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Pharoahe Monch :: "Desire"From Desire (SRC; 2007)
After two heady, exuberant records with Organized Konfusion (the self-titled one’s better) and a relatively wack third record, Pharoahe Monch released his solo debut, Internal Affairs, in 1999. Nobody confused it with a great record, but, likewise, nobody missed the hotness: a dozen or so strange, virtuosic raps over fittingly extraterrestrial beats, all cobbled around the brassy doom-slinging eternal banger “Simon Says” (as in, “get the fuck up”). The joint went wood but helped solidify Pharoahe Monch’s status as one of the planet’s premier emcees, his crisp, rounded delivery the necessary counterbalance for the densest syllabic interplay in the game (think a-b-b-c-d-a-c-a-d-d-b-c-e-e-a). Talib, Slim, Lupe, and a few hundred others took note.
And that’s it. In the ensuing decade, Monch emerged for eight scant bars here, a little Diddy ghostwriting there. A record (misguidedly dubbed Innervisions) fell through. Thus, the forthcoming Desire is something of an event -- not destined for greatness, nothing to Clipse about, but almost certainly one of the most consistent, witty, and (above all) lively rap records of 2007. Now, this is pure conjecture: I am but man, and I have no leaked proof besides that of Monch’s MySpace. But bet against me after hearing the victory-lap syrup strings swell on “Desire,” the drums hitting in slow emphasis, too old and wise to get hyped up about a comeback, just ill because they always were. This beat drips jam like a third grade sandwich; there’s not much Monch, just two quick verses and some hype track, but there is a lot of sweaty neo-soul crooning and a money shot of charisma.
This would seem slight in other hands, but Pharoahe Monch doesn’t push it. He overstuffs his raps, not his tracks. He wisely cuts the bangers off right where we’re used to a third verse, a Snoop guest spot, breakdowns, outros, skits. These two verses hit like fine espresso when we’re used to mainlining Mountain Dew, so that Monch’s carefully crafted punchlines spring cleanly from the beat. He says, “New York respect my game like Joe Namath / and I protect my name like yo anus / In prison,” or jerks the strings over my own head, spitting, “My brain accels / The train derails / Pop! / Make you feel the ‘clipse / Like Pharrell.” And that’s the first verse. The dizzied sexuality of Affairs’ “Rape” rears its head again when Monch opens the second: “My book is the ovary / The pages I lust to turn / My pen is the penis / When I write, the inch the sperm.” Again, conjecture: MySpace doesn’t like the naughty bits. Which is funny, because Monch is nothing if not prurient, his crudity rudely splayed open and turned into an exacting and humane art.
Clayton Purdom :: 12 March 2007 |
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