Admitting Wu Tang fandom in 2016 is a tricky proposition. The preponderance of flip-flopped broomba’s (bro goombas) in W shirts, the endless bloodshed of horrible U-God tattoos, the pay-to-play allegations, dealing with RZA’s autocratic tyranny over the group and insistence upon turning rap into symphony can leave you believing that Wu Tang is not, in fact, forever. Add that to the unremembered nostalgia of 19-year olds who miss when rap was “real” and it can send you towards the Slime Season trilogy faster than you can say “JEFFEERREEY.”
What it means is that the coolest group of all-time is somehow no longer cool. It’s the fans fault, it’s their fault, it’s Cilvaringz’s fault for propagating that stupid Martin Shrek 3 bait about a secret album locked inside a vault in a Club Monaco in Staten Island. We all deserve better. So it’s one of the most beautiful things in the world that Tim Westwood has gotten into the clearing-the-basement stage of his career and excavated this hour-long 1997 freestyle. They just flew into London, as RZA says “as I land here at the Heathrow Airport, my first thought was to bring you a fat J that you can’t get on import.” They alternate between freestyles and writtens, spitting over their own beats with Mathematics on the decks. It is brilliant, goofy, esoteric, peak Wu-Tang.
Everyone is still alive and full of energy, talentless Wu-Tang affiliates never marred the brand, and Wu Tang meant that if it ain’t raw it’s worthless. This is as raw as it comes, a reminder why they were the greatness, eternal sunshine for the ol’ dirt dog mind.
Via Ego Trip
