
Those who spent this summer listening to a certain New Orleans-based rapper's " A Milli " crank out of NYC car stereos could be excused for feeling a bit cheated. It was not so long ago that we had our own indigenous ways of making hybrids thump—years after rap crews from Wu-Tang to Roc-a-Fella fell, New York still had the Diplomats. Cam'ron, the leader, prone to pink chinchilla coats and rhymes of dazzling internal intricacy; Juelz Santana, the young heartthrob; Jim Jones, the braying capo. They were flamboyant, and their records ruled New York. [...]