At this point, Snoop Dogg is famous for being famous. He’s been America’s affable, couch-locked uncle for over 20 years now, skating on his delightfully weird personality to earn gigs like bonkers sketch comedy host, celebrity roastmaster, and primetime Olympics correspondent. He counts Willie Nelson and Martha Stewart as close personal friends, and, even as he settles into his 50s, still has the juice to define the discourse for a few days at a time.
For years, music has seemed like a bit of an afterthought for the rapper who once helped define the West Coast gangster-rap template. His 1993 debut, Doggystyle, remains his most (perhaps only) essential release. He’s done stints as a No Limit soldier, an ambassador of the Star Trak/Virginia Beach sound, and a born-again Rastafarian. And there are gems sprinkled throughout his three-decade body of work, like 2013’s Dâm-Funk collaboration 7 Days of Funk, the vibey mid-life stock-taking of 2017’s Neva Left, and the undeniable bombshell “Sensual Seduction” (the explicit version, “Sexual Eruption,” lays it on a little too thick). But there are also plenty of missteps, like 2024’s Missionary, a second full-length album with Dr. Dre (their previous record together was Doggystyle, get it?) that vacillates between mildly entertaining and kind of embarrassing.
These days, his records mostly feel like low-stakes kickbacks, as if he dropped decent money on studio time but still made sure everyone got home by five. Iz It a Crime?, his 21st album and third as CEO of the recently resurrected Death Row Records, is slick and frictionless, unencumbered by anything resembling overthinking. It’s an aggressively OK listen, full of expensive-sounding, groove-first songs that don’t really lead anywhere, except maybe to the cooler to grab another cold one. This is session beer music, best when played at mid-volume on a nice day, augmenting the vibe without ever overtaking a conversation.
If you decide to pay attention, you’ll find a mix of occasionally tight songwriting and some utterly bizarre choices. The album starts with a surprisingly inspired four-song suite, a revitalized-sounding Snoop dropping into the pocket like melting caramel. He flexes a bouncy, spring-loaded flow on the lush, Sade-sampling title track, and the satisfying “Sophisticated Crippin’” feels like a West Coast version of Rick Ross’ gold-plated opulence on Deeper Than Rap. Things start to get shaky with “Can’t Wait,” a synth-funk cut that features Bay Area rapper LaRussell, whose verse is essentially about how cool it is to be on a jam with Snoop (a concept that gets the full treatment on the thumping-but-vacuous Sexyy Red collab “Me N OG Snoop”). The wheels come entirely off with “Can’t Get Enough,” a grown and sexy ballad that brings Iz It a Crime?’s momentum to a screeching halt. Though it’s about relationship longevity, Snoop sings his verses with a muted version of Rihanna’s bellicose delivery on “Bitch Better Have My Money,” explaining to his lady that he will “fuck up [her] mind.”
So many moments don’t feel thoroughly considered: Wiz Khalifa derails the buttery smooth, Foreign Exchange-esque R&B on “Just the Way It Iz” with a verse that could’ve been spat out by an AI chatbot trained solely on Rolling Papers 2; “My Friend” sounds like Snoop drifted into a groovy Denaun Porter session, rapped for a little bit, and wandered out without anyone noticing; Snoop and Pharrell reunite for “Spot,” a truly mindboggling mash-up of the least interesting parts of Daft Punk and Mustard, replete with heavy-handed dog puns and a vocal melody that Katy Perry would reject. But, when nestled amongst decent bangers like the slinking, chest-puffed “West Up” or the roller-rink funk of “Snoop Will Make You Dance,” these wackier tunes breeze by like the intermittent glitches of an algorithmic playlist.
In January, Snoop stumbled into his first real controversy in some time, performing a 30-minute DJ set at the Crypto Ball during President Trump’s inauguration. Anger bloomed across social media, where people accused Snoop of being a grifter, especially since he frequently lambasted Trump during his first term. Some of his media appearances around Iz It a Crime? have focused on responding to these criticisms—so if you hadn’t heard the album, you’d be forgiven for thinking it was Snoop’s political record laying out the depths of his beliefs. In truth, he barely addresses the issue, dedicating only three bars on “Unsung Heroes” to the situation: “Life's a game of spades, better keep a Trump card/You ain't used to hell's kitchen, get the hell out/Me and Dre at the SoFi, the only way I sell out.” At this point, Snoop’s music can’t convey the creeping menace he perfected in the early G-funk era, and that’s fine—he’s a wealthy celebrity who moves in wealthy celebrity circles, long removed from any need to hustle. He’s clearly having a blast, but overall, Iz It a Crime? is a well-constructed empty vessel, pleasant and forgettable as a 40-degree day.
