Too $hort Tests Hip-Hop’s Age Limit With New Lil Jon-Produced Album

Too $hort performs at iThink Financial Amphitheater in West Palm Beach, Fla., on Aug. 13, 2023. The Oakland rap pioneer is releasing “Sir Too $hort Vol. 2: Drink & Smoke,” his 23rd studio album, with Lil Jon producing the project 20 years after “Blow the Whistle.” (Rick Munroe/Wikimedia Commons, CC BY-SA 4.0)

Too $hort has reached the age where other genres would already call him an elder, hand him a lifetime achievement award and let him keep working.


Hip-hop has not always been that generous.

The Oakland rap pioneer is 60 now, still recording, still performing and still talking like nobody told him he was supposed to disappear. His new album, “Sir Too $hort Vol. 2: Drink & Smoke,” his 23rd studio album, arrives Friday with Lil Jon producing the entire project — a full-circle pairing landing 20 years after “Blow the Whistle” became one of the most durable records in Short Dog’s catalog.

The timing gives the release more weight than another veteran-rapper rollout.

Too $hort is not just promoting an album. He is making a case for rap’s older generation to keep taking up space.

“Who laid the rule down that in hip-hop you gotta stop at 40?” Too $hort told The Associated Press in an interview published Thursday.

That question sits at the center of the story.

For decades, rap treated age differently than jazz, blues, soul or rock. Older singers could tour forever. Blues players could get grayer and more respected. Funk bands could become institutions. But rappers were often expected to either become executives, nostalgia acts or punch lines once they crossed a certain line.

Too $hort never accepted that rule.

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He started moving homemade tapes around the Bay Area as a teenager, built himself into one of Oakland’s defining rap voices and helped make West Coast street rap feel self-contained before the industry fully understood what was happening outside New York. His records could be filthy, funny, blunt, slick and sometimes socially pointed, often in the same stretch of music.

That is part of why his catalog lasted.

“The Ghetto” still carries its quiet weight. “Freaky Tales” remains one of the most infamous long-form talk-your-talk records in rap history. “Blow the Whistle” found another life far beyond radio, turning into an arena chant, a DJ weapon and a song that still cuts through a room before the first verse gets there.

Too $hort told AP he does not know if he could recreate the formula for “Blow the Whistle” if someone handed him the ingredients.

“It had to happen organically,” he said.

He gave Lil Jon credit for that record’s staying power, and the two are back together on “Sir Too $hort Vol. 2: Drink & Smoke.” The album also carries a more personal layer. It features work from Lil Jon’s late son, DJ Young Slade, who died in February after contributing to the project.

Too $hort told AP he was proud to be part of Slade’s legacy.

That detail keeps the project from reading like a simple party-rap victory lap. Yes, the title is “Drink & Smoke.” Yes, Too $hort is still Too $hort. Nobody is coming to this record expecting him to suddenly become careful. But the story around it is about age, grief, work and the kind of continuity hip-hop is only now old enough to fully understand.

He has company.

E-40, Snoop Dogg, Fat Joe, Ice Cube, Busta Rhymes, LL Cool J and others have all helped push rap into its elder-statesman era without fully surrendering to nostalgia. Some tour. Some still record. Some do podcasts, documentaries, brand deals or Vegas-style legacy plays. The important part is that they are still visible enough to challenge the old idea that rap belongs only to the newest voice in the room.

Too $hort and E-40 made that point together during their 2020 Verzuz appearance, which played less like a battle than a Bay Area family reunion. Short told AP he would not want to battle E-40 now, either, calling him his best friend in hip-hop. But he did float a different idea: Too $hort and E-40 against another duo.

That is vintage Too $hort — competitive without pretending the brotherhood is fake.

The larger point is simpler. Hip-hop is old enough now to have 60-year-old rappers who are not curiosities. They are part of the music’s memory bank and, in some cases, still part of its Friday release calendar.

Too $hort has no interest in aging quietly for anyone’s comfort.

The genre that once made middle age look like an exit sign is now learning what older Black music forms already knew: If the voice still works, the stories still matter and the crowd still shows up, nobody has to leave because the calendar said so.

Betye Saar, Black Arts Pioneer Who Reclaimed Racist Images, Dies at 99

Artist Betye Saar, right, and basketball Hall of Famer Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, left, pose with scholar Henry Louis Gates Jr. during Harvard University’s W.E.B. Du Bois Medal ceremony in Cambridge, Mass., in October 2022. Saar and Abdul-Jabbar were among seven honorees recognized for their commitment to social justice. Saar, whose assemblage art confronted racist stereotypes and reclaimed Black imagery, died Sunday at 99, four days before her 100th birthday. (Photo credit: FAH1223, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons)

Betye Saar collected the objects America used to belittle Black people — mammy figurines, pancake advertisements, washboards and cheap souvenirs — then made them tell a different story.

