The November, 1993 release of Wu-Tang Clan’s Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) transported listeners into a discordant world of martial arts samples, Five Percenter knowledge, and street tales, all while unveiling the greatest concentration of talent hip-hop had ever witnessed. Ol’ Dirty Bastard, a founding Wu-Tang member, was unlike the rest of his comrades. Dirty, who adopted the “righteous name” Ason Unique after joining the Nation of Islam offshoot sect, the Nation of Gods and Earths, and referred to himself as such on Wu-Tang’s debut single, “Protect Ya Neck,” was A Son Unique, indeed. His style, an idiosyncratic blend of raunch, humor, and skill (yes, skill), was unprecedented in hip-hop. Where ODB’s gonzo technique and self-destructive public persona were largely thought of as novelty during his career, they would’ve translated into something else entirely in today’s landscape: superstardom.

ODB played his position as a chess piece throughout Enter the Wu-Tang, punctuating songs with his off-kilter approach, but he was quick to establish himself as a solo artist following the album’s critical acclaim. 1995’s Return to the 36 Chambers: The Dirty Version, brought levity to Wu-Tang’s arcane universe through ODB’s free-form, kaleidoscopic method. His “fatherless style” defined his existence: Woozy sexcapade anecdotes like “Don’t U Know” showed his knack for vulgarity, evoking memories of the infamously lewd performer Blowfly and comedian Rudy Ray Moore. Still, his charisma shone through in his animated cadence, playfully gross lyrics like “I keep my breath smellin’ like shit so I can get funky,” and numerous interviews. Much to the world’s amusement and, tragically, his own detriment, ODB dominated the news cycle before “going viral” entered the lexicon. His erratic behavior was never a display of petulance, though, he was just comfortably shameless in an industry unconcerned with the wellbeing of the damaged souls it enables for profit. In 2018, that machine would devour his every move even faster.

Ol’ Dirty Bastard on the set of the “Shimmy Shimmy Ya” music video in 1995. Photo by Al Pereira/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images. Al Pereira

If ODB, who died of a drug overdose in November 2004, two days before his 36th birthday, were 24 and alive today, he’d be hip-hop’s most transparent display of impulse: a constant topic of conversation. His songs—in which he declared himself a one-man army, played drunken Casanova, and urged the FBI not to keep tabs on him—would climb the Billboard and Spotify charts, their ascent driven by his exploits. Imagine the real-time reactions, comical hashtags, and resulting memes had his 1998 Grammy speech, where he proclaimed that Wu-Tang was for the children after abruptly taking the stage, happened today. He could make songs as dissonant as “Raw Hide,” or adjust his form for huge R&B remixes like SWV’s “Anything” and Mariah Carey’s “Fantasy.” Add that to the list of reasons why he’d be recognized as the King of New York—a bonafide star. “O.D.B. burned hot in a world where stars are supposed to stay cool,” Kelefa Sanneh wrote in the New York Times following Dirty’s death. His madcap flair, stoked by 2018’s thirst for spectacle and mainstream music’s broadened palate, would push him beyond the realm of cult hero and onto the front line under today’s ever-ready spotlight.

Experimentalism was not only one of ODB’s strongest qualities, but the one best suitable for the current music landscape. He may not have met the staunchest purist’s criteria for what constitutes a “good rapper,” but that notion is subjective. ODB made music by coloring outside the lines. This would serve him perfectly now, as hip-hop’s tolerance for the baroque is so high that things once considered radical, weird, or flat-out unacceptable now prevail. Where artists like Young Thug and Key! are notable for their aversion to typical verse and song structure and the strategic-but-natural use of ad-libs, ODB mastered all of the above back in the ’90s—and with unmistakable, foul-mouthed charm. “Brooklyn Zoo” features an intro of shit talk, an extended stream-of-consciousness verse, and a hook that functions as an outro. Meanwhile, “Cuttin Headz” is a hookless display of his and RZA’s chemistry. He had an abstract process for making songs as well, something Pras testified to when he revealed that ODB recorded his ad-libs on “Ghetto Superstar (That Is What You Are)” first and his actual verse, which he freestyled, last. “On the fourth track, it was everything you hear currently, right now,” he explained on the Drink Champs podcast earlier this year. “So he did it backwards.” (The buried lede here is that ODB only appeared on the song in the first place because he stumbled into the wrong studio.)

ODB also grasped the value of inflection; that it isn’t just what you say, but how you say it. Take “Shimmy Shimmy Ya,” for example. He emphasizes the end of the opening bars (“Shimmy shimmy ya, shimmy yam, shimmy yay/Gimme the mic so I can take it away”), breaks out into song (“For any MC in any 52 states/I get psycho killllaaaaa, Norman Bates”), then caps the verse by blending the emphatic rhyme scheme and his singing voice (“My producer slam, my flow is like, blam!/Jump on stage and then I dip dowwwwn”). Although he sang poorly, he did so to great effect. ODB could deliver throaty renditions of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” mid-song or vocalize the “Sanford and Son” theme without offending the ears. He could cover Rick James and Billie Holiday or belt out vocals with a little bit of creative direction, as he did on "Pop Shit" thanks to Pharrell’s guidance. This ability would adapt well in modern hip-hop, where there’s a premium on versatility because it creates a more engaging listen. And for better or worse, there’s no denying that ODB, in all of his outrageousness, was entertaining.