Note the lack of "Clan" on the cover of the latest Wu-Tang release. This 37-minute LP isn't a proper follow-up to 2007's 8 Diagrams. But neither is it one of those slapped-together collections of B-sides, remixes, and outtakes that mostly function as stress tests for the W's quality control. With the exception of Masta Killa and GZA, every top-ranking Clansman delivers entirely new verses here. Combined with low commercial prospects, that level of commitment means Legendary Weapons is probably the closest thing we've got so far to a legit, hard-as-fuck Wu-Tang Clan street album. Frighteningly, depressingly, or both, it turns out to be as boring as nearly everybody else's legit, hard-as-fuck street album.
Judging from the tracklist, you might think Wu-Tang are trying to counteract the "hip-hop hippie" label Raekwon and Ghostface placed on 8 Diagrams. Guests such as AZ, Sean Price, Roc Marciano, and Action Bronson are peers and stylistic descendants alike. Marciano's Marcberg and Bronson's Dr. Lecter, in particular, prove that records restricting their worldview to grimy New York rap ca. 1994 can still sound exciting to this day. But those guys are about the only ones who treat an appearance on Legendary Weapons as a privilege, and for the most part, the Clan can't commit to underground hunger or regal triumph. Though RZA is listed as executive producer (make of that what you will), Legendary Weapons, produced by Noah Rubin, burdens itself with nth-gen knock-offs of early Wu producer Tru Master: distended bass, cheap horns, muffled EQ'ing, and drums that knock more like pillowfights than like "Da Mystery of Chessboxin'".
But this is still Wu-Tang Clan we're talking about. They've overcome weak production before. I mean, Ghostface Killah shows up on, like, 40% of the tracks! How dull can this be? Legendary Weapons' greatest asset is nearly two decades of goodwill, but at what point are you just flat-out going to admit that Ghostface has been badly coasting downhill for at least five years? Here, Ghost is rapping like he's got someplace else he'd rather be. He leads off every track he's on with verses that weirdly seem to end a couple of bars early, to say nothing of the recycled rhymes about Clarks Wallabees, Mrs. Dash, and cheap rice we've been hearing for ages. Anyone who thinks Action Bronson is currently palming off a weak imitation of Ghostface needs to listen to "Meteor Hammer" right away-- it's the equivalent of Allen Iverson's killer crossover on Michael Jordan, Bronson going off in all directions in the record's lone display of joy in sheer wordplay. It quickly gets snuffed out by an atypical swag-rap verse that's as good as you can expect from a guy named Termanalogy.
Almost by default, Legendary Weapons has its moments. Raekwon, who's clearly the most reliable of the crew at this point, pops off a typically adept quickie at the beginning of false party rocker "Start the Show", and everyone else at least competently plays to type: U-God the prodigal son, Cappadonna barely staying within the confines of spoken rant, and RZA doing his thing where his conspiracy theorizing flows like steel wool and has only the most tentative hold on erudition ("Islam is the way of life/ Islam is the way of Christ"?). With the higher-ups phoning it in, Wu affiliates Killa Sin and Trife Diesel must sense an opening, because the two go as hard as possible to assert themselves as first-tier. Trife, especially, sounds wholly committed to his aggressively average street soldiering, but whether he's spitting awkward rhymes about famous athletes or confessing the death of his parents, he continues to be proof that you can have all the self-confidence in the world and absolutely zero charisma.
In addition to letting you know this is a Wu-Tang record, the beyond-tired kung fu and blaxploitation audio clips suggest there's supposed to be an astute anti-industry streak underlying Legendary Weapons. But these samples are almost entirely disconnected from the actual contents of the record. Aside from Method Man's streetwise reportage on "Diesel Fluid" and Inspectah Deck's skeptical "Never Feel This Pain" (actually recycled from 2010's Manifesto), little on the album acknowledges a world outside its own 16 bars. Truth is, Wu-Tang know time is money. While that much-lauded business acumen might explain the low-profile Legendary Weapons' utter lack of spark, it hardly justifies it.
