“Snoop Dogg’s Smooth Hip-Hop Flow: A Subtle Growl That Resonates”

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It’s past midnight on a cool Friday in September, and a photo shoot for a beer ad is breaking up. The photographer’s lights still illuminate a small parking lot in West Hollywood, Calif., which is empty save for a few Mercedes-Benzes, Jeeps and low-riders and a handful of young black men.

At the center of the group, looming over all, is the shoot’s subject, a thin, dark-skinned 6-foot-4 rapper with sunken cheeks and a razor-sharp nose.

He leans at what appears a 45-degree angle, surveying the scene around him out of the corners of his eyes. Hours ago he had turned himself in to the police on the charge of murder and was released on $1 million bail; in minutes he will return to the studio to work on his debut album, “Doggy style,” the most anticipated hip-hop album ever. His name is Snoop Doggy Dogg.

Over this past year the 22-year-old rapper has been the most ubiquitous man in hip-hop. His voice has flowed from Walkmans, DJ turntables and Jeep stereos as his face graced MTV and the cover of Rolling Stone, all thanks to his featured role on Dr. Dre’s album, “The Chronic,” which has sold more than three million copies, becoming the fifth-biggest-selling rap album.

On Tuesday, Death Row Records will release “Doggystyle,” from the man born Calvin Broadus in Long Beach, Calif., and nicknamed Snoop by his mother. The album follows the first single and video, “What’s My Name?,” and is expected to enter Billboard’s pop album chart at No. 1, a first for a debut album.

“This is the biggest buzz I’ve ever seen,” says Chris Lighty, president of Rush Management, which handles many of the top rappers. “The last time there was anything close was probably Jimi Hendrix, no, N.W.A.’s Niggaz4Life. People are going to the store asking, ‘Is it in yet? Is it in yet?’ “

Snoop’s music is gangster rap, a genre marked by rhymes that describe the violent challenges of urban living. Gangster rap is probably hip-hop’s best-known subset, but it is no more the definitive expression of hip-hop than fusion is of jazz.

Like jazz, all hip-hop may sound the same to the inexperienced ear, but beneath the posturing and booming beat lies one of pop’s most complex forms. With its collagist ethic, hip-hop pulls from all of popular culture, from old television shows to up-to-the-minute slang, to inform the rapper’s often autobiographical presentation.

But just as jazz celebrates mastery, hip-hop prizes originality: in (now dated) hip-hop parlance, the word fresh meant excellent. At the moment, “dope” means great.

There are rappers with greater rhythmic flexibility and tonal dynamism than Snoop, but where newness is the virtue, Snoop matters, because his vocal approach is, in every sense, fresh. “Snoop ain’t the dopest,” says Jermaine Dupri, the producer of the platinum-selling rap group Kris Kross, “but he’s king right now.”

Snoop’s vocal style is part of what distinguishes him: where many rappers scream, figuratively and literally, he speaks softly. Compare the treatment of the murder of a police officer in the song “Deep Cover,” from the soundtrack of the 1992 movie of that name, with that of Ice-T’s “Cop Killer.”

Both songs gained popularity in the summer of 1992, but “Deep Cover” did not provoke the controversy “Cop Killer” did because of Snoop’s subtlety: to understand “Deep Cover’s” refrain — ” ‘cuz it’s one eight seven on a undercover cop” — one has to know that in Los Angeles police terminology the number 1-8-7 means homicide.

“It’s the way you put it down,” Snoop explains. “I put it down with a twist. Everybody in the whole world knew ‘Cop Killer’ meant kill a cop. And every policeman knows the municipal code is 187, but everybody in the whole world didn’t know that.”

Soft tones mark Snoop as vocal descendent of the soul vocalists Al Green and Curtis Mayfield. His voice is a nasal tenor, especially distinct because of his Southernish twang (derived from his Mississippi-born parents and grandparents) and the considerable restraint of his delivery. It all projects the aura of a man who is ultra-cool.

“It’s a basic conversation,” Snoop says of his style. “I don’t rap, I just talk. I don’t like to get all pumped up and rap fast ’cause that ain’t me. I want to be able to relax and conversate with my people. It’s a distinction between Steven Seagal and Clint Eastwood. Seagal ain’t laid back. Eastwood is.”

Laid-back cool places Snoop in the African-American tradition of making light of personal horror. From the same emotional source from which bluesmen found the grace to understate the weight of their pain comes Snoop’s nonchalance in the middle of warring gangs and the police.

SNOOP DOGGY DOG SOUNDS even cooler when that conversation is juxtaposed against the ominous, sinister, funk-inspired music of his producer, Dr. Dre, an innovator as important in hip-hop as Quincy Jones has been in jazz. Unlike most hip-hop producers who create tracks by sampling from original sources, Dr. Dre uses a band. It’s led by T-Green, a one-time George Clinton collaborator and a longtime member of the funk band the Dramatics.

“You know how you would be real sensitive and delicate with a newborn baby,” Snoop asks. “That’s how I treat the beat when I’m rapping: like a newborn baby. Even if it’s a hard track, what I’m saying will move you, because I’m delicately putting it down.”

Rage, a female rapper who appears on “The Chronic” and “Doggystyle,” says Dr. Dre has contributed much to Snoop’s success. “I don’t know if Snoop would be as big, because Dre’s production plays a big part,” she says. “If you don’t have good beats, then you might not get as much recognition.”

While Snoop delivers rhymes delicately, the content is anything but. Growing up poor, often surrounded by violence, and having served six months in the Wayside County jail outside of Los Angeles (for cocaine possession) gave Snoop experiences upon which he draws.

