2010 was a banner year for a particular subset of Los Angeles hip-hop. It brought the release of Nocando’s Jimmy the Lock and Open Mike Eagle’s Unapologetic Art Rap—two debuts that delivered pure auditory fun, and promised great things to come. Open Mike’s “Unapologetic” was probably the standout track of these two records. On this song, Eagle and Nocando traded hilarious verses over a propulsive, buzzing beat. On the hook, Open Mike rapped: “I won’t apologize for it/ This is not a bunch of ravings but a bunch of black man’s art,” and Nocando followed with: “I promise the status quo will never be my friend/ And I promise the way it is will never be again.” Three years later, the song still sounds like a forceful, definitive mission statement.

Open Mike Eagle followed Unapologetic Art Rap with strong records in 2011 and 2012, but the wait for Nocando’s proper sophomore LP has been more of a trial. Not to imply that James McCall has been slacking, of course—later in 2010 the Low End Theory resident dropped a release with DJ Nobody as Bomb Zombies; 2011 brought his collaboration with Busdriver as Flash Bang Grenada; and last year he gave us the free Zero Hour EP. The former battle rapper also oversees the Hellfyre Club imprint at Alpha Pup Records (which released one of this year’s highlights in Milo’s beautiful Things that Happen at Day / Night EPs), and hosts the weekly Shots Fired podcast with music scribe Jeff Weiss. All of which brings us to Tits N’ Explosions—not the long-awaited follow-up to Jimmy the Lock, but a free eleven song mixtape that Nocan put out this week.

Tits N’ Explosions begins and ends with two of the best tracks Nocando has released yet. On opener “I Guess So”, McCall spits a string of great non sequiturs over a big, driving electronic beat. On the hook, a female vocalist speak-sings: “You’ve changed baby/ You used to be cool,” and Nocando concedes (seemingly without concern): “I guess so.”

Nocando closes the tape with the title track. One might expect a fun-filled romp from a song called “Tits N’ Explosions”, but instead he’s given us a bleak, seamy tale about contentious lust and damaged romance, featuring a great back-and-forth with a female vocalist. It’s a perfect union of music and content—the beat “works itself up into a tiny fit of violence” (to borrow a phrase from the lyric) as the situation between the song’s narrator and his lover/antagonist goes to shit.

Nocando sounds sharp and driven throughout Tits N’ Explosions, and he’s backed by a strong set of productions, from the jagged 8-bit electronics of “More Credit” and “Where’s the Money?” (which was released as a single late last year) to the elegant string-sampling “Secrets” and the claustrophobically minimal “You Know”. He delivers an entirely sung (and auto-tuned) vocal on “No Romance”, and sounds pretty good doing it. “No Sweat” and “All Over A Bitch”, which were both teased online over the past few weeks, are solid bangers with a lot of grit. With “Last But Not Least”—the prettiest song on the tape, and perhaps the best track overall—Nocando has written three sketches of contemporary life (including his own), and the overwhelming weight of financial demands and self-imposed expectations for success.

Nocando is a charismatic and likable artist, and Tits N’ Explosions is another good addition to his oeuvre. It’s been fun to follow his development over the past few years—he’s broadened his range and expanded what he does as a songwriter. As we continue to wait for that second album (which should hopefully appear sometime before 2013 is out), it’s worth noting that he’s mostly lived up to that promise of three years ago, when he said “the way it is will never be again.”

3.5 out of 5 stars

3.5 out of 5

Since 2009’s Ambivalence Avenue, Bibio’s Steven Wilkinson, the British producer and songwriter behind the project, has been quietly exploring ways to introduce pop songwriting to experimental electronic production without, well, making pop music. His experiments can be quite intriguing. Listening to a Bibio album is like a drive through an adventurously curated but well laid out safari. You move between glitchy samples, live instruments, ambient electronica, and percussive power pop: at any point, you could be listening to a nostalgic instrumental piece or a segment of dense pop electronica.

