It's gimmicky and takes itself too seriously, but it's also got some really cool shots to go with that bass-y intro/outro and, you know, it's edgy (note: violence, nudity, and attempts at mind-blowing).
One might say that Wale doesn't have a style all his own: he wraps his cleverness into no-pause flows that are difficult to digest. Although an exaggeration, this minor critique becomes magnified on Attention Deficit, which lacks the creative production inherent to his mixtapes 100 Miles and Runnin' (the Justice-sampling "W.A.L.E.D.A.N.C.E.") and The Mixtape About Nothing (getting his Jay-Z on with "The Freestyle (Roc Boys)").
Wale has few detractors, but it's hard to make a stink about a consistent and unspectacular album like Attention Deficit. We saw the reaction to the one album wonder Rhymefest, although Blue Collar at least felt a little risky. Wale's straightforward production (make a beat without tablas, please) is matched by casual verses that don't take enough chances.
The exceptions are twofold. The first are the songs with bite, namely the twinkly darkness of "90210" and the non-stop punchlines of opener "Trimuph." The second are the ones that nail the formula, primarily the back-to-back hits "Pretty Girls (ft. Gucci Mane)" and "World Tour." The latter half of the album could've used either/or.
Or a trim. Or some edge.
But hell, I'll take Wale over 90% of you rappers out there any day.
This poetic take on MLK Jr.'s life, courtesy of the relatively unknown and decidedly eclectic Solilliquists of Sound, reaches goosebump-inducing heights as the protagonist is given his own chance to speak.
Talk about universal acclaim. Everybody with any reasonable credentials took their place in line to suckle at the teet of Raekwon and his concept album some fourteen years in the waiting. Built for Cuban Linx...Pt.2, although not brilliant, does contain enough highlights from enough talent to make it worthy of at least a fair share of the suckling.
Raekwon is an impressive storyteller, never one to waste a line, in the vein of his accomplice and cover art partner Ghostface Killah. At his best, he feels like he's defining the rap genre, in particular two hazy, thickly woven street anthems: the endearing ODB-tribute "Ason Jones" (with an amazing beat swooped from Wale's "The Star") and the eerie calm of "Black Mozart," which also features the best guest verse on the album from Wu-Tang also-ran Inspectah Deck ("Like Friday night cruise in the coup, new Velour suit/Fruit-flavored kicks takin' flicks out in 40 deuce"). The second half is full of these urban insights Hollywood would love to steal and sell back to the masses: "Canal Street," "Ason Jones," "Have Mercy" and "10 Bricks" is a particularly strong four-song set.
Ghostface is not at the top of his game here, generally sounding lazy and immature ("I'm like Urlacher, beasting at the top of the pile/Laying niggas in the nuts, damn I'm foul)," especially his many descriptions of elicit sex acts (you can imagine your own lyrics). However, this gives Raekwon plenty of room to cover the more compelling "so detailed how could it not be true" exploits of the coke-crack dealing game, as on one of the few shorter, conceptual tracks "Pyrex Vision" ("The Pyrex is bubblin', the stove is broke, fuck it/Use the flame from the oven"). Method Man kills it as always ("House of Flying Daggers" and "New Wu").
Production-wise, check out the Elton John-sampling "Kiss the Ring" for a potential novelty that actually grows more substantive with every listen.
If you can stomach the harshness of the Wu-Tang sensibility--drugs, chauvanism and murder--there's a lot for you here. And I mean A LOT (over seventy minutes!). If not, Built for Cuban Linx...Pt.2 isn't really going to change your mind. It's definitely not the best hip hop album of 2009--that honor goes to Mos Def--but you might want to seek out a little of the best stuff here for when the cool Brooklynite cousins come to visit.
As the fourth highest scoring album all-time on the "Rotten-Tomatoes-but-for-everything" website Metacritic (dating back to 2000), and second only to Loretta Lynn's Van Lear Rose in terms of new material, Stankoniarepresents a quintessential listening experience for the new millenium.
As an introductory note, it's difficult to live up to such lofty expectations. I've listened to Brian Wilson's Smile, portions of Van Lear Rose, and Bob Dylan's Love and Theft, and cautiously hoped for brilliance. It never quite works out that way.
The four things that Stankonia has going for it are: 1) ambition (at 24 tracks, Outkast have crafted a hip hop opus of sorts, with every good idea they could muster stirred up into one giant pot); 2) talent (the pairing of Andre 3000's spacey horniness with Big Boi's earnest street credence still feels improbable and ordained); 3) a keen sense for the bizarre (this monster is straight up weird); 4) some amazing singles ("Ms. Jackson" kicks "Hey Ya" to the curb, "So Fresh, So Clean" and "Spaghetti Junction" impressively combine both style and substance, and "B.O.B." is manically epic).
This eclecticism is, however, both strength and weakness. Few learned from the greatest rap album of all time, Nas's Illmatic, a ten track-no skit gem. Stankonia's seven skits are mostly short and harmless, but generally unnecessary. Also, for every two winners ("We Love Deez Hoes" and "Humble Mumble," there's something skipable ("I'll Call B4 I Cum"). Then there's the incomprehensible, something like "Toilet Tisha," which is both refreshingly odd and decidedly inessential at the same time.
Thus, no verdict on my favorite Outkast album yet. Next up: Aquemini.
