Gangsta rumble

Despite these contrasts, the two albums have something fundamental in common: both come straight out of Compton. These days, that refers not only to a neighborhood in South Central LA but to the influence of its most famous resident, Dr. Dre. If you want to be nice about it, you might say Dre opened hardcore to the pop market without compromising its rebel stance. If you don't, you can say he turned the West Coast sound into pimp music. Either way, his mark is undeniable: he replaced rap's harsh declamatory style with a new casual disdain, and its deep, tricky mixes with an overriding emphasis on plush grooves. With these changes, hardcore's layered, difficult rush was transmuted into something as easily digestible as the shifting cues in a B-thriller soundtrack. Both Tha Dogg Pound and Coolio follow the same musical program.

No surprise with Tha Dogg Pound. These young men were Dre's personal discovery, and they could be heard all throughout Dre's The Chronic and Snoop's Doggystyle. On their own album, they demonstrate true canine fealty: even if Snoop Doggy Dogg weren't adding his guest vocals and Dre weren't mixing most of the album, Dogg Food would still sound like The Chronic, Part II. Although the grooves aren't as definitive as the original's, the deep bass textures, whining synths, and mid-tempo beats still offer one long, hedonist mood trip. As with The Chronic, the biggest problem is the trip's narration. Again, we're offered a lot of violent sexual abuse of young black women and brutal slaying of young black men, with a smattering of narcotics abuse and homophobia on the side. Who could be genuinely shocked by this warmed-over platterful of pathologies? Distasteful as it is, it only convinces me that most of the attacks were politically expedient. The rhymes are supposed to make your jaw drop in disbelief, but my jaw dropped only to release a big, fat yawn.

Coolio, on the other hand, recasts Dre's sick-n-slick gangsta style into something warmer and deeper than Dre would ever care to dare. A perfect example is the "Gangsta's Paradise" single (previously released this summer, and the biggest-selling single of the year). Its doomy synth figure and booming vocals are as gothic as anything on Dre's Friday soundtrack, but with a difference. The track is built around an instantly recognizable song by another artist, "Pastime Paradise," written by Stevie Wonder in 1976. Coolio's new version (in the liner notes, he calls it an "interpolation") uses the original lyrics, about people stuck in a racist belief system, to model excellent new ones about a gangbanger trapped by his own code of behavior. If its ominous tone is a death knell, well, you might think Coolio has read Hemingway.

Much of the album repeats this technique with other classic soul and R&B numbers, from Sly Stone's strange 1971 meditation "You Caught Me Smilin' " (changed by Coolio into a pledge of devotion to his kids) to Kool & the Gang's 1980 dance number "Too Hot" (turned into a great public-service announcement about AIDS). Hearing them is like hearing the inspired new words a friend made up to an old song just this minute to fit the current situation, and Coolio has thought about his current situation very, very carefully. Songs that might otherwise sound slick and easy are transformed into personal statements, and these statements cohere to make a bonafide concept album about the pain and pleasure of the 'hood. Not every track is as rich, deep, and compelling as the title track, but they're all within the same range, alternating compassion, anger, humor, and frustration with slices of advice that never preach or condescend. Coolio deserves to win this battle not because he's the good guy, but because he's the better artist.