This led Kyle Smith, critic-at-large for the conservative magazine National Review, to write that, “If you want your audience to feel despondent, don’t set your synthesizer to ‘triumphant.’” Except that’s exactly what you do if you want to reach as wide an audience as possible. At this point, there’s even a nerdy YouTube tutorial that borrows the acronym to extol the virtues of Google Instant Buy.Īnd yet, those who stand ideologically opposed to even acknowledging such a reality still sing along to Springsteen’s hit because the melody soars and carries the pared down chorus toward stadium-filling bombasity. By 2014, Drake and JAY-Z were interpolating the hook into their opulent collaboration “ Pound Cake” without any semblance of the struggle Wu was rapping about, while Financial Times was using “Cash Rules Everything Around Me” as a headline for a story detailing a select few rappers’ immense wealth. The song has become a tool of the unscrupulous system it was meant to expose. As such, “C.R.E.A.M.” has been stripped for parts: The only aspects of real interest to a mass audience are the use of “cream” as slang for money and the repetition of the hook as an admonishment to work harder, longer, and more ruthlessly in the pursuit of it. These are questions that arise if we’re listening to the song as a whole, but pop success alters the way music is heard. Chasing cash, by whatever means available, is the only option for survival, as it rules everything around us-but should it? Should a lack of money make one’s life indistinguishable from prison? They sound less like a rallying call and more like desperate pleas of escape shouted into a void. If Deck’s life, at the ripe old age of 22, felt no different inside or outside of prison, Meth’s cries to “get the money” are utterly meaningless. Likewise when it comes to Inspectah Deck, who raps: If we listen as Raekwon describes the circumstances that push him into the black market economy of drug sales and robbery, and yet his life “got no better,” Method Man’s declaration that “cash rules everything around me” feels less celebratory and more frustrated. If heard through the lens of the verses, the now-iconic hook does the same work, but it has to be contextualized. The version of “C.R.E.A.M.” that was just Rae and Deck trading long verses was called “Lifestyles of the Megarich,” which would have stood in stark contrast to the grim realities of poverty in the lyrics, all but forcing listeners to understand the critique. The song’s original title was more explicitly ironic. But “C.R.E.A.M.”-led by its money-hungry hook-took on a life of its own. And as other New York rappers started leaving the streets behind and moving toward the shiny suit era initiated by Puff Daddy and Bad Boy, Wu-Tang stood strong as a collective committed to mining the dirtiest and oft-neglected corners of life in America’s hoods. Wu was a grimy rebuke of that transition, shifting the focus back to New York City and hip-hop’s gutter roots. Dre and his West Coast cohort was focusing in on melodies while smoothing out rap’s rough edges. Wu-Tang debuted and first found success during the G-funk era, when Dr. It stands against the group’s origin story that they could be co-opted in such a way.