Lots of mainstream rap's merit can be based on how well the rappers can make tired topics seem new again.
So it's surprising that Hell Hath No Fury, the sophomore effort by the Clipse, seems fresh even though it's incredibly uniform in both the sonics and the lyrics.
Listen to most any track on Hell Hath No Fury, and you know more or less what you're getting into with the album. The Clipse's production partners (and the guys who discovered them), the Neptunes, provide their signature tense, sparse beats. There's lots of rapping about dealing coke, getting rich and enjoying the spoils.
In fact, the lyrics couldn't be more coke-addled: "keys" (as in "kilos") is the rhyme of choice that the duo resorts to, almost too much (it leads to particularly painful pun on Alicia Keys).
With some creativity, focus can lend an album unity. Another recent high-profile rap album, The Game's Doctor's Advocate, fails precisely because it clubs listeners over the head with boasts of fame and fortune but ignores inventiveness. But the Clipse find enough variations and nuance to keep it interesting. They question the lifestyle sometimes ("Momma I'm So Sorry") but more often revel in the perks ("Dirty Money").
The standards are as interesting as the departures, though, which is what makes the album a success. "Wamp Wamp (What It Do)" boasts: "Down to the watches, alligator strap/Six different time zones, I don't set her back." Once again, compare this to someone like the Game, who just would have said something like "I am very rich/I travel a lot and buy many watches/Women love me/Women love my watches/Look at all my watches."
Elsewhere, the rapping duo of Malice and Pusha T slam other rappers ("Choke on your own spit just as soon as you mention us,") make wisecracks about drug dealing ("The news called it crack; I called it Diet Coke,") and express regret ("Momma, I'm so sorry/I'm so obnoxious/My only accomplice/My conscience") with equal ease. It gets a bit out of hand sometimes -- I'd hardly call either of them the "young black Socrates" -- but more lines hit the mark than miss.
The inspiration of rapping is matched by the production, which is kind of a return to form for the Neptunes after a dry spell.
Most tracks are simple synth lines and beats with a few flourishes, like the accordion of "Momma, I'm So Sorry," the harp in "Ride Around Shining," or the firecrackers that open "Chinese New Year."
The music is dark and minimal, which is the perfect compliment to the drug-dealing obsessed lyrics.
The only total misstep is "Nightmares," the album's closer.
After 11 solid tracks, Pharrell unwisely steps out from behind the production booth and decides to sing.
It's one of those irritatingly wimpy R&B numbers propelled by his falsetto, a poor song that seems even worse for how out of place it is. The intent seems to be a downbeat, paranoid number, but just comes off as a flaccid crossover attempt.
Hell Hath No Fury has gotten rave reviews, including XXL's rare classic XXL rating (putting it in league with only about half a dozen other albums).
I can't help but thinking that there's some inflation coming from rap's general weakness right now.
It's a bit too complacent with the basics to be a real classic, though the craftsmanship involved still makes it very good.
And you could do a lot worse than a great production duo and a great rap duo in fine form.
Grade: B
