L'il J kicks off 'Till death do us Part,' but he isn't the new Geto Boy. He's too lackluster to compete but still is more than a no-skill no-name clearing his throat about the system being corrupt. L'il J is James Smith, Rap-a-Lot's owner and the architect of the Geto Boys' funky concept. He deserves to be in the house, but with his slow
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Southern drawl at the front door, his presence amounts to a welcome mat of boredom before a stampede of hard-core jollies.
Till Death Do Us Part is more engaging than its beginning, and at a time when Grap passes are being checked more closely by fans, the Geto Boys are one of the few groups not skulking under the heavier scrutiny. They create excitement with tracks that detail bleak visions of one of America's most notorious ghettos, Houston's Fifth Ward – from car jackings to gangbangs, dope boys to crack heads. Their sound, consisting of live instrumentation and bluesy, soulful samples, hasn't changed much over five albums.
With an ability to convey brutal images, the group's center is gravelly voiced Scarface. But Big Mike, who replaced Willie D. last year, explodes in similarly vivid ways. In "Straight Gangstaism" he tells of his rise in the street game, dropping lines like "I was a curious chile/I useta hang out by the bar room and study the gangsta style/The way they walk, the way they talk, the way they act/The way they wore that gangsta cap/Tilted, brim laid flat out/Now that's the type o' shot I'm talkin' about!"
Elsewhere, the Geto Boys squeeze triggers at abusive bluecoats ("Crooked Officer"), weave takeoffs on Jeffrey Dahmer's lunacy ("Murder Avenue," on which Bushwick Bill, characteristically, slits a stomach and slices off a few fingers) and, while bemoaning gunplay, compassionately pour verses for downed brothers ("Six Feet Deep"). The Geto Boys flip between reality and fiction, swagger and sensitivity, perfectly illustrating the complexities of hard-core rap. (RS 658)
HAVELOCK NELSON
