In recent interviews, Ludacris has been talking up Release Therapy as his classic album. The problem with that idea is Luda already made his great album six years ago: Back for the First Time, the first Ludacris album, isn't a classic album in the traditional sense; there's no tortured introspection or narrative arc or grand thematic sweep. It's a unique record in that it managed to be one of the best rap albums of the decade without ever reaching for anything. The album's construction goes something like this: banger, banger, banger, skit, banger. But as a collection of nervous, twerked-up blip-stomp riots, it's pretty much unparalleled. Luda's stutter-growl navigated Shondrae's jittery electro booms with a preternatural authority, and he managed to pull off violent threats without ever giving the impression that he took himself the least bit seriously.
But every one of Ludacris' four follow-up albums, including Release Therapy, abandon that seamless banger-parade setup for a dubious grab-bag of bangers, attempted bangers, ill-conceived life-is-deep "serious" songs, bad jokes, and ooky sex-jams. He's maintained elite status mostly by saving up his best material for guest appearances on other people's songs. On his own albums, he mostly stopped doing what made him great a long time ago.
Release Therapy is probably Luda's best album since Back for the First Time, but it's not like that's saying much. For almost the first half of Therapy, he keeps his aim straight and ambitions low, wrapping that hyperactive rasp around a string of queasy synth burbles. "Girls Gone Wild" is the sort of track the Neptunes don't often make these days, a great example of the farting spaceship-electro clatterfunk on which they built their name. On "Ultimate Satisfaction", Luda gets some serious bounce back into his flow, riding the fuck out of Rich Skillz' streaky, damaged synths. But Luda's not as funny as he once was, sometimes even veering off into complete nonsense: "Let me give you some swimming lessons on the penis/ Backstroke, breaststroke, stroke of a genius." Still, it's encouraging to hear him trying to breathe fire again.
Of course, it doesn't take long for everything to go to shit: "End of the Night" is a wishy-washy saccharine sex-jam duet with Bobby Valentino, the sort of middling for-the-ladies fluff that threatens to derail damn near every high-profile commercial rap album of the last couple of years. Luda finds unexpected ways to flex his wit on the track ("Let's get it poppin' like Orville Redenbacher"), but he can't do anything with a track this fiercely boring. "Woozy", the next song, goes wrong in all the exact same ways, wasting R. Kelly on a plinky smooth-jazz nonentity. Later on, Luda sadly tries to get conscious, venting about the nine-to-five he doesn't have over cheesy nerf-metal guitars on "Slap" or trying his hand at fake gospel on "Freedom of Preach".
The weirdest misstep, though, is "Do Your Time" a well-intentioned track dedicated to people in prison. Here, Ludacris recruits three notorious former convicts (Beanie Sigel, Pimp C, and C-Murder), all of whom deliver terrifyingly vivid depictions of frustration and impotence but are forced to play backup to Luda's own ill-advised ranting. Bearing in mind that Ludacris has never been to prison, it's hard to know what made him think he was the right guy to put this thing together. When he goes the positive route, he just sounds confused: "Give my eyes to Stevie Wonder just to see what he's seen/ But I'd take them right back to see Martin Luther's dream." Huh? Only on "War With God"-- a charged-up fuck-you to an unnamed opponent who sure seems to be T.I.-- does Ludacris really unleash his id, clamping down on his words like a pit bull over a gorgeously woozy soul beat.
All those interviews indicate Ludacris is worried about his legacy, and that's the sort of thing that leads to sad attempts at heartfelt uplift. He does his best work when he's not thinking about posterity, and that might explain why he's constantly spitting fire on other people's songs. Luda comes a lot harder on Pre-Release Therapy, the mixtape he released with DJ Green Lantern a few weeks ago. Without pressure to make a statement, he cuts loose and destroys an hour's worth of other people's songs. It's not built to last, but it'll be on my iPod a lot longer than the finished product.
