Lines express devotion to family and friends. On “My Type” he tells them, “Winning in your blood/You were born with what it take [sic].”
T.I. takes full advantage of the parental advisory label with profanities galore (13 of the 18 cuts use the f-word, often paired with “mother”) and crass slang for genitalia. Eight tracks brag about sexual conquests, summoning images of hit-and-run encounters, people in various coital positions, and a bunch of guys getting oral sex from women referred to as “hos.” Using and selling drugs is commonplace. On “Big S— Poppin’ (Do It)” T.I. thumbs his nose at the law as he promotes a cocaine enterprise. Marijuana takes the fore elsewhere. “Da Dopeman” chronicles a young man’s hypocritical rise to power as a back-alley pusher (he urges a pal to put down the bong, but sells junk to others). Any thriving crack racket requires a measure of security, usually in the form of thug violence. A half-dozen tracks feature threats and/or gunplay. Disrespect is reason enough to murder a rival on “You Know What It Is.” The worst of the batch is “Hurt,” which threatens to shoot a guy in his, uh, manhood and terrorize his family. It also describes a bloody drive-by in sickening fashion. “My Swag” is one of several attempts to impress fans with possessions and a big bank account.
“Touchdown” takes on critics of rap music, arguing that it has done all sorts of good for folks in the ‘hood. Sorry, but that song and others on T.I. Vs T.I.P. simply prove how blind and irresponsible Clifford Harris and his egomaniacal ilk really are. This is sonic garbage.
After serving as an associate editor at NavPress’ Discipleship Journal and consulting editor for Current Thoughts and Trends, Adam now oversees the editing and publishing of Plugged In’s reviews.