When The Ohio Players released "Funky Worm" in 1973, the Pleasure single rose to the top of the R&B charts. Junie Morrison — who would later join Parliament Funkadelic — utilized an Arp Soloist to craft what is now recognized as a hallmark sound of G-funk: a multi-octave, Arabian "wine" that sounds like summer, and probably smells like a cookout.

The Ohio Players — and specifically Junie Morrison — have said that they intentionally focused on issues besides "stress and strife," and how funk music is, "an excellent platform for moving or removing the ills that may be present in our lives." As a result, "Funky Worm" and other funk classics of the era became a sonic respite from issues impacting Black America.

Early rap records also whole-heartedly embraced fun as a tenet of the culture. With the Bronx burning, murders an every day occurrence, and generational poverty ruining entire family trees, the lyrics and the production was much more light hearted. That is, until Grandmaster Flash and The Furious Five released "The Message" in 1982. The record was equally infectious as it was effective in bringing listeners in to hear the truth about what was happening in New York City. Melle Mel refers to the song as, "The Ghetto Koran."

Dre's G-Funk on The Chronic was in stark contrast to popular production from New York City at the time — like that of The Bomb Squad — who supplied Public Enemy with piercing horn stabs that bounced off one's ear drums like shrapnel.

Whereas the Shockless and Eric "Vietnam" Saddler tried their best to hide their samples beneath a "gumbo" of reverb, Dre made it abundantly clear to a generation of kids who grew up on funk that he was bringing you back to a simpler time. But gone was funk's tongue-in-cheek POV— replaced with an astute observation about life in South Central.

In 1989, President George H.W. Bush displayed a 3-ounce bag of crack on national TV during his very first address from the Oval Office.

“This is crack cocaine, seized a few days ago by drug enforcement agents in a park just across the street from the White House,” he said. “It’s as innocent looking as candy, but it’s turning our cities into battle zones.”

When The Chronic came out, Los Angeles had already faced a nightmarish battle with crack. In 1992, it was estimated that 90 percent of those incarcerated were Black. Federal sentencing laws equated one gram of crack to that of 100 grams of powdered cocaine. If one possessed 70 grams of crack, he/she could be sentenced to between 121-151 months, while someone with 70 grams of powder would receive between 21-27 months.

The Chronic doesn't dismiss the grim realities, it leans into them. In many ways, it plays out how auteurs like Martin Scorsese and Quentin Tarantino have chosen to depict violence on screen using a concept called "soundtrack dissonance" in which brutal acts are coated with feel-good music. Funkadelic, Donny Hathaway, George Clinton, and Leon Haywood — all of who pre-dated the crack boom in the country — invite the listener in, only to have Dre, Snoop, Kurupt, Lady of Rage, and Daz hold them hostage.

30 years later, the Hip-Hop landscape has changed. The exploratory look at the criminal underbelly and the ills of society sounds and feels like an MC is pulling back the carpet. Not surprisingly, fans of the so-called "Golden Age" don't understand drill music. One can't help but think how it may have been received had it been presented over "Funky Worm."