Exiled Records

Reviews:

"In Virginia, we smirked at the Simpson trial/ Yeah, I guess the chasewas wild/ But what's the fuss about?/ See, plenty my partners feeling likeO.J./ Feeling like murder is OK." Unrepentant and too laid-back to botherbeing proud of it, Virginia Beach duo Clipse—Pusha-T and Malice—soundless like they're trying to sell "street realism"-as-bill-of-goodsthan like they're almost completely resigned to it. Thing is, they comeup with more (and more clever) variations on the subject of the criminal mindsetthan anyone has in years. They're cold bastards, but they're so damngood at it you can't help but marvel. And their delivery is so cuttingthat they're completely convincing—you might not like the cad dismissinghis mistress to his wife on "Ma, I Don't Love Her" (he throwsaway the line, "Well, at least tonight," like an empty chamber expectoratinga shell), but he makes his position remarkably explicit. (They also give cameotime to the owner of the best gangsta rap name in years: Roscoe P. Goldchain.)

Then there is the matter of production: namely, the Neptunes have never madean album (under their name or anybody else's) that just doesn't quitthe way this one does. "Grindin'" appears three times, none ofwhich feel redundant. The grunting sax of "Young Boy" snaps necks,while Neptune Pharrell Williams' hoarse falsetto seals the deal like acolor-coded Ziplock. "Comedy Central" flips a tick-tocking break undera groaning wah-wah guitar: a lean, mean, grindin' machine that matchesthe rhymes every step of the way.