The Chronic - Dr. Dre | 50 Albums in 50 Years | Blown Away by The Chronic—Before I Even Knew What That Meant

 "Bow wow wow yippie yo yippie yay, doggie dogg is in the mutherfuckin house."

Spring, 1993. I was 17 years old, a junior in high school in Marion, Iowa, a quiet but growing town in the Cedar Rapids metro area. Back then, life didn’t feel simple or predictable—far from it. My musical world reflected the tension I felt inside: 75% Pearl Jam and the Seattle grunge sound, and the rest filled out by whatever was cycling through MTV. Hip hop? It wasn’t really on my radar. Sure, I liked the Beastie Boys, but I wasn’t seeking out the genre, and I certainly didn’t know much about NWA or the rising solo acts connected to them.

Then my friend Chad came back from spring break.

Somewhere on his trip, Chad had discovered The Chronic. I don’t know exactly where or how he found it, but when he got back to Marion, he shared it with me. I had no idea what I was about to hear. But as soon as the first notes hit, my musical world started to shift.

I don’t know exactly what struck me first—the lush, hypnotic G-funk sound or the raw, unfiltered storytelling. Maybe it was both at once, hitting me from different angles. Dr. Dre’s production was unlike anything I’d heard before: smooth, melodic, and immersive, built on deep basslines, shimmering synths, and grooves that felt both laid-back and heavy. It had an undeniable funk to it, an energy that felt miles away from the raw angst of grunge. And yet, in a strange way, it also felt familiar. I grew up with my mom’s disco records and my dad’s Motown favorites playing in the background, and The Chronic felt like it shared some of that DNA. The rhythms, the grooves, the way it made you move—it wasn’t abrasive or harsh. It was melodic, beautiful even, but it carried weight.

The language was jarring, explicit, and relentless. The Chronic didn’t hold back—it wasn’t meant to. It was aggressive, unapologetic, and bursting with a kind of directness I wasn’t used to hearing in music. Every “fuck,” every “bitch,” every violent, chaotic scene painted in the lyrics demanded attention. This wasn’t just music—it was a world being built in real time, and I was being dropped into the middle of it.

And those stories? They were a revelation.

At 17, I wasn’t sheltered, but I’d had no exposure to the specific topics Dre was addressing. The world I lived in was vastly different from the one he described. The Chronic didn’t just hint at that—it threw open the doors to an entirely different reality. Dre’s lyrics were raw and unapologetic, painting vivid pictures of life in South Central LA. Tracks like “Lil’ Ghetto Boy” and “The Day the Niggaz Took Over” were packed with unflinching accounts of poverty, gang violence, and systemic racism.

I couldn’t relate to the specifics of what Dre was describing—I didn’t know that world. But I connected to the tone. There was chaos in those songs, a sense of conflict and tension that mirrored what I was feeling in my own life at the time. My world may not have involved the streets of LA, but it was far from calm. There was plenty of turmoil in my own home and my own head, and in some way, The Chronic felt like it was speaking to that. It was raw, heavy, and unapologetic—exactly what I needed to hear, even if I didn’t realize it at the time.

And cutting through all that chaos was this voice, smooth and magnetic, like nothing I’d ever heard before. That voice belonged to Snoop Dogg.

Snoop was effortless. His flow, his charisma, the way he seemed to glide over Dre’s beats—it was unforgettable. On tracks like “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang” and “Dre Day,” Snoop brought a laid-back swagger that perfectly balanced Dre’s sharp, commanding energy. He wasn’t just rapping—he was storytelling, drawing you in with this cool confidence that made everything sound both natural and essential.

Hearing Snoop for the first time was like discovering a voice that would never leave my life. Over the years, Snoop has become a constant presence, whether through his solo albums, his movie appearances, or just his larger-than-life personality. To this day, he remains as cool and relevant as ever, and every time I hear him, I’m taken back to that spring in 1993, when he and Dre first introduced me to a world far outside Marion.

And then, in 2017, I saw Snoop at The Fillmore in San Francisco. I remember the distinct feeling of being exactly where I should be in that moment. The whole room was moving—everybody dancing and swaying, singing along to the songs that had been a part of my life for decades. It felt like home. That show was amazing, not just because Snoop still had that effortless charisma, but because it reminded me how deeply this music had embedded itself in my life. From that first time hearing The Chronic in a car in Iowa to standing in a packed, legendary venue in San Francisco, surrounded by people all feeling that same joy, it was proof that some connections never fade. See my Best Song Ever on Who Am I (What’s My Name)?

And then there was marijuana.

At 17, I had no connection to it. It wasn’t part of my life, my social circle, or even my imagination. But The Chronic made it impossible to ignore. With a marijuana leaf on the cover and its very title referring to high-quality weed, the album pulled no punches in embracing its identity.

Dre and Snoop didn’t just rap about marijuana—they built an entire vibe around it. The laid-back, hypnotic energy of the G-funk sound felt inseparable from the themes of getting high. Even though I didn’t fully understand it at the time, I couldn’t help but be drawn to the cool, relaxed confidence they exuded. They weren’t trying to sell me on it—they were just making it clear that it was a fundamental part of the world they were sharing.

What I didn’t know back then was how deeply ingrained cannabis would eventually become in my own life. Decades later, I would find myself living in California, immersed in a culture where cannabis wasn’t just a part of the conversation—it was the conversation. Whether it was through work, friendships, or simply being part of a state that embraced it, I’d develop a far deeper understanding of the plant and the community surrounding it. Listening to The Chronic now, with that perspective, I can see how foundational it was—not just to hip hop, but to how cannabis came to be viewed as a cultural force.

Looking back, I realize how much of The Chronic went over my head at the time. I didn’t catch all the slang, the deeper cultural references, or even some of the broader social and political themes embedded in the album. But none of that mattered. The music was so compelling, the storytelling so vivid, that I didn’t need to grasp every detail to feel its impact.

All these years later, The Chronic still pulls me back. Dre’s production still sounds immaculate, Snoop’s voice still makes me smile, and every time I hear those songs, I’m right back in 1993, sitting in a car, hearing a whole new world unfold through the speakers. Before that, music wasn’t just something I listened to—it was core to who I was. My identity was wrapped up in my Pearl Jam fandom, in the Seattle sound, in the emotional weight of grunge. But The Chronic forced me to see music differently. It wasn’t just about finding myself in the songs—it was about stepping into someone else’s world.