Saar, the pioneering assemblage artist whose landmark “The Liberation of Aunt Jemima” transformed one of America’s most enduring racist caricatures into an armed figure of Black resistance, died in her sleep Sunday at her Los Angeles home. She was 99, four days shy of her 100th birthday.

Her death was announced by Roberts Projects, the Los Angeles gallery that represented her for nearly 20 years.

“Her singular vision transformed the course of contemporary art,” gallery co-founder Julie Roberts said in a statement.

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For Saar, found objects were never simply old things. They carried the history of who made them, who used them and what America once believed it could sell without shame.

She used racist collectibles, domestic tools, family photographs, clocks, cages, dolls and discarded materials to confront Black identity, sexism, memory, spirituality and liberation. Her work made her a central figure in the Black Arts Movement and one of the most influential assemblage artists of the past century.

Her best-known work, the 1972 assemblage “The Liberation of Aunt Jemima,” was roughly the size of a shoebox.

At its center stood a stereotypical mammy figurine, the smiling domestic servant once used to reassure white consumers and romanticize Black servitude. Saar left the broom in the figure’s hand but also armed her with a rifle and a grenade.

The servant had become a soldier.

Saar created the work for an exhibition devoted to Black heroes at the Rainbow Sign cultural center in Berkeley, California. The assassination of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. four years earlier had pushed her work in a more openly political direction.

King’s death “triggered a rage within me, and the mystic transformed into the warrior,” Saar later said.

Saar understood the danger of putting racist imagery back on display. She worried about how white viewers might interpret it and how such images had shaped Black people’s perceptions of themselves.

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“What saved it was that I made Aunt Jemima into a revolutionary figure,” she said.

The work preceded Quaker Oats’ decision to retire the Aunt Jemima brand by nearly five decades. When the company acknowledged in 2020 that the brand’s origins were rooted in a racial stereotype, Saar celebrated the decision but noted how long it had taken.

“The Liberation of Aunt Jemima” became a defining work of Black feminist art. Angela Davis later credited it with helping inspire the Black women’s movement.

Saar did not abandon the stereotype or pretend it had never existed. She forced it to surrender its original meaning.

That question — whether racist images could be reclaimed without repeating their damage — remained central to Saar’s work and later placed her in one of the Black art world’s most contentious arguments.

In 1997, Saar participated in a letter-writing campaign criticizing Kara Walker, who had received a MacArthur Fellowship for her provocative silhouette scenes depicting slavery, sexual violence and the antebellum South.

Walker’s supporters viewed the work as an unsparing confrontation with America’s racist imagination. Saar feared that its imagery reinforced the degradation it sought to expose.

She called Walker’s work “revolting and negative” and said it served the “amusement and the investment of the white art establishment.”

The dispute became an art-world version of a larger argument running through 1990s Black culture: Who controls images of Black suffering, who profits from them and when does exposure become exploitation?

Saar’s position was consistent with the work she had been making for decades. Racist images could be used, she believed, but they had to be stripped of their authority and redirected toward Black liberation.

Born Betye Irene Brown in Los Angeles on July 30, 1926, Saar spent part of her childhood in Watts, where she watched Simon Rodia construct the Watts Towers from broken ceramics, glass, shells, metal and other salvaged materials.

The towers showed her early what discarded objects could become in the hands of an artist.

Saar studied design at UCLA and initially worked in interior design, greeting cards and decorative arts. She later became a printmaker before a 1967 exhibition of Joseph Cornell’s shadow boxes inspired her move toward three-dimensional assemblage.

Her 1969 work “Black Girl’s Window” placed the silhouette of a Black woman behind glass, surrounded by moons, stars, a skeleton, astrological signs and family imagery. The Museum of Modern Art acquired the work in 2019, decades after it was created.

Recognition from major institutions often came late.

Saar received a solo exhibition at the Whitney Museum of American Art in 1975, but large museums showed her work only sporadically for much of the following four decades. In 2019, the Museum of Modern Art and the Los Angeles County Museum of Art mounted concurrent solo exhibitions.

She continued creating well into her 90s from the Laurel Canyon home and studio where she had lived since 1962. Her work moved among politics, family history, mysticism and the spiritual energy she believed objects carried from their earlier lives.

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Even with her centennial approaching, Saar appeared less interested in assessing her legacy than in making something new.

“That’s what art is,” she told the Los Angeles Times in June. “Making something where there was nothing.”

Her 100th birthday is being commemorated with “Betye Saar’s Black Dolls,” an exhibition at The New York Historical in Manhattan. The exhibition, featuring 26 dolls from a promised collection of 100, continues through Oct. 4. Another exhibition, “Let’s Get It On: The Wearable Art of Betye Saar,” remains on view at Roberts Projects through Aug. 22.

