So a decade ago, I went hard as hell on The Game's debut, The Documentary. I said I heard "a shyster straining overhard to pitch me: endlessly referencing creased Dickies, Converse, and '64 Impalas." (No, hater—Doctor's Advocate got a glowing review a year later.) Ten joints later, and Jayceon "Chuck" Taylor has given the world The Documentary 2 (and 2.5), an album worthy of being likened to a movie. His first solo album since 2012's underrated Jesus Piece, this is not only The Game's best work, brimming with a who's who of hiphop guest list, it's honestly worthy of being mentioned alongside the great rap double discs.

His notorious habit of reference has turned to reverence—instead of name-dropping, Doc 2 steps out hard with a slick suite of songs referencing through word and beat such classics as "On & On," "Uptown Anthem," "Bonita Applebum," "Rebirth of Slick," "Step in the Arena," and "Kick In the Door." That's just for starters—there's a lot to like here, through to the end of 2.5, which might just go harder than the first. "I know who killed Pac, nigga," Game says on "Last Time You Seen." "The police know who killed Pac, nigga." Just like Louis Farrakhan told the people at the Justice or Else rally, the 20th anniversary sequel to the 1995 Million Man March, that the FBI knew what really happened to Malcolm X.

Then there's Chief Keef, who says he "wasn't good at science but he knew his numbers." That must be why dude literally invented a whole new way to number sequels with his latest (and pretty damn great tape) Bang 3 Pt. 2. Keith Cozart is a 20-year-old paintballing millionaire who keeps his hair in his face like Slash, is smirkingly puerile and utterly devoid of Redeeming Social Value, but is as fun as ever to us sad souls who like shit like that. "Bouncin" has a "something something something" gibberish break that recalls Eminem's last indie appearance, the old Rawkus B-side "Any Man," likely not on purpose—and Keef's "Charge My Car" establishes that Sosa pushes a hybrid (he actually forgot to charge it, though).

Outstanding child-support warrants keep Keef exiled from Chicago on planes that transcend the merely material. Just earlier this summer, Mayor Rahm Emanuel banned him from performing at home via goddamn hologram, thinking the sight would incite even more of the violence the concert was intended to protest. (Plan B was another secret holo-turn-up, which had its literal plug pulled mid-show. After that, Keef swore he was running for mayor.)

So: Black bodies get endangered, unsupported, and rendered contraband even when they're made of pure light. Black Light Matters. Love and light. Black spaces matter, too, but the howls of incensed white folks (or the mischaracterizations of the clueless ones) tend to matter more round here, as they call us literal monsters (or "gargoyles"), as they chase us out of the places we live (or out of yoga studios), out of our bodies, everywhere. Namaste? Nah, I'ma stay right here, motherfucker.