Clipse
Hell Hath No Fury

Arista 2006

By Hunter Stephenson

The type of release you cop and it instantly makes you do lines, be damned if you end up shaking your hands through your hair like ODB and reaching out to kids in a studio as you rise to the top level of paranoia and then death, critics tripped over their modem connections labeling Hell Hath No Fury a modern rap classic – sorry, make that a “coke rap” classic, seemingly fit to sit on a shelf beset with the masterpieces Illmatic, Only Built 4 Cuban Linx, Reasonable Doubt and Ready to Die, all of which were debuts.

C’mon, after that first – and inarguably intoxicating - one, subsequent listens bring to mind not only slivers of boredom but thoughts like, “these niggas haven’t and need to get shot,” “Pusha T is a ‘Miami socialite nigga’ because he goes to Prive?” and “the only peoples who can listen to this entire album and not laugh at the ridiculously serious final half are ignorant-ass semi-pro skateboarders, probably signed by Skateboard P, and indie-rock man-children who used to jock Def Jux but lowered their boners after S.A. Smash.”

Before the latter-half’s dive into ignorance (“Trill,” “Chinese New Year”), there is bliss. “Mr. Me Too” is flawlessly catchy, but the honest-to-god masterpiece here is “Ride Around Shining.” Its title and the Neptunes’ diaphanous beat beget a brilliantly minimalist, lecherous shimmer punctuated with old school break-beat kid dynamite. The production knowingly lingers with the eerie ear-ringing psychosis of a Wendy Carlos composition as Pusha T sics ‘em with the already infamous, “The black Martha Stewart / I can show you how to do this / Break down pies to pieces / Make cocaine quiches.” Grim thematic notions of verboten wealth and karma are perpetuated throughout with the lyrics “All I wanna do is ride around shining while I can afford it,” allowing Clipse’s current reality of riches and their oft-allusions to fairy tales to meet and coast on raw and believable stoicism.

Yet, it’s that latter modifier – believability – or perhaps accountability that restrains Hell Hath No Fury from being the true classic it was all too destined be after its belated holding period post Lord Willin’ and the forbidden, gourmet chum that was the We Got it For Cheap mixtapes. There is no room for debate that the Virginia Beach brothers hone a post-911 delivery that is coldly precise with a balefulness not heard since Big L got an extended life. And much of their appeal arrives from their ability to meld this lethal lyricism to a growing urge to pontificate lives of globetrotting, stunting, punching the best sticks and sipping gold-rimmed flutes of Louis Roederer. Rare is it to hear major label rap bridge the crusty coke-addled streets so vividly with the hushed, equally decadent uppercrust, such as when Malice peers out peerlessly on “Momma I’m So Sorry,” “ Feels like kissing cake mix, can't wait to lick the bowl / But it's a bigger picture / Homes, trust I done seen it / From Frankford to Cologne / Oslo to Sweden.” But there’s an omnipresent irritation with Clipse’s incessant desire to sound the most evil and cold-blooded that makes their personas vague, impersonal and too codependent on boasts that, while clever, are not unlike indie rappers who bury “you” under a litany of sabotaged historical buildings and four specific types of dirt.

On the double-entendre “Keys Open Doors,” on a beat of minimalist modern hollowness complete with a foreboding voice-of-the-heavens that would sound not out of place in a Gothic first-person shooter, Pusha unnervingly spits, “The realest shit I ever wrote / Not Pac inspired / It’s crack pot inspired, my real niggaz quote.” Malice ends the track with, “But I don’t mind spending / All it is is paper / Yes!” You start to realize that there’s no substance, no telling, on the track, only a snowballing, vehement gall and egos run so far amuck they’ve fallen off the cliff of caricature. When Nas did this it was funny, because he lost himself in that divine ghetto mysticism – dude smoked too much. Jay-Z did it all the time, but his unparalleled successes and diverse portfolio, even early on, could not be questioned, as he waited and waited for a contender. Most similar in their obsession with hell and the basest of personas are Mobb Deep in their prime, and they never went against the grain like Clipse, and when they slipped, QB's status justified it. Lil' Weezy? Cash Money's boss is fuckin' justifcation personified.

Name a classic hip hop album where you’d accept Pharrell diddying, “Bitch, I’m trill / Bitch, I’m so trill / Nigga, I’m trill / Nigga, I’m so trill” on an okay beat that sounds like the Chicago Bulls’ intro blasted under dirty bathwater. Or, what about those brain-dead mouthed gunshots on “Chinese New Year” featuring their elusive henchman Roscoe P. Coldchain? Michael Winslow, holla.

And pay Juvenile $2,000 in royalties per "Ha" for "Ain't Cha," that track is lazy plagarism.

Pick off the tasty bits like a culture vulture, a classic this is not, but that’s what you get for listening to Pitchforkers (and XXL, shame.).

This discourse of Clipse’s Hell Hath No Fury is written by Hunter Stephenson for ignore Magazine, copyright 2006.