Album
Review
Prodigy - Return Of The Mac
Alchemist Resurrects The Dead
by: Malik
Sinsear, for Entertainment
During the past few years, many a respectable rapper has quickly fallen the fuck off. But, based on the history of music, only few artists really succeed for a prolonged period of time and Hip-Hop is not at all exempt from that eventuality. So, while rappers get their hot records off to only soon realize they’ve become Nore, we have Prodigy, Queens’ finest example of how to go from top ten to not being mentioned at all.
Once upon a time P was one of the best MC’s in the game--well, maybe not one of the best, but damn near. Classic material on The Infamous and Hell On Earth catapulted him to this position and then came the H.N.I.C. album where Prod stopped rapping and began that damn “thugged out-spoken word” thing where his career began its freefall. Don’t let Jay revisionists tell you he ended it. That Summer Jam screen was just the nail in the coffin that P, himself, handcrafted. Jay was merely in the right place at the right time.
Story of his career.
Anyway, many left P for dead after his piss-poor performance on Blood Money where his partner and producer by nature, Havoc rapped circles around him. It was almost painful listening to him be a shell of his former self. You can imagine how uninspired I was to hear he was dropping another solo album. Who the hell wants to hear more Section 8 Def Poetry Ja—
GODDAMN!!!!!
I’m sure glad I decided to listen to this before I finished writing the review. This shit is like the second half of Rocky’s last fight in Rocky I-Rocky XXXXXX. Produced totally by The Alchemist, this shit is the rap equivalent of Bobby Flay cooking BBQ on Gilbert Arenas’ hibachi: FIYA! I haven’t witnessed a Jew do something of this magnitude for a brother since Rob Reiner stood up to his father-in-law, Archie Bunker on behalf of George Jefferson. Just amazing.
I really could talk all day about each song on this record, but I’ll just leave you with a few thoughts on my favorite feature on the album, The Rotten Apple, which ironically enough is far and away better than anything on Lloyd Banks’ album; the joint is so gangsta yet smooth, I could make love to my chick, blacken her eye (not that I would, but just follow me, here), then make everything alright again with a good make up fuck and I could do it all in unison with this song.
Pee better get a Soul Train Award for this. I'm not fucking joking either, Don.
