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His entire existence seems like a celebration of excess and intensity, with the goal of making pill-popping foolishness as entertaining as possible.Gunplay’s trampoline flow springs over Lex Luger and Lex Luger-esque beats alike, but he succeeds where others fail by mashing words and images with a distinctive ballistic flair: “I bust her heart / Tell her ‘kiss my ass’ and bust a fart.” DAVID DRAKE Stalley’s got a no-frills style.

,” and we toured with Odd Future, courageously trying not to add to the number of adults saying “swag” in public.

Kool G Rap still kicks cinematic street sermons with aplomb and tricky rhyme schemes, but here the intensity of his flow is smartly tempered by production that samples from ’70s soul. It’s the veteran Memphis rapper’s signature gangsta nihilism, but pairing him with a similarly assertive producer makes the fecklessness of dudes who sound willing to die in the game all the more real.

It’s classic bass-and-bazookas music; and apparently Wiz Khalifa thought so too, as he signed Juicy J to his Taylor Gang on the strength. More “doggie” and more “sliiiiime” and more coke and more dizzying punch lines and more kinda cringeworthy hashtag raps.

However, it’s the album’s final five songs, aimed squarely at his personal demons, that hit hardest. The punk-rap dissection of body image on “Society Sayz” is pretty much unprecedented, and the crack-slinger takedown “Simple Economics” (“Y’all ain’t all trapping, somebody’s lying / Because if everybody’s selling it, then who the fuck is buying? Rap doesn’t always need to be edifying, but it feels special when a good guy knocks this hard. Controversial and divisive even though the Odd Future leader takes the piss out of his “serial killer, rapist” persona in the title track, the alternately funny, contemplative, and provocative Goblin is a testament to the continuing power of hip-hop to make America mad ïÃ,¿Ã,½Ã¯Ã,¿Ã,½” all over Tyler’s beautifully claustrophobic production. Flint, Michigan’s underappreciated splatter-rap icons reunite the group’s founding lineup for their first album since 1995’s What’s On My Mind ïÃ,¿Ã,½Ã¯Ã,¿Ã,½” and it’s appropriately a bloodbath.

Adjusting to newfound success is a theme, too, but the vagaries of fame aren’t all that bad. Still frustrated and fighting to survive in the economically depressed town that Michael Moore uses for documentary fodder, the Dayton Fam pack Indictment with a combinaiton of cop-ducking, snitch-slapping reality rap, and plenty of gruesome horrorcore fantasies.

He’s a frugal storyteller and rarely forces his voice into a growl that’s unnecessarily brusque. Formed from Watts, Carson, Compton, and Crenshaw, the four members of the Black Hippy crew melds Souls of Mischef with The Chronic, plus a hint of psychedelia.

It’s something like economy, and it’s perfect for the Ohio-born rapper’s working-class concerns, which are measured and focused, even when he’s playing offense. And in 2011, Kendrick Lamar, Jay Rock, Schoolboy Q, and Ab-Soul practically owned Underground Rap.

Few rappers serve up street struggle stories as convincingly as Gibbs, and this latest batch is his most convincing yet.

LUKE MCCORMICK Gunplay is a master synthesist, a livewire blend of peak-Gucci Mane lyrical style with the headbanging intensity of Waka Flocka’s exuberant anthems.

MOSI REEVES The greatest rapper who ever copped to working at Key Food in rhyme, Queens legend Kool G Rap claimed his best work back in hip-hop’s fabled late-’80s Golden Age. On his solo debut, the veteran DJ quietly subverts the expectations for a genre of music forever in the shadow of crate-digging masterpiece Endtroducing… In a year that found instrumental hip-hop soaking in digital hiss, the glowing vinyl crackle of Some Cold Rock Stuf was a bold, necessary anachronism.

His 2011 reintro may be centered around Blaxploitation-era tropes, but at no point does a man who’s been cited as an influence by Jay-Z and Biggie sound outdated. BRANDON SODERBERG Total match made in hell: Three 6 Mafia belter Juicy J’s misanthropism sounds like it comes from a man with nothing left to lose, and as a result, no man is left standing after he sprays threats (and occasionally bullets) all over producer Lex Luger’s demonic bass sproing (women are entirely absent from this hustler’s nightmare).

What eventually emerged from that journey was this list of 40 albums: Billionaires bragging about Basquiats and Compton kids telling girls not to wear make-up; Afrocentric avant-poets and trap-rap nihilists; stylish teenage buzzbands and white dudes who were bragging about gray hairs 17 years ago.