2011′s Mind Bokeh, however, saw his experimentation solidify rather awkwardly, with Wilkinson experimented in sounds outside of his element. His ambient pieces were tedious and strangely one dimensional and his pop songwriting was derivative and flat. The pop psychologist in me wants to say that he had a case of the jitters; the album was eager to please, but not ready to back up its needy attitude by staying on any one promising musical path for very long. The least interesting and most annoyingly arrogant segments were the longest, and the more intriguing and subtle areas composed a small amount of the album’s broad space.

With Silver Wilkinson, Steven seems to have regained some of his artistic focus and composure, without losing any of the breadth that he is known for. Gone is the eagerness to please that soured Mind Bokeh. Wilkinson rotates this new album around a very specific mood, a sense of bittersweet nostalgia, longing, and fading memories. The ambient sections are very reminiscent of Oneohtrix Point Never’s recent work, in that they use obscured and hazy samples sparingly to coax a soft ache to the surface, a sense akin to the wonder and fear of early childhood.

The album’s more folk inspired segments are surprisingly straightforward, but in a way that allows them the maintain a full and powerful feeling, especially when bookended by more experimental musings. Wilkinson’s broad sense of songwriting even translates into this relatively limited portion of the album, with passages ranging from the heightened drama of ’70s psych-folk icons like John Martin and Roy Harper, to the soft tension and simplicity of late Nick Drake, to the strange and continental folk of Nico’s Chelsea Girl. The combination of these various adjacent sounds leads to a listen that is subtly varied and allows Bibio’s own signatures to shine through the influences.

The more hip-hop and electronic inspired portions of the album are probably its least enjoyable. Wilkinson run’s through the same kind of uninspired Dilla-mimickery (“You”) he’s done for the past few albums and, in the process, breaks the subtle and calming mood of the rest of the LP. They are, however, a minor portion of the album’s easy 51 minutes. Silver Wilkinson might not be Bibio’s most exciting release, but if you’re in the right mood, it can be perfect.

3.5 out of 5 stars

3.5 out of 5

Over-sharing on the Internet has gotten to the point where you have to block your parents on Facebook not for what you post but for what they post on the social networking site. This phenomenon of sorts has also led to there being so much new music readily available that you could have a new favorite every other week, if not every other day. So it means more than simply good PR copy that Cole Williams, better known as the Child of Lov, didn’t rush to get his product out to the world. Instead, he laid low with little more than some rough demos and a MySpace page to “promote” his music. No one knew about this guy until he was discovered—yes, that still happens—by Trey Reames, who brought together Cee-Lo Green and Danger Mouse to form Gnarls Barkley. Once Reames heard Williams and fell in love with his raspy, bluesy, soulful tunes, it was but a matter of time before the rest of the world fell in love, too.

That brings us to The Child of Lov, Williams’ self-titled debut that transcends genres and expectations. He’s clearly a student of his influences, be it J Dilla, D’Angelo, or James Brown, but he uses their combined touchstone not to replicate but innovate. He’s like a 2013 version of what we heard from Beck on Mellow Gold, a groundbreaking, albeit now overlooked, album in a vast, versatile, and consistent discography. The similarities between “Loser”-era Beck and The Child of Lov manifest themselves superficially at first, such as Williams’ penchant for layering his throaty vocals into an even raspier, just-touch-short-of-grating delivery. Compare his “Fly” to Beck’s “Soul Suckin’ Jerk”, for one.

Where the comparison to one of the finest ’90s albums (Mellow Gold) grows deeper is in the clear ode to blues, soul, and psychedelia. When Williams notes that he loves Dilla and Madlib, it’s primarily based on the former’s work with singers and the latter’s tripped-out instrumental grooves. This doesn’t completely dismiss a fondness for hip-hop, as the genre’s leading oddball, MF DOOM, makes a killer guest appearance rapping about god knows what (aka doing the DOOM) on “Owl”. Strong grooves and drums pay a huge part in the LP, too, which makes Williams’ affinity for Dilla and Madlib that much more convincing and apparent. This also becomes apparent on “One Day”, which creeps forward with a slight wobble and guest vocals from Damon Albarn. The Blur/Gorillaz frontman pinch hits on the second verse, adding his signature near-falsetto to the brooding organs and pacing percussion. “One Day” grooves, for sure, but it’s a slow, steady shuffle.

