The curse of the compilation lies in its very premise: compile a staggering array of artists and create a cash-raking style war, a soundclash to bump in your truck. Unfortunately, like with most CDs filed under Various Artists, The Neptunes' newest woofer-friendly venture, Clones, is an exercise in failing to be everything to everyone.
The hottest production team in music today, Chad Hugo and Pharrell Williams have crafted a million dollar organization out of their deceptively simple beatmaking style. They've worked with everyone from Daft Punk to Beenie Man, and this disc is the proverbial victory lap at the peak of their success. So, as expected, they've drafted the very biggest stars out of their two-way pager address books to develop a venerable who's-who in hip-hop today.
Ironically, the biggest names fare the worst. The most established artists realize that with their level of notoriety, they no longer need to impress. Snoop Dogg, Ludacris and Nelly each sleepwalk through their performances, with beats that complement their lack of interest and lack of concern with diversifying their portfolios. Busta Rhymes is laced with a crisp jungle funk backdrop that samples Kraftwerk, but he also fails to live up to the task at hand, settling on saying the word "ass" about a hundred times.
Even the Star Trak artists disappoint. Rosco P. Coldchain's collaboration with Pusha T and Boo Bonic, "Hot", falls on its face, based on the incorporation of a lame barebones interpolation of the Beastie Boys' "Paul Revere" and lackluster verses from all involved. Arguably the worst song on the album, Fam-Lay comes off like Eazy-E on morphine on "Rock N' Roll", claiming he has "so much coke, got coke in jail." Surprising to see a majority of the eighth planet populace's affiliates don't share the same agenda for innovation.
On the other hand, when the Neptunes step out of their accepted hip-hop box, they find their greatest success. The highly anticipated new N.E.R.D track naturally isn't very interesting, lyrically ("We will not be the losers" is this generation's "We Are the Champions"), but is stunning, beatwise. A laser-guided funk missile collides with handclaps and a pulsing bassdrum backbeat, on a spiraling trajectory towards surprisingly inspirational lyrics from the Clipse.
Speaking of the Clipse, they drop the best song on the album through their clever attempt to reinvent the success of last year's "Grindin'". The 'Tunes assemble the twins with Ab-Liva over a hard drum loop that's accented by rumbling bass, handclaps, an infrequent cellphone alert and what can only be described as a layer of Batman theme-esque horns. It stands to succeed in its purpose, primarily due to the Clipse's "pastors of the church of Jay-Hova" approach. Pusha T, in particular, impresses, claiming he "hurries the 'cane like Miami U". Like "Grindin'" refined, pitch shifted and swallowed by the Bomb Squad, "Blaze of Glory" forecasts the upcoming Clipse record as a definite must-hear.
Production is the strongest facet of this album, with The Neptunes handling all tracks with their trademark of being exceedingly technical in their simplicity. From the fuzz-bass and stuttering organ stabs of Kelis' "Popular Thug" to the bowling alley imperial march through nuclear winter on "Blaze of Glory", The Neptunes move all around the style map. With other excellent appearances from Nas, Supercat, Jadakiss and Dirt McGirt, Clones manages to succeed in delivering a worthwhile listening experience without fully realizing the goal of an innovative star mash. The Neptunes may be at their creative, commercial and financial peak, but if this album is any indication, they should expect a long tenure at the top of the musical ladder.