Saar is survived by her daughters, artists Lezley Saar and Alison Saar and writer Tracye Saar-Cavanaugh; six grandchildren; and Rojo, her red-footed tortoise.

For more than six decades, Saar showed that reclamation required more than placing an old stereotype in a new frame.

She gave the figure a weapon, changed who held the power and dared America to look at it again.

More Than 20 Years After His Death, ODB Gets a Brooklyn Street Sign

Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s widow, Icelene Jones, second from left, holds an “ODB Jones Way” sign with members of the late rapper’s family during a street co-naming ceremony July 25, 2026, in Brooklyn’s Bedford-Stuyvesant neighborhood. The honorary designation at Franklin and Putnam avenues recognizes the Wu-Tang Clan co-founder, born Russell Tyrone Jones. (Ol’ Dirty Bastard Legacy via Instagram)

Ol’ Dirty Bastard spent his career refusing to fit neatly anywhere. Brooklyn has now found a permanent place for his name.

Family members, friends and fans gathered Saturday in Bedford-Stuyvesant as the city unveiled “ODB Jones Way” at the intersection of Franklin and Putnam avenues, honoring the late Wu-Tang Clan co-founder born Russell Tyrone Jones.

The location was not selected simply because it offered an available signpost.


A mural modeled after the cover of ODB’s 1995 solo debut, “Return to the 36 Chambers: The Dirty Version,” has watched over the corner for years. His brother Ramsey Jones said their grandmother still lives on the block.

“I am very honored to be here because my grandmother’s house is on this block on Putnam Avenue,” Jones said during the ceremony.

That family connection gives the honor more weight than the usual celebrity street designation. Brooklyn placed ODB’s name where his relatives still have roots and where residents had already created a neighborhood monument to him.

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The New York City Council formally approved the intersection co-naming in December. The measure became Local Law 48 on Jan. 17, designating “ODB Jones Way” at Franklin and Putnam avenues. It adds an honorary intersection name rather than replacing either street’s legal name.

Council Member Chi Ossé, whose district includes Bedford-Stuyvesant, worked with ODB’s estate and family on the dedication. Ossé previously led the successful effort to designate Nov. 15 — Jones’ birthday — as Ol’ Dirty Bastard Day in New York City.

While presenting that resolution in 2023, Ossé called Jones “a pioneer in the world of music, and one of New York’s immortal sons.”

ODB’s immortality was built on a voice that could sound like a rap verse, a singalong, an argument and a warning — sometimes before the same record ended.

He joined cousins RZA and GZA as an original member of Wu-Tang Clan, whose 1993 debut, “Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers),” rewrote the possibilities for a large rap group. Where other members arrived with dense lyricism, street reportage or martial-arts discipline, ODB seemed governed by an entirely separate set of laws.

His delivery was ragged but deliberate, moving between rapping and singing without respecting the border between them. He could blow apart the structure of a song while becoming the part listeners remembered most.

That presence helped make “Protect Ya Neck,” “Shame on a N---a” and “Da Mystery of Chessboxin’” essential pieces of Wu-Tang’s early sound. Away from the group, “Brooklyn Zoo” and “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” turned his unpredictability into the center of the record rather than something producers needed to contain.

“Return to the 36 Chambers” received a Grammy nomination and established ODB as the first Wu-Tang member to release a solo album after Method Man. He later reached an even wider audience through “Got Your Money,” featuring Kelis, and his appearance on the remix of Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy.”

That Carey collaboration became a model for the rap-and-R&B remix long before record labels turned the combination into a dependable chart formula. ODB did not arrive to smooth out the song. His unpolished energy was the point.

His fame also came with arrests, addiction, incarceration and public episodes that were often treated as entertainment while he was alive. The spectacle sometimes swallowed the music and reduced a complicated person to a collection of outrageous clips.

Jones died Nov. 13, 2004, two days before his 36th birthday.

More than two decades later, the parts of his work once dismissed as disorder sound increasingly influential. Generations of rappers have adopted his cracked melodies, abrupt vocal shifts and willingness to make personality as important as technical precision.

There was no father to his style, as the famous explanation of his name went, and attempts to copy him usually proved why.

New York’s recent honors have moved ODB beyond the caricature. The City Council’s 2023 resolution recognized him as a distinctive MC whose influence outlived him. The new sign places that recognition directly into the Brooklyn landscape that helped create him.

The mural had already made Franklin and Putnam a destination for Wu-Tang fans. ODB’s face, drawn from the welfare-card image used on his debut album, turned the side of a neighborhood building into an unofficial memorial.

Now the city has added its own marker.