While hip-hop might play a strong role in The Child of Lov, the blues is the dominating force throughout the LP. You’ll hear touches of the greats, be it Otis Redding or John Lee Hooker, everywhere. Hell, it might even get to the point you think they’re being sampled, but it’s really just Williams. The sound and heart of the blues is at his core, even on TV On The Radio-esque jam “Warrior” or when he’s going more straightforward on hippie anthem/closer “Give It To The People”. This is the blues in 2013 by way of a guy who’s lived in London, Paris, and Amsterdam. And it’s great.

4 out of 5 stars

4 out of 5

Vampire Weekend draws ire from certain circles in part because of the ease in which they seem to navigate through the world in ways others cannot. Born of a certain age, status and skin color, there are those who resent the way the group can sonically mine Africa, name-check New York city street corners, go to an Ivy League school, all before going on holiday.

But those that only hear white college kids bellowing about Cape Cod over Soweto beats, or get hung up on words like “entitlement”, “authenticity”, and “privilege” not only seem to miss the band’s subcutaneous bliss-meets-blasé sentiment, they also miss some great music, and all the fun that goes along with it.

In 2008, the band excitedly and articulately introduced itself, and like a recent college graduate socializing with adults, 2010’s Contra perhaps overindulged and overextended, but the band’s self-proclaimed “Upper West Side Soweto” never stopped maturing. And after some 20 months of writing and recording, Modern Vampires of the City emerges in 2013, and perfectly encapsulates the blend of entitlement and ennui of its generation.

Take “Unbelievers”. It’s as catchy a song as the band has released, but beneath its veneer, the song’s chorus scratches at an existential itch familiar to anyone of a certain age. “I’m not excited, but should I be? / Is this the fate that half of the world has planned for me?” Ezra Koenig sings.

On the organ and harpsichord heavy “Don’t Lie”, Koenig wants to know, “Does it bother you? The long click of a ticking clock. There’s a lifetime right in front of you, and everyone I know.” Later in the song, the chorus is repeated but the word “lifetime” is swapped for a headstone.

Even the shiny, Souls of Mischief-inspired baroque pop of “Step” delivers devastating lines like “Wisdom’s a gift, but you’d trade it for youth/Age is an honor, it’s still not the truth.” It’s all quite remarkable growth for a band that just a few years ago was unapologetically swinging from the chandelier while their parents were out of town.

Indeed, as early as the opening track “Accidental Bicycle”, the band deals with aging and mortality. “You ought to spare your face the razor, because no one’s going to spare the time for you,” Koenig offers. It marks the first time the band gives advice to the listener, as opposed to just chronicling the affairs, a simple yet obvious mark of maturity and still-healing scar tissue.

They are also taking more risks with production, styles and sentiment. The record features piano, acoustic guitars (“Worship You”), and digitally distorted vocals. Rostam Batmanglij and versatile L.A. producer Ariel Rechtshaid (Usher’s “Climax”, Plain White T’s “Hey There Delilah”) keep the textures varied but maintain a sense of cohesiveness between the band’s first two albums. And there are uplifting and optimistic moments on the record, like the irrepressible “Diane Young”.

Ultimately, the record centers on the universal element of aging and how that affects our lives, our relationships, and pretty much everything. The album’s title comes from the opening lines of the anthemic Junior Reid joint “One Blood”. It’s a song that’s been recycled and reappropriated so frequently it’s easy to lose sight of its message of humanity and unity. You tend to think about that kind of stuff – the important stuff – when you realize time is running short, and amazingly Vampire Weekend have put that in context of a gorgeous pop record. All that other superficial shit be damned.

