Slum Village didn't deserve to go through so much shit. They had an underground classic debut, Fan-Tas-Tic Vol. 1, that most people outside of Detroit couldn't even hear until nearly 10 years later. Their potential major-label big break, Fantastic Vol. 2, went into two years of stasis after A&M was bought out by Universal. Then came the fanbase-splitting personnel change albums: Producer/MC Jay Dee (aka J Dilla) went to do his Soulquarians thing and was replaced by up-and-coming rapper eLZhi and a scattered collection of beatmakers for 2002's Trinity (Past, Present and Future); shortly afterwards Baatin left the group for personal health reasons and left T3 as Slum Village's only remaining founding member. And yet they soldiered on long enough to put out a fine album, 2005's Slum Village, that did justice to the original strain of club-compatible underground hip-hop that defined both them and their city.
And because life isn't fair, it was their last album to date. Dilla passed away in 2006 at the peak of his creativity, Baatin died in 2009 in the midst of a planned SV reunion. eLZhi went solo with 2008's The Preface, T3 pulled guest-spot duties here and there, and that was presumably that. Except that late last year, Slum Village released the Villa Manifesto EP-- not just as some collection of outtakes and scraps, but as a precursor for an entirely new album. And unlikely as it might seem after all that the group has gone through, the full-length actually picks up more or less where they left off in 2005. Most tracks incorporate the memory of Dilla and Baatin seamlessly while keeping the current lyrical core of T3 and eLZhi focused.
In this case, the focus is on their typical anthemic forcefulness, less concerned with lyrical dexterity than with letting their voices resonate. Granted, whenever eLZhi's involved, there's never a lack of slick lyricism. But aside from El's expert turns on the mic, the strength comes from how authoritative they sound, how their voices push ordinary-on-paper lyrics into performances that demand and get listener attention. There are moments of brilliance-- Baatin's verbal sparring with his inner demons and T3's relating the frustration of his downtime on "The Reunion Pt. 2" chief among them-- but even their less memorable verses benefit from no-bullshit flows that ride beats as naturally as walking. And whether they're laying out lurid storytelling rhymes or for-the-ladies tracks, they're evocative and personable enough to make complaints about lyrical simplicity seem irrelevant. That said, nothing helps you appreciate Dilla's modest mic skills more than hearing Illa J haltingly trying to evoke his brother; dude isn't a charity case or anything, but it feels like he's mostly on this album for closure purposes.
A lot of goodwill for an album like this is going to ride on its beats, since they're traditionally the reason more skeptical listeners checked for Slum Village albums in the first place. Longtime collaborator Young RJ, whose increased role in Slum Village's production style over the last few albums helped define SV's sound in their post-Jay Dee phase, handles most of the production. Of course, there are a couple of quality Dilla beats here, like the twitchy but heavy funk guitar oomph of "Lock It Down" and the hot-glue prog synthesizers of "We'll Show You". But RJ's pieces stand up admirably next to them, whether they're familiar sounds (neo-Soulquarian homages "Scheming" and "2000 Beyond") or oddball left turns (the kazoo-driven "Earl Flinn"). It's such a cohesive production job on RJ's part that when another producer's track goes a bit off the path-- like "Don't Fight the Feeling/Daylight" spot-welding Mr. Porter's "B.B.E. (Big Booty Express)"-esque electro burbles to T3's pseudo-diwali-- it feels strikingly out of place, even if it sounds pretty decent.
T3's gone back and forth on whether this will be the last Slum Village album, presumably depending on whether or not the market and the fanbase will it so. But while it's not the best work of their long, hectic career, it's still its own kind of special-- a fractured crew reunited, even if it's under tragic circumstances. And it might be a reluctant farewell anyways. Instead of sounding like a weary to-hell-and-back statement of scarred perseverance, Villa Manifesto sounds unreservedly alive, a celebration of careers well spent.
