The bundle of nostalgia for mid-‘90s New York City hip hop often runs rampant these days, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t support it whole-heartedly. There are valid reasons for this, but the strongest argument would be remembering the sheer excitement of following along with hip hop back then; it seemed that with each passing month, a new album would drop that would reshape and redefine the music. From Queensbridge, Nas and Mobb Deep would form the genesis of what came to be known as “crime rap” with genre-defining releases. Out of Staten Island, the Wu-Tang collective was gearing up for their imminent world domination following their debut with a string of impeccable solo records. One of the many crews representing Brooklyn (aka Crooklyn, Bucktown) was Smif-n-Wessun, part of the Boot Camp Clik, which included Black Moon, Heltah Skeltah, and O.G.C.

The thread that wove through each Boot Camp release was the production team of Da Beatminerz, a troop led by DJ Evil Dee and Mr. Walt whose stark, dirty beats were the perfect foil for the tales of blunted menace and street violence that comprised the lyrics of each group. After producing the entirety of Black Moon’s debut, Enta da Stage (1993), the Boot Camp enlisted Da Beatminerz to helm the boards for the flagship release from Smif-n-Wessun, a duo consisting of MC’s Tek and Steele (not Smif and Wessun, as many assumed). Although it lacked any chart-topping singles, Dah Shinin’ (1995) was lauded at the time of its release as a triumph; even today, it remains arguably the finest work from the Boot Camp Clik.

Compared to the intricate, noisy cityscapes of RZA or the rich, soulful tapestries of Pete Rock, the ethos behind Da Beatminerz production was relatively simple: take some scratchy, crate-diggin’ drum tracks, isolate a bassline from an old Bob James LP or some obscure soul record, sprinkle with tiny snippets of sound, and that’s about it. Oftentimes a track would revolve around one continuous, repeating sample, which was merely EQ’d and isolated for variety; combined with the loud, dusty drums and relatively slower tempos, the effect was hypnotic and sedative. “Sound Bwoy Bureill” was a curious choice for a single from Dah Shinin’; its relatively sleepy tempo (around 86 bpm) and lack of a chorus or hook should have solidified its place as album filler, but it did surprisingly well, and was even remixed (rather sparingly) for a video.

What’s most remarkable about “Sound Bwoy Bureill” is the effective use of the less-is-more theory, which is always refreshing in hip hop. Musically, the track can be broken down into a handful of elements:

• A freezing wind that howls through the empty concrete landscape, sweeping through the project tenements and chilling to the bone. The effect is startling and is the most distinctive trait of the song; I’ve never heard this technique utilized in hip hop before or since.

• The minimal, repetitive drum pattern, which lacks any sort of shuffle or embellishments. The eighth-note hi-hats are buried under the unceasing gusts of wind.

• A chunky, dub-like six-note bassline, which solidifies the Jamaican tinges inherent in the song.

• Two separate ornamentations on the downbeat, depending on the location in the track: a whiny two-note guitar lick (0:27) and a delayed electric piano chord (1:00).

Without a hook or melodic phrase to grasp onto, that lurking bassline essentially becomes the melody, which is brilliant in its simplicity. The rare appearances of the short guitar and piano decorations only heighten their effect and make them more rewarding.

In terms of the vocals, “Sound Bwoy Bureill” is a little more complex. Tek and Steele combine rugged street slang and West Indian patois during their verses (with a brief appearance by Starang Wondah), while an unidentified voice acting as selector (Jamaican DJ) boasts loudly in place of the chous. The title of the track is a reference to the dancehall soundsystem culture where the competitor, or “sound boy,” is defeated, or receives a “burial.” Tek and Steele have essentially replaced the unidentified MC of standard hip hop tradition with “sound bwoy,” and direct their verbal barbs at him. After an immediate introduction from the selector, who warns about “testing the champion sound,” Steele begins his verse with a line of savage homophobia: “Boom bye-bye in the batty bwoy head, “ which roughly translates to a “fatal gunshot to a gay man’s head.” He continues:

Now who da rude bwoy won’ come tess dog?
I find his family to I.D. him in the morgue
I bet you never thought I bust lead; surprise!
I’m a fortified blunthead just like a dread.

The MC sets a template for the rest of the track, with lines alternating between patois and a standard rap delivery. Lyrically, neither Tek or Steele offer any poetic revelations, but the duo are masters of street vernacular and establishing a mood of threatening ghetto violence. Tek enters at 0:38 and begins a vicious taunting:

You say you number one wicked selecta?
I say you punaani and I wet ‘cha
Keep the bull ‘fore I pull this here trigga,
‘Cause you don’t wanna test me when I’m tipsy off the liquor.

Steele returns for four bars, beginning with “Now everybody won be don gorgon” (ultimately respected) before the unidentified selector begins shouting: “Don’t you ever mention ‘bout you ‘won tess the champion sound… leave!” Steele leads the second verse with more unchecked homophobia (“Batty bwoy killa”), then the drums drop out as Tek gravely cautions in sing-speak (2:07):

Sound bwoy, you got ‘nuff reason to worry
Coming with my troops we about to bury
Betta pack your dubs and move in a hurry
Ease off, seen?

During the third verse, Boot Camp affiliate Starang Wondah enters at 3:07 to drop a straightforward verse that stands in contrast to the inflected patois of Tek and Steele:

It’s the rain comin’ like a hurricane lickin’ shots
More untouchable than niggas with the chickenpox
So MC’s get lifted when I’m splifted (one of my favorite expressions in the lexis)
Nigga guard your grill ‘cause Louisville packs the biscuit

Steele’s final lyric sums up the mood of the track completely (3:30):

Straight up, we serve justice
So if you can’t be trusted, may you return to where the dust is.

As the drums dramatically halt, the selector gives one last warning to “Clean up your act!” “Sound Bwoy Bureill” concludes with crew members quietly conversing under that phenomenally minimal beat, still persistently thumping in its own desolate, beautiful way.

“Sound Bwoy Bureill” – Smif-n-Wessun 4:19 (Dah Shinin’, Wreck 1995)