4.5 out of 5 stars

4.5 out of 5

It is highly doubtful that anyone has ever gone to a Jaga Jazzist show and left saying, “Gee, they could really use a fuller sound.” The veteran Norwegian genre-benders, consisting of ten (sometimes nine, sometimes eleven) multi-instrumentalists have an absolutely monstrous sonic presence, capable of both nimble intricacies and jaw-rattling power, often simultaneously. Juxtaposing ludicrously complex compostions with a playful sensibility extremely rare in their preferred genres- it’s not every day you hear a progressive jazz outfit that wants you to dance or a heavy post-rock band that’s attempting to make you smile. Their time since their last release, 2010’s badass One-Armed Bandit, has seen extensive touring (primarily in Europe, although there was an American jaunt in 2011) and high-profile collaborations with Tortoise, Field and forward-thinking UK chamber orchestra Britten Sinfonia.

It was the collaboration with Britten Sinfonia that yielded this new release, the aptly titled Live With Britten Sinfonia. The 25-piece chamber orchestra makes their presence known (as if anyone could realistically fail to notice a 25-piece chamber orchestra) immediately, serving up a five-minute cadenza of swelling strings and decidedly polite woodwinds on opening track “One-Armed Bandit” before the Jaga fellows bring in the song’s propulsive bass clarinet intro. After an impossibly dramatic, drawn-out build, the vibraphones and Martin Horntveth’s brawny drumming come in, with screaming Zappa-esque guitars to follow and the fifteen-minute workout justifies itself quite nicely. Not for instant-gratification oriented listener, much of the album is dependent on soft-loud dynamics (be careful, I nearly drove off the road the first time the synth line in “Prungen” hit) and extremely gradual explorations of tension.

As one might expect from a literal epic performance by thirty-five legitimate virtuosos playing symphonic progressive-jazz post-rock, there are a couple places where things get a touch overblown and self-important- the first part of “Bananfleur Overalt” takes just a touch too long to develop into the main theme (though the screaming, overdriven guitars and Horntveth’s jaw-dropping drum & bass rhythms once the song ‘gets there’ are more than reward enough) and this arrangement of “For All You Happy People”, beautifully minimal on 2005’s What We Must, comes out a trifle overwrought with the extra twenty-five cooks in the kitchen. “Music! Dance! Drama!”, however, delivers on all three promises with heavily fuzzed guitars and glitchy psychedelic elements. “Oslo Skyline” is the album’s most successful track, a sprawling post-rock magnum opus that judiciously uses the orchestra as an accent to Jaga Jazzist’s already powerful sound, cresting into a gorgeous (though deafening) peak that ends up literally breathtaking. Seriously- you have trouble breathing. That’s how good “Oslo Skyline” is. Occasional (and minor) overindulgences aside, Live With Britten Sinfonia is a great live album, matching a world-class, spectacularly flexible chamber orchestra with the smartest, strangest, meanest Viking horde of post-rock prog-jazz big-band free-thinkers currently operating in Scandinavia.

3.5 out of 5 stars

3.5 out of 5

Prisoner of Conscious features Talib Kweli collaborating with Curren$y and Nelly, two thematically Southern rappers that most fans would never vision the Brooklyn MC trading verses with. But this is the man, however, that was willing to collab with Gucci Mane on 2010’s “Poltergeist”, a record so syrupy that backpackers still retaliated, even despite his stellar verse.

It may suffice to say that Kweli deeply loves hip hop, and his prolific work ethic coupled with constant group effort is a mere extension of that. Some of his best work has been the product of that: fourteen years ago Black Star, the group consisting of him and Mos Def, released an album that still stands as the best example of black intellectualism and social haranguing on a cool beat; Kweli’s work under the project Reflection Eternal has always been just as fresh and lucid as the jazzy production from producer Hi-Tek (even for Jay Electronica), and 2011’s delectable Habit of The Heart, the first LP from his alt-funk project Idle Warship with singer Res, is his Electric Circus, his Rebirth, except that it went largely unnoticed and positively displayed his artistic growth.

