Look, all that needs to be said about Tupac Shakur's legacy is that he was hyphy—loud, aggressive and off-kilter in the old-school sense. But, man, was he something else, too.
The hyphy movement, a trend embodied by the newfound superstardom of Shakur's Bay Area crony E-40, is proof of manifestation of the rapper's musical immortality. From the grimiest underground recording sessions to the shiniest pop on your video channel, rap has Shakur's style emblazoned across its collective lyric pad. Stars ascendant in the late '90s carried his mantle, first through tribute, then via archival collaborations. An MC thumbs-up to him increased fans and clout. By 1998, having your DJ drop the needle on a Tupac song became live hip-hop's version of, "Hello, Cleveland!"
It's easy to forget that rappers often disparaged Shakur's style while he walked the Earth. Some of this came from envy of Pac's commercial success, but there's no denying Notorious B.I.G. had a style much more obviously brilliant, derived as it was from free-flowing Brooklyn street rhymes. And a hundred indie "backpack" MCs had more flamboyant styles. Another hundred gangsta rappers were more capable at contriving thug-life narratives.
The essence of what set Shakur apart has only fully revealed itself in his more than 10 posthumous releases. Pac's voice manifests a drama queen aspect—he'd studied theater before committing to the MC craft—that drew women to his music. None of his contemporaries could give him a game here. His deliveries on early classics like "Dear Mama" and "Keep Ya Head Up" were so full of empathy they magnetized his female fan base. Pac could make songs debasing "bitches" and keep women customers coming back.
Whatever the subject, his raps have a kind of emotional duality. This characteristic cemented Pac's legacy as rap in his wake has only become more diverse in its commercial applications. Broader audiences have meant appreciation for how Shakur's threats managed to sound at once violent and lamentable, as if he'd never wanted things to come to such. Commercial-minded rappers like Ja Rule learned to deliver boasts read often as though there are winks behind them. It's now all but become required that top MCs learn to record their laughter tinged with sadness.
This subtle diversity keeps Shakur relevant. Known perhaps best for the barbs that helped spark a rap war, he seemed committed to expressing a spectrum of musical vulnerability. Look at these lines from Pac's stint in Northern California hyphy forebear Digital Underground. Strictly Dope was his first serious group, but 1991's "Same Song" appearance introduced him.
Girls that used to frown say I'm down when I come around/
Gas me and when they pass me they use to diss me harass me/
But now they ask me if they can kiss me/
Get some fame, people change, wanna live they life high/
Same song, can't go wrong, if I play the nice guy/
(Shock G: Claim to fame must have changed, just because we came strong/)
I remain still the same (why Tu'?) 'cause it's the same song
This is from the pen of gangsta rap's all-time great? Not hardly. A prophet? Perhaps. (The part about stars' desire to live high certainly spoke to something he saw in himself.) It would be wrong to stick the man in that "conscious MC" box, too. Nothing can contain Tupac Shakur. His lyrics are shot through with a quality of hurt that keeps him accessible.