Don’t be fooled, the Game’s sixth studio album, Blood Moon: Year of the Wolf, is not a solo album in the traditional sense. It’s more like an exhibition, an opportunity to showcase some loose change friends (Soulja Boy, T.I., and Chris Brown among others) and his newest recruits for Blood Money Entertainment Skeme and Dubb. A weak showing by an equally weak artist. It unfolds like a lavish night at the strip club – from the opening sequence full of hype and promise to the apex of debauchery, last call, narratives reduced to drunken nonsense and random vomiting.
As a whole it’s everything you’ve come to expect from the Game: rudimentary beats consisting mostly of loops and presets, nonsensical beef that has no basis, and poor writtens (even by mainstream standards). If he’s not namedropping at every turn he’s copying the styles of other more accomplished lyricists, Nas specifically. The Game has never been able to stand on his own and to expect it at this juncture of his career would be a waste of time. This is him adhering to a strict formula and embracing those who refuse to – or maybe to state it more accurately – lack the ability to change with or adjust to the times.
‘Bigger Than Me‘
Anger can be an incredibly potent source of inspiration, and for an aging workhorse it’s enough to get him out of bed for one last race. He’s a bit gimpy out the gate, but the simple, light roast beat, is the perfect blend of coffee to get him moving. It’s a bold stab at the burgeoning youth culture:
‘F.U.N.‘
Doesn’t take long for the Game to fall flat on his face putting up one of the worst acronyms of the year. He’s always embraced the seedy, ghetto-superstar side of rap, and at this point it’s lost its cache – as if any of his empty threats were worth heeding in the first place. A soft punch at best:
‘Really‘
Yesterday’s news torn from the headlines and plastered front and center, like a whole season of Law & Order packed into one crumby song. Of all the shade he’s been throwin’ his stable is nothing more than a house full of geriatrics who probably needed a nap after this – labored from beginning to end:
‘Fuck Your Feelings‘
It’s the early 2000s all over again and it couldn’t be more predictable – from the simple loop and hook to the copious amounts of autotune. Lil Wayne is old and tattered like a beat up gym shoe, and the Game is not far behind fumbling around with a young man’s style. No edge on this one, a complete circle:
‘On One‘
After all these years, he’s still trying to explain himself like he didn’t learn the first thousand times he got caught. The style is played and the lazy beat masquerading as minimalism is fooling no one. Game’s trying to milk an old teat, and what was once so supple is now all dried up and used:
‘Married to the Game‘
Using “motherfucker” like it were a form of punctuation, the Game proves that no amount of bully ball can keep old age at bay. It’s the same gobbledygook he’s being doing for the past ten years just rearranged in a way that shows he hasn’t grown one bit, not as a lyricist or a human being:
‘The Purge‘
Slightly nostalgic, but as real as it’s going to get, a reflection of age and understanding. Moments like this have been few and far between, but when they hit they hit with power. If he’s going to get mad he may as well get mad at the right things, the simple hook saying all that needs to be said:
‘Trouble On My Mind‘
Stepping aside for the new school, the Game actually seems to be nurturing a diverse crop of lyricists, at least the ones who are willing to step outside the mainstream box. The beat is simple, a basic piano loop, but the content is real enough to at least spark some intrigue for what’s to come:
‘Cell Phone‘
The horns put him in a sullen mood, where he reminisces about his empire and the man he’s become. Dig a bit deeper and you can hear perhaps, and most unexpectedly, a well said PSA. A message to the knuckleheads who won’t put their goddamn phone down long enough to see what’s goin’ on in front of them:
‘Best Head Ever‘
No pussyfootin’ around here, a straight up stripper jam that may as well be a casting call for Girls Gone Wild. It’s yet another slice of debauchery that is hilarious and offensive at the same time. The beat is tipsy and meant for the ride home, the space between complete bliss and wanting to vomit:
‘Or Nah‘
A giant STD-laden booty clap and nothing more. It’s a style of raunch rap that the Game just can’t seem to shake, the precise reason why he could never get over that hump. His guests follow suite and embrace the type of drivel that’ll ensure a lifetime of mediocrity. A stilted vision with no direction:
‘Take That‘
Another exhibition featuring one of the Game’s proteges. The lo-fi beat has some draw in that it doesn’t overstate its presence, giving his pupil a chance to say his piece, uninterpreted and without any sort of prodding. He’s not coming with original content, but at least he’s not being a jagoff:
‘Food for My Stomach‘
The Game and his cohorts embracing the jungle mentality, the one that seems to best embody the mainstream rap world. But it’s a social jungle and the biggest weapon is hype, which is noticeably absent from this wilting flower of a song. A big hindrance is the beat selection, watery at best:
‘Hit Em Hard‘
The Game is that old guy at the Y that was good ten years ago, but is a shell of what he was before. So instead of hangin’ it up he gets back on the court and is essentially a walking flagrant foul. He does surround himself with some heads but as a whole it’s a little too dated an effort to make a splash:
‘Black on Black‘
Enough bass to make you vomit, but that’s not nearly as egregious as the lyrics. It’s that age old fallback that most rappers lean on to justify a seedy past or the inability to string together a dope narrative. Rap cliches abound, as anemic an effort as Game has ever strung together:
‘Bloody Moon‘
Trying so hard to be Nas and not even ashamed about it. It’s a comical act in that he’s taking every bit of his cadence. The most disturbing part in all this is the revelation of some serious abuse. It’s not only strange but it lacks context, a strange way to punctuate a terribly conceived album:
