When the Gravediggaz dropped their second album in the fall of 1997, many were surprised – and incredibly disappointed – to find that the cartoonish violence and gruesome horror stories of the debut were replaced by sobering discourses on metaphysics and social ills. When placed alongside 6 Feet Deep (1994), The Pick, the Sickle, and the Shovel (1997) could hardly be more dissimilar. For one, mastermind and producer Prince Paul had all but vacated the premises, replaced by a handful of Wu satellite producers and the remaining members. The RZA appeared on less than half of the album’s selections, leaving the bulk of the writing to Poetic and Frukwan (or the Grym Reaper and Gatekeeper, respectively). Most significantly, the lyrical content had discovered new ground in Five Percenter teachings and grim ruminations on the apocalypse, a far cry from the psychotic tales of drinking blood and chewing one’s arm off. In other words, nearly everyone who loved the debut hated it with a staunch vehemence.
I’ve always been a vigorous defender of the record, and despite its lack of momentum toward the tail end, feel that it’s aged a tad better than 6 Feet Deep. Really, how much longer could the group keep up the whole “horrorcore” schtick without public embarrassment and subsequent career invalidation? It was time to move on past the novelty of gross-out humor and Halloween teenage antics, and regardless of the level of participation or involvement by certain members, the group elevated its maturity here with class and confidence. I remember being especially impressed by Poetic’s verses in particular, his previously choppy delivery honed into a sort of scholarly cadence, ignoring the bar lines and crafting complex rhyme schemes that revealed themselves dozens of listens later. One can only speculate on his degree of awareness regarding the colon cancer that would sadly take his life four years later, but his words seem to take on an extra weight of ominousness that is often given in hindsight to those whose time on this planet was diminished.
After a brief intro to the record, the soft, funereal guitar loop of “Dangerous Mindz” begins its slow repetition, and an anxious Poetic enters at 0:15 with the following verse:
Yo, I got stress on my brain that causes chest pains inside the best frames.
Ghetto blood clots is scored by slug shots and drug spots.
Well, if you’re too poor to move out or get a new house,
It’s like living in a war walking through shootouts.
Poetic begins his monologue in a state of trauma, describing a mental affliction that affects him physically despite his stamina, or “best frames.” His crumbling urban environment mirrors the condition of his body: gunshot wounds, various scars and scabs, and track marks from years of drug addiction. Phonetically, he foregoes alliteration and chooses instead to adhere to a pattern of a triple rhyme scheme for each of the three lines; the effect is undeniably immediate and attention-grabbing.
And you doubt God exists,
When hard fists be pounding on your head like jackhammers?
You’re trapped in the black drama, you hear the laughter.
Seconds after that you fade out, you’re played out,
You’re laid out, your heart nearly gave out.
You’re lucky that you made out with just a few scars when the beating ends.
Our narrator shifts his focus from himself to the audience, reprimanding the nonbelievers when the obvious signs of a higher power are everywhere. He terms this state of existence as the “black drama,” then describes a near-death experience where the victim barely makes it out without physical reminders. At this point, it’s uncertain whether Poetic is speaking from the perspective of a divine seer or raving lunatic, but his tone of urgency is sincere.
The streets let ya breathe again,
But evil men will soon be on the receiving end of Universal Law.
I’m calling on the meek and the poor,
To fight back and never forfeit the day you have to go to war,
With forces that are armed upon the seven continental borders.
A mental fortress is essentials to absorb this.
My sword hits the human orb until it orbits.
In the art of war, kids, see Grym Reap be morbid.
Poetic continues his oration on preparing for the arrival of “evil men,” and designates himself as the enforcer of Universal Law in the abscence of justice. He incites “the meek and the poor” to retaliate, but is cautious to warn that one must have a strong mental disposition in order to grasp his teachings. Here, Poetic has advanced to a quadruple rhyme scheme (from “beating ends” to “receiving end”), and in an impressive display of assonance, exhausts the uses of the “or” sound; I count twelve in the last six lines.
Seen pieces of the lost civilization in the past,
Had my photographs etched inside of pyramids.
To laugh at this revelation without 365 days of concentration,
And 24-hour meditation, would be foolishly pagan.
I’m ancient as Amen, see I stay Grym.
Throwing foes in in a pit full of pit bulls to be shaken.
Or strapped to the crossroads of Hell and inner sin,
Which trap the sinners in a cell such as Sing-Sing.
Getting more cryptic with each successive line, Poetic draws a connection between himself and Egyptian civilization, even implying godliness by labeling doubters as pagans. More alliteration abounds here, notably the consonant “s” sound in the last line and in perhaps the pinnacle (technically speaking) of the verse, “Throwing foes in a pit full of pit bulls to be shaken,” which utilizes a combination of assonance and alliteration for a threatening declaration that’s a challenge to repeat five times fast.
I bring Grym tidings, tidaled your wave, all not exciting,
Stop riding the dick, start writing your own shit.
‘Cause I stick figures that think they fat and can’t rap, wind blast,
I make ‘em Slim Fast, looking like stick figures.
I’m all that, I bag chips at concerts and shows,
Get more panties than hoes that boost Victoria’s Secret clothes.
Suddenly, mid-verse, Poetic abandons the apocalyptic philosophizing for a sharp left turn into street braggadocio, calling out biters and displaying the notches on his belt (in an admittedly clever simile, no less). He also begins a series of clever puns here: the “tidings” and fabricated “tidaled” combination; a delightful use of the phrase “stick figures,” first as a verb then as a plural noun; and more inventive paronomasia in phrases like “Slim Fast” and “bag chips.”
Foes is tagged like ex-foes’ toes at the coroner’s.
Kids with cold feet rise and fall like the barometer.
Grym will mentally chop your career, see shit is locked down here,
Like penitentiary blocks in tears.
Escape out of your ducts, every time you hear my name you’d better duck fate,
Or catch a fucking face full of duct tape.
You get smacked like a trick that sniffed off her money,
Then smoked like Rzarector with the blunts dipped in honey.
To conclude his verse Poetic begins cramming similes into his lines, with three subsequent ones in four bars, each refreshingly unique. He also constructs a complex double internal rhyme, juxtaposing “escape/fate/face/tape” with “ducts/duck/fucking/duct” with masterly ease. He continues in the vein of classic shit-talking, ending with two similes and building tension with his voice as he cunningly passes the mic to RZA while simultaneously comparing his victims to a blunt.
“Dangerous Mindz” – Gravediggaz 4:54 (The Pick, the Sickle, and the Shovel, Gee Street 1997)
