No Cut That's Pure Enough - Liquid Swords turns 20

When I was little, my father was famous

It’s an infamous line now, at this point, 20 years later. It’s eerie, unsettling, and confusing—an auspicious way to begin an album. Dialogue spoken by a child-like voice, the sample is lifted from an old martial arts film, Shogun Assassin—which is referenced throughout, along with the other standard Wu-Tang fodder: chess, numerology, comic books, and a life of crime.

I was always aware of Liquid Swords—drawn in by its comic book style artwork—ever since it came out in the fall of 1995. I remember seeing it at my local K-Mart (in a time before they stopped selling CDs with advisory lyric stickers.) But since I was, you know, 12 years old, I had no idea what it was.

The first time I listened to Liquid Swords, I was in my early 20s, and it was on my lunch break at a university job I used to have many, many years ago. I always struggled to find things to do to fill an entire 60 minutes off the clock, so after devouring my food, I used to wander around the campus, finding interesting places to sit and read, or to try to write—even back then, nearly a decade ago, I fancied myself some kind of writer.

I had downloaded Liquid Swords from somewhere online after constantly seeing it referenced as one of the greatest hip-hop albums, as well as just in general greatest albums, of all time. When I hit play on my discman, I was not ready for what was in store.

It took me a long time to warm up to the album, mostly because of the odd movie samples interspersed throughout. I mean, I was used to that from their usage on Enter The 36 Chambers, but there was just something that was not instantly pulling me in. But what did I know at that time? In 2007, I was just a dumb kid who knew nothing about good hip-hop music.  But I remember that moment, hearing that introduction to the album’s title track, and I wondered what on Earth I had gotten myself into.

Released in November 1995, Liquid Swords is the GZA’s crowning achievement. No album he’s released since then has gone on to have the kind of clout that this one has—but the same can be said for all the other “golden age” Wu-Tang albums released between 1994 and 1996. They hit their peak early on thanks to the RZA’s oversight of the entire operation, as well as his innovative production techniques.

And it’s that sound that makes Liquid Swords a timeless record, rather than a poorly aging relic of its era. The RZA’s grimey, claustrophobic beats are outstanding—dusty sounding drums and squalling keyboards create a sound that he didn’t (or couldn’t) replicate on any of the other Wu solo efforts from this time—like Ironman, or Only Built 4 Cuban Linx—both of which are albums, while good, pale in comparison to the sheer unrelenting fury of Liquid Swords. It’s album that works because it’s lean in comparison. Even with the weird martial arts samples and one skit that climaxes with the GZA yelling “Life of a drug dealer,” the album is almost all content rather than filler, while his peers allowed their solo efforts to be weight down and bloated with skit after skit, filling the album to the near breaking point of a 74 minute CD.

And as much as you want Liquid Swords to continue on for longer than its 50 minute running time, it serves its purpose and doesn’t overstay its welcome.

So what is happening on Liquid Swords?

There’s some kind of loose narrative that is strung together through the Shogun Assassin samples—telling the tale of a boy who’s father was the “greatest samurai in the empire,” and who’s mother was killed in an accident that was supposed to kill the father instead—the premise borrowed from the “Lone Wolf and Cub” story.

But outside of that, it paints a very evocative, dark, and unfriendly picture through the GZA’s use of imagery on a number of tracks—“It was the night before New Year’s and all through the fucking projects, not a handgun was silent, not even a tech,” he spits casually on the oppressive and spooky “Cold World,” and twists the crime lifestyle narrative in with the violent descriptions of Staten Island on “Killah Hills 10304” “Gold,” and “Investigative Reports.”

And outside of all that, there is just straight up braggadocio—like the infamous use of simile and metaphor on the album’s infectious and playful title track: “Lyrics are weak like clock radio speakers,” he says at one point, attacking another rapper’s style; “So deep it’s picked up on radios in tunnels,” he says later on, describing his own sound. Or the straight up assault on all record labels (save for the one he found himself on) with the aptly titled “Labels.”

20 years later, Liquid Swords remains relevant, and has achieved a “classic album” status simply because of how good it is—yes there are some songs that are more hook driven than others, and even a “single” version of “Cold World” featuring D’Angelo was released, but it’s meant to be taken as a whole, from start to finish.  It’s a slow grower, almost inaccessible at first, but it slowly reveals itself to you with multiple listens if you are patient enough with it. You can see past all the Shogun Assassin samples that are somewhat crudely inserted at the beginning or end of each song, and you can appreciate it for the moment in time that it captures. That is one of the reasons that it has become timeless—it takes you back to the RZA’s basement studio—the one that bore some of the best hip-hop music ever created. It takes you back to the time when this group was firing on all cylinders and they had everything to gain but also nothing to lose. At their peak, they could almost do no wrong, and this is representative of that era and of that mindset. It’s raw and visceral, recorded in such a way that you feel like you are right their with the GZA as he is cupping the mic, letting these lyrics fly.

It’s one of the few times that hip-hop has been so unwelcoming to a listener’s ear, yet so interesting and innovative at the same time.