The way ?uestlove keeps telling it, that initial meeting with new boss Jay-Z sounds like a fully-hocked saliva rocket in the eye of every asshole who tried to force the Roots to compromise their status as studied hip-hop altar boys in pursuit of the bottom line. Like the tough-ass principal with a heart of platinum, it seems Mr. Def Jam was full of charity, spewing quotables like, "Don't come to me playing a whole bunch of Clear Channel songs thinking I'm gonna be cool with it," and, my personal favorite, "If y'all come here with snap music, I'm snapping y'all the fuck out of my audience."
So the Roots were sent off to make a Roots album...you know, that "artsy shit." For a band known for the occasional indulgence (the $300,000+ price tag to complete Phrenology's horrendously overwrought "Break You Off", a concert mentality that equates excruciating length with awesomeness), such a mandate could have birthed a freewheeling disaster tipsy on its own pretensions. Miraculously, art-hop's highest get concise on Game Theory-- cutting song lengths, spoken-word tedium, and call-and-response nonsense. Fourteen years deep, the Roots avoid the wild sonic tangents of yesteryear, zeroing in on a svelte, safe, and solid take on what we've come to expect from a Roots record.
Light years away from the jazzy bap of their early days, the Roots continue to embrace their band-dom and musical acumen here, with studio guru ?uestlove tweaking with purpose; unlike the sometimes directionless experimentation of Phrenology and the preternatural smoothness of The Tipping Point, each sonic decision sounds measured and precise yet still alive and heaving. Beat-wise, the bounding throb at the center of "Here I Come" pumps hardest, with key-man Kamal striking futuristic synths while ?uest lays down an unrelenting boom that's rewarded with a fizzy solo outro. Wet drums return on doom-y "In the Music", adding grit alongside a horror movie bassline and simmering guitar-- clearly (and thankfully), Scott Storch is nowhere to be found.
Pop music writer Chuck Eddy once described Bruce Springsteen as someone whose "muse can't be separated from his ego; he's too palpably concerned with how he'll be documented in the history books" and the same can be said about the Roots. They sometimes mistake experimentation with progress while preaching holier-than-thouisms to the choir. Both "Take It There", with its over the top piano melodrama and the listless "Livin' in a New World" falter, relying too heavily on questionable texture and knob tricks. Tellingly, though, they are also two of the album's shortest tracks. Whereas such noble risks were once epic, they're now miniaturized-- the Roots have learned from their mistakes. More than ever, the band uses its know-how skillfully, as on the stunning title track, which beefs up Sly Stone's early 1960s song "Life of Fortune & Fame". On the original, Stone all but predicts the paranoia and doubt he'd perfect with 1971's There's a Riot Goin' On. That album's claustrophobic murk is felt throughout Game Theory, and its musical moodiness is echoed by Black Thought, who unpeels himself ever so slightly while charging hard with anger and desperation.
There's been much debate about Thought recently, spurred by recent critical drubbings deeming him dull and uncharismatic. Even ?uestlove chimed in on the Okayplayer message boards, dismissing the hate as a mere "trend." Such rationalizations can't hide the monotonous nonchalance of Thought's natural delivery or his often second-rate bread-and-butter battle rhymes. Though technically proficient, his passivity is the Roots' most noticeable handicap. Game Theory partially solves this problem with a healthy dose of guest shots from old friends Malik B (making a strong return as a non-member after being booted for drug dependence about six years ago) and Dice Raw, along with welcomed mixtape all-star and Philly native Peedi Peedi (aka Peedi Crakk) and newcomer Porn.
All four are gifted with lively styles that juxtapose nicely with Thought's steady cadence. The two best vocal performances on the disc come courtesy of Dice, who annihilates "Here I Come" with a one-eye-open, nervy confessional, and Peedi, who shows off an uncharacteristically tender touch on the warm Illadeph ode "Long Time". Although he gets the dubious distinction of Least Googleable Rapper, Porn haunts with his unique sing/cry style on the hook for "In the Music". Indicative of the LP's troubleshooting nature, Thought is wisely relieved from most of the album's hooks, and he trades in his half-huff boasts for pinpoint post-Katrina polemics that deride Bush, the creaky state of American democracy and the urban drug trap as he plays modern black editorialist.
The Public Enemy-inflected "False Media" finds him voicing Dubya as a multitasking evil empire unto himself ("Send our troops to get my paper/ Tell 'em stay away from them skyscrapers") and it does an excellent job of summarizing five years of fear-heightening boogey-man hunting into a few tidy lines. "Baby", a loose, Jay Dee-esque highlight that serves as a superior sonic tribute to the late producer than the album's well-intentioned but sappy Dilla shout "Can't Stop This", has Thought sing-songing through hallucinatory tales of rape and lust-- it's the pitch-black flip to "You Got Me". The MC's anxious musings become overbearing and repetitive by the album's end, but his bravura bursts on "Long Time", where he tempers his dread with home-grown hope, and especially the convoluted drug-feud terror of "Clock With No Hands", show that getting past his aesthetic pitfalls is a worthy pursuit.
When I interviewed ?uestlove earlier this year about the progress of Game Theory, he admitted that "it's a challenge to not over think" his band's work. Of course, the album is over thought-- it is a Roots album after all, and superfluous embellishments along with high-concept artwork and sequence second-guessing are part of the excitement. But now, the excess brainpower is mostly used to cover-up past blemishes en route to a streamlined product that die-hards can justly revel in. President Carter should be proud.
