It's about time the Neptunes put out something other than pop kids and ageing divas and so the appearance of this album on the import shelves couldn't be better timed. No one else could enjoy the same level of MTV rotation with a track like 'Grindin', essentially a drum-led old school slice of hard, minimal hip-hop. It's all in a day's work for Pharrell Williams though, just a simple discussion about slipping Clipse into the Justin Timberlake video and thus giving his pals from back home Virginia the kind of exposure major label marketing executives dream about.
Props to him then for pulling it off because this is, largely, the sort of album that they needed to make. The insanely good 'When The Last Time' certainly is, anyway. A club banger of proportions only usually achieved with a guest appearance from Busta Rhymes, this boasts one of the rowdiest intros since 'Ante Up'. Elsewhere, it's inevitable that the Neptunes sound is beginning to wear a bit thin as it goes crack on the rim, dan-dan-danna-dana-danna on the bridge and bleep-bleep on the chorus. Even then it's hard to resist a Neptunes-by-numbers moment as blatant as the Faith Hill-featuring 'Ma, I Don't Love Her'.
The weakest tracks are those that expose Pharrell and Chad's classic funk obsession - thin workouts 'Young Boy' and 'Cot Damn' that aim to pay homage to the Godfather of Soul, wind up sounding like James Brown covers played by John Shuttleworth on a Bontempi organ. The best tracks are those that make those minor adjustments to the formula and keep things tight enough and simple enough to bring out the best in Clipse.
Pusha T and Malice threaten to bring something new to a US hip-hop scene dominated by the East, West, Mid-West and Dirty South. But their Virgina vibe seems largely to be a preoccupation with the culture of drug dealing not seen since Biggie served his ten crack commandments. It's hardly the psychedelic reconfiguration of an Outkast or the cultural shift of a Bubba Sparxxx. In fact, it all seems very familiar as Clipse work hard to convince us of their gansta credentials with lines that cement their hometown as a place "where there ain't shit to do but cook." Take our word for it; they're not talking about clearing the decks on a Sunday to tackle the latest Nigel Slater recipe from the Observer food supplement.
Ultimately though, no matter how loathe we ought to be admitting it by now... the Neptunes remain right on top of their game, outclassing all of their peers.
