Thomas Hobbs dives into the highlights of 2Pac's unreleased material, showcasing the depths of his mindset and his singular storytelling abilities.
By Thomas Hobbs February 27, 2023
Tupac Shakur was eerily prophetic when it came to his death. During his tragically short but prolific 25 years, he looked at eternal sleep as an opportunity for a much-needed rest: something to
be embraced rather than feared, a chance to go drink peppermint Schnapps with Jackie Wilson
somewhere beyond the clouds. Pac’s lyrics understood mortality with a sharpness and bravery that recalled Anne Bronte’s “Farewell”
poem (“Make way for a whirlwind prophesied / I wanna go in peace when I gotta die.”) Death was a concrete end rather than a mystical new beginning; it was no surprise then that “my only fear of death is coming back to this b*tch reincarnated” was among the
clear instructions he left behind.
In death, Pac’s plea to avoid reincarnation feels continuously ignored. His soul has been repackaged in numerous forms, many of them astoundingly tone deaf: from the hologram that chanted “Waddup Coachella” to a Frankenstein transformation into a ketamine-funneled talking head for ravers at Berghain (electronic producer Jaymie Silk recently used deep fake Pac vocals to create this
monstrosity of a techno song), to even a pop instrument manipulated by Marshall Mathers so it could yell “G-Unit in the motherf*cking house.” Soon your Granny will be able to mouth the lyrics to “Troublesome 96”
on TikTok, another business decision that feels like it’s using puppet strings to distort Pac’s message.
Despite a creative ethic that led him to “work like a race horse” (the
words of Death Row labelmate Snoop Dogg), there hasn’t been a new posthumous 2Pac record since 2006’s mediocre
Pac’s Life. This creates the false impression that the well of unreleased Pac has run dry. The reality is more like an estate in disarray. Pac’s sister Sekyiwa is currently fighting through the courts to win back control from an executive (Tom Whalley), who
she claims is running a “hide and control operation” that prevents the Shakur family from having access to their late loved one’s lost songs, profits, and personal artifacts.
For an outspoken artist striving to overcome the struggle of living in a capitalist white man’s world, the idea that this radical voice could be twisted by someone who isn’t even a Shakur is jarring. If you want a true indicator of the inward-looking, paranoid spin on G-funk that defined Pac’s unreleased material, the posthumous material available on DSPs offers slim pickings.
But YouTube-buried Pac classics still remain: from the anthemic material recorded for the unfinished One Nation project (intended to rebuild the damaged links between the East and West Coast), to the gutter funk of the Thug Pound sessions (an LA-based supergroup that included Pac, Snoop, Daz, Kurupt, DJ Quik, and the Outlawz). My hope is that by shining a light on these particular rarities, we can uncover fresh insights into Pac’s mindset and readers can experience his frenetic energy the way it was originally intended.
