A Decade of Diplomatic Immunity

Let me provide some context, a decade after its release, to aid in the understanding of how irrevocable a piece of art The Diplomats’ Diplomatic Immunity is:

I have seen The Diplomats live exactly once (well, not The Diplomats, per se, but Jim Jones and Juelz Santana and a stage full of other men who were little more than an indecipherable mass from my seats), in a charmingly favela-pastel painted baseball stadium off Albany Avenue in Atlantic City known as the Sandcastle, an experience which almost tipped what had been an up-and-down day of petty theft, slot machine vultures, whiskey and cokes, drug dogs, little orange bottles, serendipitous blunts from Western New York, prostitute propositions, and hammered, Trump Taj Mahal chandelier gazing into a full on, savage, King-Hell mess.

The Sandcastle was playing host to the Atlantic City Summerfest, which promised Jones and Santana, a State Property reunion, Meek Mill, and Rick Ross. What had been delivered, in the four fucking hours since the gates had been opened, was an infuriatingly amorphous and seemingly illimitable stable of anonymous, impotent acts, broken promises of Jim Jones’s imminent arrival, and the same half-dozen or so Top 40 rap songs on loop, a milieu which was so unbearable after our reckless burn through Atlantic City that the moments of pregnant silence that frequently engulfed the stadium were as vast and welcoming an expanse as the ocean abreast of us.

Into this hornet’s nest strode Jones, Santana, et al., who then proceeded to deliver upon the crowd — the crowd so desperate for entertainment and so bitterly disappointed by what had been offered that they had taken to the field itself, amidst panicked cries from the stage, get back, please clear the VIP area, get back, you know they don’t want us to be able to do this (it is never clear who the “they” is, or why “they” don’t want them to pull of a hip-hop show, but I imagine it had something to do with the fact that I could count the white audience members on one hand, myself included, and that I doubt the drug dogs and metal detectors were set up when Dave Matthews came through the Sandcastle not long before Ross and company) — a ludicrous flock of men with microphones screaming at the Atlantic. I firmly believe, were it not for the artistry of State Property, Mills’ then-current juice, and Ross’ indomitable stage presence, the Sandcastle could have turned brutal that night.

And despite Dipset’s best attempt to have my head caved in on some godforsaken, ruddy infield, not one iota of my affection for Diplomatic Immunity has deteriorated.

For a less personal, less baroque, and more easily unpacked example of Diplomatic Immunity‘s greatness, take into consideration that this is a two-disc, 27-song album that does not come across as ponderous. Sure, some cuts rise above the others, but there is little here, outside of the skits, that strikes a listener as being a boon to remove. Any record containing more than 15 or so songs not suffering from a glut of miserable tracks is remarkable.

The key is Diplomatic Immunity’s greatest asset, an adroit use of texture. The album is built around combining disparate sounds and styles into seamless compositions, starting with the juxtaposition between the grit of Dipset’s image and bars and the soul-heavy, often pretty, almost always bizarre beats upon which such gully rhymes were being laid. O’Jays samples lay next to fat, rich foie gras bass lines and scallop fluttering horns, noodling Dr. Dre-esque hooks share space with the coffin-nail pounding, the spritely, and coquettish.

That multifarious nature extends to the rappers themselves. Cam’ron flows like pancakes and syrup, melting, sliding, spilling carnation and violet across tracks, spinning Mother Goose rhymes (“Golly I’m gully/ Look at his galoshes/ Gucci, gold, platinum plaque collages”) and imbuing even the simplest bars with his Killa Cam magic, an ability to add barbs to any phrase, so that I barely hit Wicker Park before hearing “I’m on the west side of Chicago…” and start resisting the urge to dip.

Juelz Santana slant rhymes with the wet, percussive action of a paintball gun, and Jim Jones, arguably — not too arguably — the weakest emcee of the group, more than holds his own. Features from Master P and Freeway enhance the pastiche, adding Southern bombast and machine gun staccato, respectively.

Diplomatic Immunity has its issues, including a healthy sprinkling of classic hip-hop homophobia and the groan-inducing sample that drives “Built This City.” But all sins are washed away in one-two that opens the second disc, as the smattering of applause swelling in to some of the sharpest horn stabs outside of “Crazy in Love” which opens “I Really Mean It” segues directly into Juelz and Free bouncing along “My Love”; all scales sloughed off in the undeniable movement demanded of anyone listening to “Dipset Anthem”; all hiccups drowned in the syrup of “Purple Haze” and Cam’ron’s drawn and fried vocals.

A decade of shifting sentiments, disappearing acts of varying severity, and one miserable evening in Atlantic City has not cut Diplomatic Immunity’s potency. In honor of the accomplishment, slap on the Spotify, then pop something and roll something tonight.

(Def Jam Recordings, 825 Eighth Avenue 28th Floor, New York, NY 10019)