“My raps are incidents where either I saw it happen to one of my close homies or I know about it from just being in the ghetto,” he says. “I can’t rap about something I don’t know. You’ll never hear me rapping about no bachelor’s degree. It’s only what I know and that’s that street life. It’s all everyday life, reality.”

It’s all reality is the most-repeated refrain in hip-hop, a proclamation of integrity in a world where it’s cool to be from the inner city with a checkered past and many lie about their background.

Hip-hop fans prefer artists who are honest, but, in fact, the argument over “realness” may be pointless: they are entertainers.

As Rakim, widely considered one of the best rappers, puts it: “You got groups that come out saying they’re killing, but in all reality, they’re just rappers.”

It is important that the rapper’s voice and stories be realistic, but must they be the author’s own? To thoughtful fans, what’s important is how credible the lyrics sound.

Here again Snoop stands out: his attention to detail makes him sound extremely credible. According to Mr. Dupri, the producer, “The details in Snoop’s writing makes people think, ‘Damn, he must’ve really seen that.’ “

For example, in Snoop’s favorite song on “The Chronic” — whose title is laden with obscenities — he describes a hot day, when, minutes after completing six months in prison, the protagonist is driven to his girlfriend’s house, bursts in brandishing a Glock pistol and finds her having sex with his cousin. He considers shooting her but does not, deeming women not worth killing.

Snoop may sound — and be — more honest than most, but that does not mean he is as tough as his gangster posture or his handlers would suggest. Snoop began rapping in the sixth grade, sang in the choir of Golgotha Trinity Baptist Church in Long Beach and graduated from Long Beach Polytechnic High School.

He maintains that he never joined a gang, though he hung out with gang members. Watching them gave Snoop his subject matter; imprisonment focused him.

“I started thinking about my life,” he says. “Do I want to keep coming back to this place, or do I want to elevate myself and make my mother proud of me?

At Wayside I listened to all the stories people told, wrote them down on my note pad and turned them into raps. That’s the first time I really started getting serious about rapping.

The older inmates would take me aside and say, ‘Youngster, you don’t need to be inside this place. God gave you some talent, and you ought to use it.’ “

The assertion that lyrics are drawn from reality is also hip-hop’s biggest excuse for not passing judgment on what it describes. Rappers routinely discuss violent and obscene situations without taking responsibility for the implications, like reporters from the street willfully lacking a world view.

Snoop contends he does take a stand against what he describes. “I feel like it’s my job to play the backup role for parents who can’t get it across to their kids,” he says.

“For little kids growing up in the ghettos, it’s easy to get into the wrong types of things, especially gangbanging and selling drugs. I’ve seen what that was like, and I don’t glorify it, but I don’t preach.

When my momma would whoop me and tell me, ‘You can’t do this,’ it made me want to go do that. I bring it to them rather than have them go find out about it for themselves.”

It takes very critical listening to hear Snoop’s implicit message. Far easier is losing oneself in his accounts of renegade days and nights. He may not intend to, or want to admit it, but Snoop adds epic gloss to his life with the skill of a Hollywood movie star.

Yet soon, all of Snoop’s talent may be overshadowed. On Aug. 25, Snoop’s bodyguard, Malik (McKinley Lee), shot a man named Philip Woldermariam twice — once in the back — from the passenger seat of the Jeep that Snoop was driving. Other details surrounding the event are in dispute. Snoop says the shooting was in self-defense and pleaded not guilty at his arraignment on Oct. 1; his next hearing is set for Nov. 30.

Back in the parking lot, Snoop speaks of his dream. “After I take care of my album,” he says, “I’m going to try to eliminate the gang violence. I’ll be on a mission for peace.”

If the trial is on his mind, it does not appear so as he speaks of the future, neglecting to note that on Aug. 25 he could not prevent the 187 that may destroy his life. “I know I have a lot of power,” Snoop says. “I know if I say, ‘Don’t kill,’ niggers won’t kill.” THE POET LAUREATE OF THE HOMIES

In the tradition of African-American subcultures dating back to slavery, rap lyrics use a constantly evolving language to divide insiders from outsiders. Here are excerpts from two of Snoop Doggy Dogg’s lyrics, with an explication.

In the song “Deep Cover,” from the soundtrack for the movie of that name, Snoop describes his meeting with undercover police officers.

“We’ll give you 20 G’s if you snitch on your homey

We’ll put you in a home and make your life plush

Oh, yeah, but ya gotta sell dope for us.”

Hmmm, let me think about it

Turn my back and grab my gat

And guess what I told him ‘fore I shot him?

If ya don’t quit, yeah,

If ya don’t stop, yeah,

I’m lettin’ my gat pop

‘Cuz it’s 1-8-7 on an undercover cop.

“Homies” — from “homeboys” — are friends; “187” means homicide. The lyrics are characteristic of the violence portrayed in Snoop’s rhymes and the precise detail of his story-telling. They also reveal the depth of the protagonist’s loyalty. He began selling drugs in an effort to escape the ghetto, but he won’t take just any exit. The scenario seems lifted from an episode of “Miami Vice.”

In “Stranded on Death Row,” on Dr. Dre’s album, “The Chronic,” Snoop depicts the attitude of inmates, gang members and the police after a gang peace treaty made following the 1992 Los Angeles riots.

And I’m still serving from my peace

To my homies doin time

In the pen and the county jail

Mobbin’ with your blues on, mad as hell

[ A line that obscenely attacks the police ] ]

And all the homies on the street is all about “Peace.”

And it’s driving the cops crazy

But ain’t nothin but a black thang, baby.

“Mobbin” means hanging out, and “blues” are inmates’ outfits. The last line is a play on the title from the album’s first single, “Nuthin’ but a G Thang,” where “G” stands for gangster. With the lyrical complexity of a poet, Snoop reports what gang members have traded their colors for: the unity of a single color, black