I’m over forty, and man, I’m boring as hell. I don’t smoke, no cigs or weed. I don’t drink booze, and I don’t snort any weird stuff either. I do two kinds of sports, eat a ton of veggies and slightly fewer fruits. I hit the sack early and wake up early too. I try to be polite and say hi to the neighbors (though, let’s be honest, that doesn’t always go as planned). Once every week or two, I call my mom to check in, chat a bit, and let her know I’m alive and haven’t forgotten about her. I live in a boring neighborhood in a dull Scandinavian setup, with a little river and a forest basically on my doorstep. There’s even a church right across the street. I get hyped about spring and golden autumns. I’ve read Dostoevsky, Tolkien, and J.K. Rowling. I’ve got an awesome girlfriend who shares most of these same “faults.” In short, we’re boring. The kind of boring that makes you want to sleep all day.

And yeah, I’m pretty aware that nobody really cares. Like, what’s even interesting about a life like this? It’s definitely not the stuff of books, movies, or grungy songs—or rap tracks, for that matter. Even if, somewhere in the broader culture, you hear lines like “…and they lived happily ever after,” it’s always at the very end of a story packed with dramatic events and world-ending disasters straight out of some mindless Hollywood flick. A good story needs at least one solid plot twist, something ripped straight out of a Dickens novel. And the main character? They’ve gotta suffer, hardcore, like someone straight out of a Victor Hugo tragedy.

DMX was that kind of hero. The wild dog from Yonkers, an undeniable rap legend of the turn of the millennium, the uncrowned king of New York, and a preacher locked in a constant, inner battle between good and evil. DMX was the guy who wasn’t afraid to cry—whether on stage or in a TV studio. He was also the guy who, if you found yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, might’ve robbed you of your last dollar, all while setting a stolen pit bull on you. Honestly, if something like that ever happened to me, I’d probably straight-up lose control of both my bladder and my bowels on the spot. But hey, I’m just a broke white dude living in a quiet little country in Western Europe.

I love this man. I loved him when he was alive, and I love him just as much now that he’s gone. I love him mostly for his music, so I’m not going to dive too deep into his personal life. I won’t dissect his faith either, even though it’s a big part of his music (seriously, the level of religiosity in American rap always blows my mind). There’s already a ton of stuff out there about all that. Just type “DMX” into YouTube, and you’ll drown in it. What I’m here to talk about is his music as music, plain and simple. I’m here to talk about his debut album, the one he waited years to drop. This post is about It’s Dark and Hell Is Hot. About the album that put DMX on top of the world.