Snoop Dogg “Bush”
There Snoop Dogg brand is a miracle. I’m not sure any human brain could have conceived in 1993 that the man who (alongside Dre) rolled up West Coast gangsta rap into a more tuneful, G-Funk blunt, would decades later become a genial, middle-aged entrepreneur. And yet, here we are. While he was always a better looking and sounding artist than a technically masterful MC, Snoop Dogg’s ascent from Dre’s guest to crossover Pop star was meteoric. Along the way, he bumped into multi-platinum albums, hit singles, lots of legal close calls, an acting career, a pimping career, a WWE career, a high school football coaching career, Rastafarianism, Christianity, angel investing and more ganja than all of Jamaica. The breadth of his pursuits and a serendipity — bordering on random curiosity — of it all makes it hard to consider the meaning of it all seriously.
No doubt, many of these achievements were intentional — earned on the basis of talent and charisma. Some seemed like accidents. Some seemed like bad decisions. Some seemed like marketing ploys. But whether he was clever or lucky, these moves have helped Snoop achieve a broad and singular, appeal. Kids love Snoop on account of his name and his cartoonish figure. Teens and young adults admire his Doggfather and weed champ status. Adults and middle-agers smile at the thought of his early singles and his cameos in “Old School” and “Starsky and Hutch.” Even the older folks vaguely know him as the rapper who was friends with Martha Stewart. Hardly a musician in 2020, Snoop Dogg is a lovable, bankable brand. Aside from perhaps Lebron and MJ, I can’t think of any popular figure whose brand holds more equity and opportunity than Snoop’s. Not Kylie Jenner, not Jessica Simpson, not Martha Stewart or Ralph Lauren or Calvin Klein. If I could invest today in a single brand, it would be Snoop’s.
For someone who has moved so quickly between projects and pursuits, his style is a slow one. Although he stays on the beat and in flow, Snoop’s delivery is slow as molasses. He leans mostly on one and two syllable words so he can stretch them and he would never chase a triplet. Even his movements are slow. His lanky figure can appear almost sloth-like when he dances. And with this slow pace comes a sly, comfortable, good time confidence that is different from most any rapper before or since. Jay and Dre may be richer. Mos Def and Q-Tip might have hipster cred. But Snoop is beloved like no other.
For much of the 2010s, Snoop’s activity was so eclectic that it was not clear if he owned the brand or if the brand owned him. His appearances — in music, TV, film or business — had a whiff of “we need a really likable rapper with crossover appeal for this thing for a couple of minutes and a lot of money.” His solo album sales lagged considerably, but it didn’t matter. His artistry was obscured by both his celebrity and the blissful cloud of smoke that surrounded him at every party. While the brand got stronger, it became increasingly unclear what sort of artist Snoop Dogg was.
In 2011, Snoop released both a reggae album, “Reincarnated” and a half-baked sequel to “Doggystyle,” entitled “Doggumentary.” Neither release hurt the brand but certainly neither helped. He didn’t need to convert to Rastafarianism to cement his place in cannabis culture. Musically, Snoop seemed a little lost. Years from Dre and a lifetime away from his gangsta past, in 2013, he found his way back to the most comfortable and on brand music bed for his style — G Funk. The return to this form started modestly, with an EP for Stones Throw, entitled “7 Days of Funk,” produced by Dam Funk. The good times, no consequences, free your mind grooves of Parliament-Funk proved to be a salve for Snoop’s music. He could sing. He could rap. He could let the Producer and the tracks do a lot of the heavy lifting. It made everyone feel better.
2015’s “Bush” was the logical step up following “7 Days of Funk.” With Pharrell masterminding the album, Snoop was reunited with one half of the Neptunes (the other half, Chad Hugo, would also join for some tracks) — the team that he’d enjoyed so much success with in the early 2000s. From beginning to end, “Bush” is a chill, LA-themed, space funk record. It is deeply rooted in the sounds and sentiments of the 70s, when weed, sex and good vibes distracted us from the underside of it all. On “Bush,” nothing is going to stop the good times, the sunshine, the high, the party, the sex and the money.
Not only is “Bush” on message, but Snoop rarely gets a chance to veer in any direction. The album is, in almost every sense, a Pharrell album that licenses the Snoop brand, the Snoop vibe and some vocals here and there. Most of the verses, and practically all of the choruses, are sung rather than rapped. So, when we do get Snoop, it’s with some auto-tune, and alongside Pharrell and Charlie Wilson (The Gap Band). When Snoop does rap, he keeps it tight and light. His flow — party drawl and part Jewish old man — is fun as ever. But, it’s certainly the tracks and not the rapper that stand out on “Bush.”
Musically and spiritually, you can get everything you need from “Bush” on two tracks — “California Roll” and “Peaches and Cream.” The former is a breezy, good time funk track, featuring Stevie Wonder on vocals and piano over a rubbery Neptunes beat. Snoop explains to his girl (and us) what his version of LA is, starting with the Medical Card, the house in the hills, the billboards and the custom Adidas kicks. I think “California Roll” would work at any poolside barbecue in California for any family on any day of the last forty five years. It’s that sweet and easy. “Peaches and Cream” has a little more bite to the impressive G-Funk, and Snoop actually raps a couple of verses. However, it’s lite enough and Snoop is old and cliched enough for the come ons to sound more fun and funny that horny. When Beck paid homage to Prince on his own “Peaches and Cream” from “Midnight Vultures,” he sounded no more or less sincere than Snoop does on his version. On top of some cosmic cowbell, a George Clinton sample and some backing vocals from Nelly, Freak Snoop has his eyes on her heels and her backside and his mind on the champagne and between the sheets. It’s almost exactly what you’d imagine. And it’s great.
With only ten songs and clocking in at barely forty minutes, there are no obvious missteps on “Bush.” Beginning to end, it’s an album about partying and fucking in LA, with Snoop Dogg. The tracks never get too hot or cold, fast or slow. You get the sense that the entire album could soundtrack the “adults only” night at a 1978, Los Angeles skating rink (and bar), wherein The Bee Gees collaborated with Funkadelic for one night only.
The final two tracks are worth mentioning mostly because of their guest appearances. On “Runaway,” Snoop plays Clyde Barrow to Gwen Stefani’s Bettie Boop Bonnie Parker. It’s the most disposable of the funk on the album. The closer, “I’m Ya Dogg,” is another star-studded affair featuring Rick Ross and Kendrick Lamar sharing verses with Snoop. The track is slinky and kinky in that it, momentarily, inverts the sexual power dynamic. Each MC vows allegiance to their freaky master. Rather than dousing her with dollar bills and bubbly, he is on her chain. And, so long as she feeds him, walks him and calls him to come, he’ll obey.
It seems likely that, as time passes, “Bush” will be viewed as a modest and pleasant footnote in Snoop’s discography. It did not sell or chart particularly well. Critics, like most anyone who’s heard it, largely enjoyed it but it’s neither a return to peak form or a masterpiece of a new form. No, “Bush” is very professional cross-promotion between two savvy, beloved brands -- Pharrell Inc. and Snoop Dogg Inc. And though Pharrell was the CEO on this venture, Snoop got most of the equity.