, life is fragile and death nonsensical, the born-alone-die-alone ethic making for a stark intimacy. Basking in a penthouse sunset, the kingpin narrator of “Sugar Hill” seeks distraction from memories of his criminal past; the chilly prisoner’s lament “Your World Don’t Stop” lands closer to Hard Rain Falling than “One Love.” The record is paced like a brooding HBO drama, long cigar-room dialogues punctuated by flashes of brutal violence.
Although 23-year-old AZ established himself as one of New York’s premier album artists, the industry had other ideas. When singles acts like Ma$e and Fat Joe ascended to cultural stardom, AZ was relegated to pinch-hitter status, emulating Bad Boy Records’ interpolation-heavy homages while signed to a succession of flailing major labels. Despite a productive mid-2000s indie run, his catalog remained overshadowed by the specter of his debut and his association with Nas. The promise of Doe or Die’s titular sequel made headlines when it was announced in 2009, the pressure of replicating his magnum opus all but dissipating over a 12-year delay.
Doe or Die II is a better record for it. The best sequels offer fresh lenses through which to consider their predecessors, and AZ’s discography has a rare narrative trajectory. Where Doe or Die’s narrator did the dirty work of pushing hostages’ heads through plane propellers, its follow-ups find an older man idly enjoying the spoils of wealth, plotting political maneuvers, and reminiscing over the bad old days. On “The Wheel,” AZ layers his couplets with concentric rhyme schemes: “When your features is as fresh as your sneakers, you age well/From the reaper era of reefer-puffers that make bail.” The ornateness might be grating from a lesser vocalist, but alliteration leavens the delivery. Even if his lifestyle bars found their logical conclusion in the mouths of Roc Marciano and Westside Gunn, AZ’s preternatural finesse still confers a sense of ceremony.
Doe or Die’s aesthetic triumph lay in how vividly it evoked the sound of mid-’90s New York: crackling snares, melodic arrangements from Pete Rock and D.R. Period’s salad days, Black and Hispanic guys parrying one another with Italian-American slang. (There are entire theses to be written on “We was already molded in people minds as mulignanes/Now we more fucked, stuck with a mayor named Giuliani.”) But even New York doesn’t sound like New York anymore, which frees AZ to indulge nostalgia on his own terms. Pete Rock and Buckwild return, joined by Alchemist, Bink, KayGee, and Rockwilder, a roster approximating a 20th Century Masters revue. Their collective vision of the AZ Type Beat—befitting of late nights and amber-hued spirits—makes for a cohesive sound that’s not indebted to any particular scene or era. For “Time to Answer,” Heatmakerz revisit the frosty chipmunk soul of 2005’s impregnable “Never Change”; when Baby Paul flips the Bobby Caldwell instrumental on “Keep It Real,” you marvel that AZ never rapped over it before.
Lil Wayne, T-Pain, and Conway all drop in to pay their respects in what is surely a first for a 49-year-old rapper’s self-released victory lap. Lest it turn into a survey course, a few genuine fireworks are scattered amongst the mood music. AZ mirrors the saxophone’s eighth notes on “Never Enough,” whereas Rick Ross plows right through them; their methods are discordant, but stylistically, they could not be better matched. On Buckwild’s show-stopper “Blow That Shit,” Dave East jaunts from marble-mouthed chorus to a synesthetic tour of emerald rings and cranberry leather. It’s the best case yet for Dave East, the hip-hop star—all it took was a quick immersion among AZ’s resplendent set pieces.
For half his life, AZ has been measured against Nas’s bloated profile, but AZ may emerge the better for it. The King’s Disease series finds Nas mired in joyless legacy building, each breath a hectoring appeal to Rock & Roll Hall of Fame voters. Doe or Die II is businesslike to a fault—more than anything, it would benefit from a dose of AZ’s mid-2000s exuberance—but for AZ, the proof has always been in the product. The unvarnished rhymes and staticky drum loop on “Found My Niche” sound like an early demo; listening to the bare vocal, it’s hard not to reflect on what was and what might have been. But when you can flow like that, who wants to look at your résumé?
One of Doe or Die’s more engrossing feats is its elegant fusion of memoir and fiction, the way AZ appends bittersweet reminiscences with aspirational visions of a 1990s caporegime. The sequel is uncannily self-contained by comparison, its discourse more immediate, its cast of characters winnowed. Yet if any of Doe or Die’s audacious promise—that intricately foretold ascension from basements and back alleys to yachts and private jets—remains unrealized, its Delphic narrator is only a little worse for wear. In a game of neoclassicists and revivalists, satirists and true believers, AZ remains a man apart.
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