"a gangster Blaxploitation film on wax" is certainly an apt marketing statement used by Gibbs, for what is likely to this day, ten years since, his greatest and most cohesive hour of material. it is exactly what his Cocaine Piñata is; "I had a dream, dog, that I had a little baby. The little baby's birthday was here [...] little four-year-old kids hitting dope in piñatas. I don't know. It was a crazy ass dream. So, I just called that shit Cocaine Piñata."

from his start in Gary, Indiana and his second-home of Los Angeles, to its second half splitting away towards more singular topics, the whole work has tremendous effect—and the pairing between himself and Madlib was a wonderful gift, weaving seamlessly the dusty, acutely detailed chops of a legendary architect with the bravado of someone like Gibbs, his distinct vocal affect and delivery smooth as butter, mixed in and around scenes chopped out from choice films.

the hat drops with a title card—"they're supplying dope to the Black and Mexican communities," as introduction before Scarface draws parallels of drug-dealing and mafia ties; tiny sampling pin drops speed past in the first of many freakishly attuned backdrops, brush strokes both detailed and hazy in its effortless, criminal ego.

the next five are tone-setters in their own right, well-choreographed shifts forward that each accent a specific theme; dealers and love stories on Deeper, the fallout from those stories at Harold's, explosive crime dealings over soft key loops on Bomb, and the community and culture surrounding it all on Shitsville. High is surely the most immediate of the bunch, a lounge-hop trip that Freddie flows effortlessly on before Danny Brown's euphoric, nail-toothed delivery accentuates that theme and beautifully pretty instrumental even more perfectly.

the interjections add more than their weight for Piñata's tone too, with Deeper as the first distinct moment where the film samples create that blanketed, smog-filled atmosphere needed to match the vivid storytelling. its effect as an individual cut is certainly lesser, but its act in bridging the introductions to the denser cracks of the record is easily heard.

yet despite all the praise for his environment—both in story and in sound design, which certainly do fantastic marketing—Gibbs is the main draw, especially when taking the bad in stride. Shitsville's framing of American culture and conflict is powerful, incorporating crime lifestyles advertised with what makes it so commonplace in those and similar communities. and the knockout second verse, then transitioning into Thuggin's ethereal looped chimes and unfuckwithable commentary—on its own kayfabe as result of historical and present oppression—is truly wondrous, and the first half's timeless pinnacle.

Real is an anomaly though, a two-part diss suite as a result of now-squashed beef, but it matches with the rest of the skyline well—though it is just after where the pace does slow perceptibly a bit, lightening up in urgency. the stretched-thin duration of Robes, itself mentioning pre-expounded themes is a bit tacit, despite Earl Sweatshirt's curmudgeonly (complimentary) presence. and Broken as longing for a past home life doesn't recreate (as well) a fitting environment for its heady theme, again despite Scarface's contribution.

and that's about all there is to zoom in on and critique, even with thematic jumps in sequencing for the last five. Uno is bitter and jaw-dropping with 'number 1' chanted hooks above sinister strings and horns; Shame has a diamond-studded instrumental and BJ the Chicago Kid magically stitched-in with a pretty soul cut, updating that reference with raunchy images; and the casual Knicks fits as a ride-out epilogue after the transplant commentary on Lakers about L.A. and Freddie's deeper connections in his most sentimental offering.

the vast majority of guests hold their special places around the album, but the title track is the culmination of the unique collaborators and all sentiments, as a seven verse monolith with sinister loops to end on—barring the double fake-out endings. it is immediately one of the greatest arrangements of its decade, with layered, dusty string sweeps and a dramatic bass & drum sting at the end of a bar, suiting each guest immaculately. the first verse courtesy of Domo Genesis could feel like a cold start, but it leads it in well for the macho, hard-hitting performances from Gibbs and G-Wiz. the start-stop, unkempt flow of Casey Veggies is charismatic as well, a uniquely individual blend before Sulaiman seamlessly shifts into frame with lines on Ice Cube, tombstones, and Vicodin. but Meechy Darko is without a doubt the track's high water mark, reaching its crescendo with an absolutely murderous flow, highlighting how commanding he is over the instrumental; and his line "So I voice my fucking voice, I don't have a fucking choice" hits like an anvil to the chest. Mac Miller's contribution closes it out even more off-kilter than the other contributors, and it's not always better for it, but his final lines add well to crowning this as one of the best posse cuts of all time.

so as the credits roll, the spiritual connection between that track and Thuggin' fades into view just a little better. it shows just a bit more clearly the connections with the crime-riddled lives Gibbs saw around him in Gary, to the people around him now that 'made it out', and that lifestyle only taking you to explosive ends. i wouldn't venture so far as to say it's some wildly evident, purposefully clear-cut message, but the proof is in how that mafia aesthetic falls to the wayside just a bit by the end, replaced with new locations, the people present, and moving on towards succeeding with your band of "all the mother fuckers in the rap game worth fucking with". Piñata operates similarly to those gangster films it's inspired by: it glorifies while undermining, balancing on a tight rope just like the people caught up in the systems it discusses. it communicates its points brilliantly—and it sounds like a trance-like paradise as you step through the spilled dope from its insides.