As Cadence Weapon, the former Edmonton, Alta., poet laureate and ex-Pitchfork contributor Rollie Pemberton helped bring the Canadian rap underground to light, and in the process, he was twice shortlisted for the Polaris Prize. His new, self-titled album, and first since 2012’s Hope in Dirt City, is his most dynamic since his 2005 debut, Breaking Kayfabe, and his most well-written to date: an electro-rap record that, in part, explores the inner workings of Canadian beat communities. The album is full of the brainy dance rap he made his name on. But more than any other Cadence Weapon album, this record unpacks his rap persona and his history as a hip-hop advocate in a rap-averse country that begrudgingly came to embrace the form, thus forcing him to reevaluate his place in the culture. By extension, it weighs his ambitions against his reality.
Cadence Weapon has always been an ambitious project. Coming up on the Canadian rap scene in its infancy years before Drake, it could be a downright subversive act, intent on producing the “freakiest” dance-infused songs Pemberton could come up with. This time around, decisions are made more purposefully. That doesn’t mean the music isn’t still way out in left field. Pemberton has said he was influenced by both Harry Nilsson and Future, and the album is awash in overdubbed vocals and woozy, half-croaked melodies. His singing and his songcraft have noticeably improved since his last record. Progress is a focus on the album (as evidenced on songs like “Destination” and “Don’t Talk to Me”), and his growth as an MC and song maker is palpable.
Despite his credentials as a writer and poet, Pemberton’s raps can be mechanical and long-winded, and they’re sometimes rickety in their construction. Occasionally his delivery is so dry he comes off as impassive. But he is also capable of eloquence and even virtuosity. Cadence Weapon is his most fluid and revealing work. It’s full of detail-oriented portraiture, like the wannabe DJ sketched out in “The Host” who doesn’t know how to work his gear (and thinks that makes it “sound sicker”). Then there are spells of deft wordplay: “Tinted windows, seats filled with leather/Scented incense, eucalyptus pepper/Got a crew of bad bitches like this was Heathers/I’m Rollie, homie, my wrist is metal/Got a mean strap and a vicious bezel,” he raps on “My Crew (Woooo).” It’s sharp and visual but, more importantly, it’s fun to listen to. He adjusts his flows to fit production shifts in songs like “Destination” and “Five Roses,” exhibiting his dexterity and finesse. His choruses are often still underdeveloped, but his workaround is to get other artists to sing some for him. Where the hooks once actively impeded the enjoyment of his songs, they’re now mostly workable segues into verses.
Not only are the lyrics better executed on Cadence Weapon, they have more to say. Aside from stringing together personal digressions, on macro and micro scales, that reveal his dreams and anxieties, he entertains a wider variety of perspectives. “High Rise” tackles classism and gentrification through a winding series of fragmenting ideas (“More consumption, mass defection/Soul disrupted, disconnected/Cast reduction/Ask them why, get interrupted/More distractions, low production/More corruption”). “System” addresses racism and sexism, patriarchy and the gig economy, using two separate third-person accounts; both subjects find themselves trying to get “saved by the rhythm” but feeling “trapped in the system.” The verses on these songs are less dense than on albums past yet they carry in them more information and better storytelling, even when those stories aren’t particularly engaging on their own.
Cadence Weapon builds to its closer, “The Afterparty,” where Pemberton can’t get into a venue despite being on the guest list. Caught in an awkward position, he threads together ideas that loosely fit—musings about the escapism of partying and theories about nihilism and mortality, all while retracing his path as an artist. In the end, he still can’t get in. “Might be under my artist name/Can you check another page?” he asks reluctantly, bringing the album to a close. It’s some of the smartest writing of his career, heady and self-aware, summing up a lifetime spent thanklessly searching for the perfect words. These are the moments that make him a hip-hop force. Even as the Canadian rap scene has become crowded with upstarts and his sound has been picked over for parts, Cadence Weapon remains one of its most crucial voices.