On his own, though, Kweli can be burdened by his own impressive qualities. A propulsive lyricist backed by an erudite mind, his rolling, meter-defying verses give commercial rappers a run for their money all the while urging that they use it on something more permanent than a bar tab. Kweli’s music empowers the people, but sometimes hearing bar after bar after bar after bar becomes monotonous, and he’s not the best hook writer; “Get By” is a great exception.

But it still comes as a surprise that Prisoners of Conscious, Kweli’s fifth solo album, feels lyrically similar to his previous projects, rife with lukewarm guest features and a musical base that’s ambitiously testing new waters but ends up uneven rather than spontaneous. It’s not an ostensibly bad offering, but in an era where non-commercial rap gets enough youthful vigor to be played on the radio (good kid, m.A.A.d city) and has the “passion like Pac in a body like Biggie” (R.A.P. Music), it’s hard to listen to a project that’s been under wraps since 2007 without expecting something truly refreshing.

What keeps things rolling, Kweli’s unwavering spirit for culture, does make the listen worthwhile. It’s a spirit that he had as a child, being raised by two college professors in Brooklyn’s Slope Park and skipping class to rap in every lunch period, as he tells Aisha Tyler on her podcast, “Girl on Guy”. On the album single “Push Thru”, when Curren$y drops another languid rap about performing to ride in Audi’s, Talib envisions his music “fighting for freedom like the people in Tunisia,” a strong simile given with no pretense. The same applies to “Turnt Up”, a liberal borrowing from Eric B. & Rakim’s iconic “Paid in Full”, complete with the quaking breakbeat and the opening ad-libs. If not for his wishful words and: “I’m from brooklyn where the heat is the size of two liters/I ain’t asking for some followers I’m looking for new leaders,” the confusingly sad melody would prove the song’s name false.

And it’s in that regard that the album feels incomplete. Kweli constantly finds himself held back by a bad hook (“Delicate Flowers”), a worn-out topic (“Hamster Wheel”), or even a saccharine beat (“Human Mic”). The least successful track, “Favela Love”, is perhaps the most involved as Kweli actually flew to Sao Paulo to produce the song, but is still marred by Seu Jorge’s lethargic, mumbly singing, Kweli’s instantly predictable Cinderella-in-Brazil story, and a beat that skirts the lovely bossa nova guitar at the end for woozy synths. With the large exclusion of the solid RZA-assisted “Rocket Ships” and “Highlife”, an effortlessly funky track featuring South African rappers Rubix Cube and Bajah tag-teaming bars over Oh No’s horn-heavy highlife sampling, much of Prisoner of Conscious is a hit-or-miss affair.

However taxing the five-year process, it was not as cohesive a finish since Kweli ends up overcompensating, even on beautifully landscaped “Come Here”, which provides a sumptuous background for lovey-doveyness but he still ends up double-timing rhymes and sounding too uptight. And then there’s “Before He Walked”, which features Nelly pulling out his Louisville sing-rap gimmick that sadly feels corny alongside Talib’s “beating up the track with brutal honesty.” The urge to place his usual palette of rhymes on a different canva is felt, but more often than ends up feeling eerily familiar or uncomfortably jutting out among his benefactors, a la “Poltergeist.”

“It’s about growth. We have to grow,” says on voice on the album opener. Talib Kweli truly believes and strives to accomplish this every step of the way, but the result of that labor is not as fruitful as it could have been. After all, it’s sad that the most abrupt quotable sharply describes Prisoner’s main problem, and from Kendrick Lamar, no less: “When I rolled them dice, I crapped.”

3 out of 5 stars

3 out of 5

Jaw Jam has been making waves in the electronic world ever since his debut EP came out through Live for the Funk’s Our Sounds series, with listeners becoming infatuated with his signature chopped-up, R&B-inspired, boom-bap stylings, but that doesn’t aptly cover it. To be honest, that doesn’t cover it at all. There’s no way to pin down Will DiMaggio’s abstract sound, and one listen through his latest five-track effort will have you begging linguists to create new verbiage to describe what you’ve just listened to.

