Purple City got a deal off Dipset's rise to whatever incoherent mastery of New York they have, or had; because of it, dudes went from socks and flip-flops to getting shout-outs on Jeezy verses and being recognized on the street-- even when they weren't wearing purple. But their affiliation's down to business, not art: Whatever people love about the Set-- wordplay, vile facts about their bodies and the women upon which they inflict them, the immaculate swagger-- never made it to Purple City. The Purple Album has exactly one guest from their elders in pastel, and that's Jim Jones. Maybe 40 Cal had jury duty?
Although Purple City don't carry the avant-garde torch, they don't embarrass themselves either. Instead, they simply stay true to what little territory they've already staked out. Agallah, their sometimes producer and oft-times rapper, has produced respectable MCs for 10 years; Un Kasa, their best talent, was supposedly known for his ability uptown before he linked up with Purple City; and Shiest Bub, well, made T-shirts for Diplomats before bootleggers took the work over. All three can ride a beat-- The Purple Album's by-numbers New York/Trap-South production guarantees it's not difficult-- and none deviate from the guns-cash-cars-money-n-sodomy script that made them mid-weight mixtape stars.
So The Purple Album soars all the way up to maddeningly average. Their occasional competency promises more-- with Harlem's current diminishing returns, fans will take talent where they can find it-- then never deviates from its drearily solid course. I count one highlight: Kasa's almost impossible to decipher, J.R. Writer-worthy wordplay on "Purple City in the Lot", bounced off a little winding organ riff and 4/4 clap. If nothing else, it sinks Shiest's Cam -- "I been stylin' out, iced-out tennis chains/ Tennis bracelets, rings/ We the tennis game"-- on "Catch Him", a song that also steals dude's production, throwing fake-opera and cymbal crashes at its everyday beat.
Mostly though, Purple City have the same decent luck with scores of no-name producers that Dipset's managed for years: "P.A.Y.D.A.Y." gets nostalgic with a Wurlitzer soar, and their Southern crunk capitalization "Trap Nigga" at least doesn't sound too cynical. Elsewhere, their hatred-of-women moment is mercifully brief: The contemptible "Grind Slow", in which Buddy Klein, who apparently they brought in to say what they wouldn't, tries something about creating a sperm bank in a girl's mouth. It's as predictable and lousy as you'd expect, and registers as lightly as the drug-dealing and we-made-it banter elsewhere. But, hey, look on the bright side: not a single skit.
