On 2001, Dre leaves “Been There, Done That” behind completely, going straight back to the guns and orgies that he’d been talking about seven years earlier.ĭre had always used ghostwriters. So Dre had to call his album 2001 even though it came out in 1999. Dre hadn’t made an album since The Chronic, the 1992 masterwork that had introduced a whole new cast of comic-book figures and proven the commercial viability of cinematic, nihilistic West Coast street-rap.ĭre wanted to call his new album The Chronic 2000, but old Death Row crony Suge Knight, spiteful as ever, rushed out a compilation called Chronic 2000, then threatened legal action against Dre.
Dre’s own comeback followed shortly thereafter. But Eminem had changed Dre’s fortunes, too, proving that there was something behind the boardroom image Dre had cultivated and showing that he could continue to thrive after Death Row’s era ended. Largely thanks to Dre’s cosign and the credibility that it conferred, Eminem had immediately become a major game-changer of a star. But we, the viewers, know that Dre isn’t going to wake up broke anymore than he’s going to dance a tango. Dre is still broke and bummy, still living in Compton. As the video ends, it turns out to be a dream.
DR DRE 2001 CD CLEAN FULL
Dre and his wife dance a tango at a penthouse party full of people dancing the exact same tango.
He wants to tell you, for instance, about the deal he got on his mansion: “Got a palace in the Hills overlooking the sea / It’s worth eight, but I only paid 5.3.” The video is a lavish affair, full of palm trees and corner offices and helicopters. Taking a catchphrase from a Mountain Dew extreme-sports commercial, Dre grumpily huffs about the peers who “talk that hard bullshit cuz that’s all they worth.” Dre has other things on his mind. “Been There, Done That,” the single that Dre released in 1996, is a fascinating little time capsule in the career of an American music icon. And when Dre broke away from the genuinely dangerous associates at Death Row Records, the label he’d co-founded, he attempted to leave all that behind him. In real life, Dre could be a violent person - he’s got a well-documented history of hurting women - but he was never anything like the dead-eyed murderer he sometimes portrayed. In 1988, Dre had rapped the words, “I don’t smoke weed or cess.” Four years later, he released The Chronic, the album that made his weed-leaf icon as omnipresent as the Yankees’ logo or the outline of Mickey Mouse’s head. When the lights first went down for the headliners, after a short and violent movie, Dre and Snoop came strutting out the door of an onstage liquor store while the dramatic fanfare of “The Next Episode” boomed from arena speakers. At another, a giant skull descended from the rafters, shooting lasers from its eyes, laughing, telling the crowd to roll the weed up. A low-rider bounced across the stage at one point. Others were there to assist with Dre’s own set: Nate Dogg, Kurupt, old partner Snoop Dogg.īut it wasn’t just the cast that made the Up In Smoke tour special. Some of them were opening acts: Warren G, Eminem, Ice Cube. Dre brought along his most famous collaborators, old and new. In the late summer of 2000, Dre embarked on the Up In Smoke Tour, the most elaborate traveling rap show that had ever been mounted. But nine months later, the tour that Dre mounted wasn’t that different. He was thinking out loud, imagining how his own greatest hits could be adapted into a big-money stage play: “For instance, an undercover cop gets killed on stage, and then me and Snoop would come out and do ‘Deep Cover.’ It could work.” On the eve of the release of his sophomore album 2001, Dre was talking to the New York Times’ Jon Pareles. Dre was thinking about putting on a musical.
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