Aberdeen, Scotland’s Tuff Wax Records has been gaining a lot of clout in the electronic scene with a myriad of releases, both digital and physical, ranging from free releases to the “Aberdeen Truth” 7-inch vinyl series, pleasing fans of the new and old ages alike. But something in the Tuff Wax regime changed when label head Lockah decided to put out the first 12-incher on the imprint; he was smart, he knew only the best would suffice for the first major vinyl release.

Who better to fill that role than Jaw Jam? Complex basslines, obtuse vocal chops, and infectious rhythms litter the three original tracks that make up the full 12″ record. But I’ll admit, after a full listen, the same style can get a bit tiresome, so Lockah threw down a remix of “The Truth” that is dance floor ready. Fellow Aberdonian talent Yoin contributed his part as well, remixing “The Truth” in a darker and more easy going/downtempo fashion.

This EP really does have everything, three strong original tracks from Jaw Jam, along with two remixes that, while completely different, round out the project in a great way. He had to hop across the pond to do it, but Jaw Jam has found a great home to house “The Truth” and  the complemental tracks in Tuff Wax.

You can grab the beautiful vinyl, which comes with a complete digital download, here.

4 out of 5 stars

4 out of 5

Legends Never Die might only be R.A. The Rugged Man’s second studio album, (a follow-up to his 2004 debut Die, Rugged Man, Die), but heads know who he is. Even if the output hasn’t been his own, over the years he’s continually shown up to provide other rapper’s tracks with a shot of hulking aggression or grimy wit.

One reason that his profile isn’t higher is that those that he has helped out have largely been from within if not his circle then certainly his region of the sonic world, acts like Jedi Mind Tricks, Ruste Juxx and Mobb Deep, i.e. acts that thoroughly represent the old school East Coast gullyness that he has become part of the DNA of. This is hardly surprising, though; barely a few seconds into Legends Never Die, R.A. is ragging on mainstream music and the pop world, and the record is full to bursting with references to his realness and the superiority it affords him. As such, he is not only at odds with commercial music, but also the burgeoning Beast Coast movement that has caught much of the limelight shining on his hometown lately; there is little to no spirituality here, almost no joyful mention of drugs, and no real experimentation. Instead, the Rugged Man decides to carry on tradition, continuing with his signature aggressive style and placing himself effortlessly and purposefully in the same bracket as MCs like Vinnie Paz and Blaq Poet.

If that understandably sets a few alarm bells ringing, there are a couple of things you should know about R.A. before you judge him. First off, he has an admittedly gross but nevertheless gregarious humor that shows itself frequently and often dominates whole songs at a time. It’s an important facet of the record given how many modern day old school minded NY MCs seem to consciously jettison wit in favour of pure bland and reactionary aggression. Over the course of Legends Never Die, Rugged Man claims to “drink wine with Jesus ‘til I’m in a drunken stupor/ Then slap box God and sumo wrestle with Bhuda”, commands you to suck his balls and gargle his piss, and talks of taking a shit on your floor and your car’s dashboard. Like I said, a little gross, and hardly what you’d call subtle, but these frequent moments are a good reminder of how a through and through street hip-hop album doesn’t have to be dour and can still be fun without really sacrificing any of its grit, (as long as you’re into that kind of thing).

The second thing that allows R.A. to leap frog most of his self-imposed competition is his ability; on a technical level, he is a rapper of truly gargantuan skill. This is, remember, a dude who was co-signed by and collaborated with Biggie himself, (on a song entitled “Cunt Renaissance”, no less). He mostly sticks to an at times absurdly rapid fire machine gun flow, and he’s had it down to an art for some time. Moments like the opening few bars of “Bang Boogie” represent this the best, in which a slow, drunken sway of horns is laid to waste by stacked up syllables that at first sound like they shouldn’t fit at all, but somehow totally do.

