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The Queens mixtape king who survived being shot nine times, got signed by Eminem and Dr. Dre, and turned his bulletproof origin story into one of the biggest rap debuts of the decade. For a few years in the mid-2000s, 'In da Club' and 'Get Rich or Die Tryin'' were everywhere, and 50 Cent was the most bankable name in hip-hop.
Eminem's semi-autobiographical 2002 drama, following a broke Detroit kid chasing rap glory from a trailer park to the battle stage. Its climactic freestyle showdown and the Oscar-winning anthem "Lose Yourself" made it far more than a vanity project.
"Oh, my God, Becky — look at her butt." Sir Mix-a-Lot's anthem to big butts spent five weeks at number one, got briefly banned by MTV, won a Grammy, and never once left the party playlist.
The Fresh Prince goes solo — and takes over the planet. 'Gettin' Jiggy Wit It,' 'Miami,' 'Just the Two of Us': radio-owning, profanity-free hip-hop from the guy who was simultaneously the biggest movie star alive. Nineteen ninety-eight belonged to Will.
The goofy hip-hop anthem that existed in two versions simultaneously — and somehow that made it more legendary. Eminem and his Detroit crew D12 dropped a track so unapologetically silly that radio stations invented an entirely different song around it, and nobody minded.
Tongue clicks, a skeletal beat, and total confidence. The Neptunes stripped hip-hop down to almost nothing in 2004, and it became the biggest rap song of the decade — and, incredibly, Snoop Dogg's first #1 ever.
Marshall Mathers from Detroit, a white rapper in a Black art form, exploded into stardom with shock-rap alter ego Slim Shady and relentless rhymes. The blond buzzcut, unapologetic controversy, Dr. Dre mentorship, and hits like 'Stan' and 'The Real Slim Shady' made him the biggest and most polarizing star in music during the early 2000s.
Lauryn Hill, Wyclef Jean, and Pras turned a 1973 soul classic into a hip-hop anthem and reminded the world that cover songs could dominate the charts. The Fugees' second album was one of the best-selling hip-hop albums ever — and also, mysteriously, their last.
![Video thumbnail — Coolio - Gangsta's Paradise (feat. L.V.) [Official Music Video]](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/fPO76Jlnz6c/maxresdefault.jpg)
The rare rap song that made parents and teenagers converge on the same chorus, and the moment gangsta rap genuinely crossed over into the mainstream. Coolio's dead-serious delivery over a gospel choir and an interpolation of Stevie Wonder proved that the genre had gone everywhere.
50 Cent's explosive 2003 debut album, released on Eminem's and Dr. Dre's labels (Shady/Aftermath/Interscope), became one of the best-selling albums of the era. Anchored by massive hits like "In da Club," "21 Questions," and "P.I.M.P.," the album announced 50 Cent as a superstar and defined early 2000s rap radio. His backstory — surviving being shot nine times — became central to his larger-than-life persona.
Removable gold and diamond teeth went from Southern hip-hop signature to national obsession, and for a couple of years the shiniest thing at the mall kiosk was dental. Nelly put the moment on wax — "Grillz" hit number one — and every yearbook from 2006 has at least one kid flashing a mouthful of metal.
Stop, collaborate and listen: the B-side nobody wanted became the first hip-hop single ever to top the Billboard Hot 100. Vanilla Ice rode the "Under Pressure" bassline to the top of the charts — without crediting Queen or David Bowie, sparking one of music's landmark copyright fights.
Rick Rubin stripped Jay-Z down to bare guitar and cowbell, and the Marcy Projects kid recited a real 1994 traffic stop so precisely that a law professor later published a journal article dissecting it. "99 Problems" was endlessly quotable, taught in law schools, and inescapable in 2004—the sound of Jay-Z staging his own exit.
Timbaland looped a flute line from a 1957 Egyptian melody, Houston's UGK traded verses with Jay-Z, and the result was the yacht-party anthem of 2000. The song was iconic enough to fuel a decade-long copyright fight—and brash enough that Jay-Z himself later disowned the lyrics in the Wall Street Journal.
Jay-Z's breakthrough single samples the orphans' chorus from Broadway's Annie, turning the hardest block-level rap into a stadium singalong. The song that taught America—and taught Broadway—that hip-hop didn't need permission to reinvent itself. A masterclass in audacity that cleared the charts and rewrote the rules.
An in-house producer known for chopping soul samples into "chipmunk soul" beats insists he's also a rapper. Nobody buys it. Then he nearly dies in a car crash, records a single about it with his jaw wired shut, and delivers one of the defining debuts in hip-hop history.
Two Atlanta kids in backwards clothes spent eight weeks at No. 1 with "Jump" — at 13, charting at an age no hip-hop group had matched. For one glorious stretch of 1992, half the playgrounds in America turned their jeans around.
Crunk's king — jeweled goblet, dark shades, dreads, and a three-word vocabulary delivered at maximum volume. Jonathan Smith came up through Atlanta's rap scene and spent the mid-2000s making the loudest, most fun records on the radio. He didn't just ride the decade; he supplied its energy.
Parachute pants, nonstop choreography, and a chart run nobody could touch: in 1990 MC Hammer turned Oakland showmanship into the first diamond-certified hip-hop album and a one-man merchandise empire — dolls, lunchboxes, his own Saturday-morning cartoon. By 1996 the fortune was gone, but the silhouette of those pants is stamped on the decade forever.
A Houston rapper who said his own name until you couldn't forget it — "Who? Mike Jones!" — then gave out his real cell number and actually answered when you called. Before social media, Mike Jones WAS the direct line.
DMX's signature moment wasn't supposed to happen. A 19-year-old producer's first beat sale, nearly rejected by the star himself for sounding "too rock 'n' roll," became one of the most iconic hooks of its era—all "stop, drop, shut 'em down, open up shop" and dirt-bike imagery.
Three women put frank, funny, sex-positive talk on pop radio at the height of the AIDS crisis, daring stations to blink and winning with a wink. Salt-N-Pepa turned consent and pleasure into a chart singalong—and later spun the same beat into an act of public health, rewriting the verse to preach AIDS prevention.
A 7'1" force of nature who refused to stay on the court. Nineties Shaq dunked on the NBA, went platinum as a rapper, starred in a fighting game, and played a genie in Kazaam — the decade's most cheerfully unstoppable multimedia franchise disguised as a center.
![Video thumbnail — Dr Dre - Nuthin' But A "G" Thang [Official Music Video]](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/8GliyDgAGQI/hqdefault.jpg)
Dr. Dre's solo debut, released December 15, 1992, defined G-funk—whining synth leads over deep bass and laid-back drawl—and introduced Snoop Doggy Dogg to the world as the breakout star. The Chronic went multi-platinum, won a Grammy, hit #2 on the Hot 100 with 'Nuthin' but a 'G' Thang,' and reshaped the sound of hip-hop radio for the rest of the decade.
A modest 2002 soundtrack cut that became a cultural explosion thirteen years later when Deadpool hijacked it for its entire identity. For one generation it's a 2003 film track; for another, it's the Deadpool song—DMX's snarl reborn for audiences who weren't born for the original run.