It’s also remarkable how he manages to maintain a base level of wordiness amidst the rhythmic intricacies of his rapping style; and make no mistake, he does get wordy. He might have that devilish humor, but he still manages to wax political, rattle off inventive threats, and even devote one heartfelt song to the fascinating story of and his close relationship to his recently deceased Vietnam vet father.

Naturally, (being his own record), R.A. himself is the main draw here, and it’s extremely unlikely that the beats will impress anyone nearly as much as the bars. Some of them are great, (the anarchic stomp of “Holla-Loo-Yuh”, the choir-meets-boom-bap of early standout “The People’s Champ”, the snatches of beat-box on “Tom Thum”), some decent, (“Shoot Me In The Head”), some turgid and dull, (the overly sombre Talib Kweli collab “Learn Truth”), but almost entirely unsurprising. When it is, results vary; “Definition of A Rap Flow” is a satisfyingly accurate pastiche of early ’90s Native Tongue style rap, but “Legends Never Die (Daddy’s Halo)” is mired by Disney-like acoustic guitar fuckery. This record isn’t built to surprise, though; it’s built to make people laugh, scowl, and marvel at a man indulging in an impressive adeptness at a particular skill. It offers nothing new, but it’s unequivocally a great hardcore rap record. If that happens to be your thing, you could hardly do better. If it’s not, R.A. would probably tell you that he wasn’t trying to speak to you anyway.

3.5 out of 5 stars

3.5 out of 5

The news of new Quasimoto material sent the internet into a tizzy just a few weeks ago. All it took was the single photo of a test pressing with “Quasimoto – Yessir Whatever” written on it to spark rumors of a full album coming from Madlib’s best alter-ego. But looking back, why wouldn’t it? Yeah, Madlib has a discography large enough to crush entire record labels, plus with the exhaustive Medicine Show series it’s not like there has been a lack of creative output from him recently. The excitement for this new material stems solely from how large of an impact his work as Quasimoto about a decade ago really had on hip-hop listeners.

Things progressed and it turned out that Yessir Whatever wasn’t the next full studio album, instead a twelve track collection of rarities and unreleased tracks. It’s hard to not get disappointed when the news of an album fell flat, but at the same time it’s just as easy to forget that feeling when Madlib’s collection of loosies is still one of the best hip-hop releases of the year

If The Unseen is the fully formed Quasimoto narrative, Yessir Whatever is like looking at scrapped pieces from the storyboard. A few of these tracks, including “Broad Factor” and cuts from the Astronaut EP, existed pressings before this release, but collected alongside others help to create a fascinating look inside one of hip-hop’s most creative minds.

Maybe it’s that nostalgic rush from the extra crisp drums on “Catchin’ The Vibe”, or maybe it’s that sample flip on ”Astronaut”. Then again maybe it’s the way your head involuntarily nods on “Am I Confused”. Somewhere along the line though it becomes clear that even out of the larger Quasimoto narrative, most, if not all of these tracks are fantastic. Even though technically a compilation, especially one containing material from over a 12-year period, it falls together as a remarkably cohesive listen. The Quasimoto character and sound is strong enough to bind together thirty minutes of material regardless of the decade that stands between it.

Madlib isn’t the kind of artist to hold back on releasing music. Between his own albums, production credits, alter egos, collaborations, and mixes, chances are even for the die-hard stans something has fallen through the cracks. This isn’t the same with Quasimoto material. With only two studio albums and a choice selection of singles here and there, everything Madlib has put to wax as the blunted deviant feels special.

There have always been rumors that Madlib was sitting on albums worth of unreleased Quasimoto material. If there is the long rumored third album forthcoming and Yessir Whatever is filled with tracks that didn’t make the cut, then we’re sure in for a treat when it does come. Even if that’s not the case, this compilation still stands as a much-welcomed peek into the life of the one and only Lord Quas.

4 out of 5 stars

4 out of 5

There are plenty of ways to make messy sound good. Record labels like Stones Throw, Warp, and Brainfeeder have made it their trademark to boast rhythmically challenging beats, but there is always a detectable amount of personal style included with each label or single artist. It can be in the sample of the original song, or it can be an added ingredient. It can be how the music is quantized, what program is being used to make it, which person from which genre is performing which instrument at which speed and which groove, there are tons of factors that contribute to the favorably messy sound of certain kinds of hip-hop and electronic music.

Yet, it’s not enough to play a few measures on an MPC and not clean up the notes. Whereas some producers can glide effortlessly between genres, exorcising and offbeat vibe in only places where it is called for, Nametag and Nameless stumble drunkenly along the line between good mess and bad mess on For Namesake. Luckily that is the very reason it is worth a listen. Some songs upon first hearing them make my pointer cover the skip button like I’m covering the brake pedal in a traffic jam, I’m just waiting to slam my foot down in anticipation. Other tracks might make me leave my computer, feeling certain that I won’t need to change the song at all.

As the producer, it would be easy to attribute the messiness to Nameless. However, as a producer/emcee duo, the blame can’t be distributed so easily. On a track like “Hype Break” both artists sound less than their best. Recycled raps about how much better Tag is than all the other over hyped rappers “In this industry filled with hype over skill, I feel like we need a hype break”. Nameless doesn’t do much to help the song, slapping a piano loop from untrained fingers over a simple beat with bass drum hits too close to each other. No bass line, no strings, nothing to add depth to the song other than little clips of “oohs” and a DJ Premier scratch effect.

The next track, called “Reaction” is much more entertaining to listen to. What starts as a very Odd Future-esque beat quickly transitions into a more easygoing and listenable track thanks to Nametag’s tight rap. They sound right together on this track. The snare/clap has a sort of flam effect, where two hits seem to want to occur at the same time but only slightly miss each other. The heavy bass manifests itself in a few different instruments, sometimes highly synthy, other times more funky and natural, sometimes they even cross over each other. Little accents of triangle and bells make the song feel like it was being paid attention to, a comforting feeling. Nametag raps “As I attack this track without subject matter/ I warm it up like the rappers who wore their pants backwards/…A camera can’t capture these pics I snap with/ paragraphs instead of a camera flash.”

“How It Get” is a good example of how the randomness and deconstructed beat can play to the advantage of the artists. This track sounds particularly authentic to my ears as a modern Detroit rap song. One likeably out of place ride cymbal per bar is a nice touch for reasons I can’t explain. “You know how it get in the club/ Homeboy was muggin’ and fussin’/ About a couple of thugs who was talkin’ that tough shit/ Sayin’ if they ever see him in the streets they’d bust him/ And pretty much, everybody drunk or buzzin’ with the red eye/ High off a drug or somethin’.” Nametag sets up a fairly gripping storytelling style rhyme filled with paranoia and raising tensions in a crowded space, while Nameless cuts a sample up and reorganizes it to match the urgency and brooding nature of the raps.

“Oxymoron”, which features Nametag’s cousin Black Milk, is a standout track. This is a refreshing example of when a feature works out the way it should, and it features a very simple instrumental with organ mashed over a hard beat. And instead of trying to outdo each other, Black Milk and Nametag  match each other’s energy.. The other big name feature would be Guilty Simpson, who appears on the track “Raw-Dirty-Filth”. The beat in this case is more attractive than the raps. Both rappers do the job, yet Guilty sounds more like U-God than himself, and Nametag seems more concerned with his cadence than his lyrics.

The duality of the messy nature of For Namesake goes in several directions. Besides applying it strictly to the beats, the album does not feel as though it was carefully structured to be listened to in one sitting, nor does it feel like its variety is strong enough to make them some kind of chameleon duo. A certain effort seems to be missing from the album as a whole, yet the amount of effort per track is surely satisfying. Overall, the two work well together but need a few tweaks before they officially get put on the hip-hop radar.

3 out of 5 stars

3 out of 5