On last year's King, T.I.'s scrappy street-kid swagger seemed indivisible from his pop instincts, and that's partly why it was one of the year's best rap albums. On older records like 2003's Trap Muzik, T.I. built an image of himself as a haunted, remorseful drug-dealer, balancing triumphant anthems like "Rubberband Man" with sad, introspective laments like "Be Better Than Me". By the time he released King, though, the emotional resonance was all but gone from his music, replaced by a world-conquering confidence unmatched in rap. Titanic bangers like "What You Know" and "Top Back" didn't work in spite of T.I.'s guttural sneer; they used that harshness as fuel. But T.I.'s new album, T.I. vs. T.I.P. operates on the thin and dubious concept that T.I. the businessman and T.I.P. the unreformed hustler are two completely different entities, and that the strain of balancing the two personas is enough to tear Clifford Joseph Harris Jr. apart. Apparently, those two sides aren't as indivisible as they once seemed.
T.I. first explored this dichotomy on Trap Muzik's "T.I. vs. T.I.P.", crafting an argument that movingly dramatized his internal struggle. That struggle also serves as the concept for the new album: T.I.P. gets the first seven tracks, T.I. the next seven, and the two sides spend the last four songs hashing out their differences. It's an interesting conceit, but it doesn't really work as a hook for an entire album, and the record's exhaustingly long running time pushes the conceit far past the breaking point. For one thing, it's a pacing disaster; by lining up all his sugary for-the-ladies tracks in a row, T.I. leaves a long dead-streak in the second half of the album. For another, it plays against his strengths. His music works best when both sides of his personality are allowed to co-exist in the same track. When they're separated, they both sound emaciated and half-formed. And he never quite commits to the concept. If T.I. represents the rapper's pop half, why do the album's first two singles come from the T.I.P. section? If the album's final stretch is meant to unite both sides, why do they confront each other in song only once, on the second verse of "Respect My Hustle"?
Unsurprisingly, the strongest stretch of the album comes from T.I.P. On songs like the underwhelming first single "Big Shit Poppin'" and the clichéd drug-dealer instruction-manual "Da Dopeman", the rapper seems to be on autopilot, but a few of the T.I.P. tracks would've been highlights even on King. On "You Know What It Is", he rides Wyclef Jean's sublimely summery rubber bassline, intuitively sinking into the beat and savoring the sound of his voice. "Watch What You Say" boasts a bluesy organic thump and the most authoritative Jay-Z guest-verse in a couple of years, and T.I.'s throaty snarl conveys menace infectiously. On "Hurt", he keeps pace with Danja's royal horns and riotous drums and the fiery guest-verses from Alfamega and (surprisingly) Busta Rhymes.
The T.I. suite doesn't fare so well, partly because its mere existence positions it as a compromise. T.I.'s cruise-ship money-talk never feels as urgent as his grimy side, and bored and lazy guest-verses from Eminem and Nelly-- both of whom sound like shadows of their former selves-- don't help anything. The best that can be said about the T.I. section is that it mostly doesn't sound all that different from the T.I.P. section; beats from Just Blaze and the Runners are as convincingly hard as anything elsewhere, and T.I. uses the same cadence and delivery whether he's talking about spending money or killing you. If the final act works more consistently than the previous two, it's more because of its two slyly synthetic Danja beats than because of any trenchant insights the rapper comes up with.
Even if the concept falls flat, though, T.I. vs. T.I.P. still warrants a listen, if only because T.I. seems constitutionally incapable of releasing an album full of uncompelling music. As a rapper, he's still a dominant voice; his slurry, guttural drawl is a great instrument, and always keeps it deep in the track's pocket, occasionally whipping out tricky double-time patterns or murmuring singsong melodies. The album is perhaps best heard in chunks; only a few of these songs wouldn't sound great on shuffle. Heard as a piece, though, the album's momentum sputters and dies more than once; after a few consecutive listens, T.I. sounds dour and joyless, like he's just punching the clock.
Shortly after the release of King, T.I.'s friend Philant Johnson was shot dead after a nightclub brawl between T.I.'s entourage and some Cincinnati thugs. After Johnson's death, T.I. mentioned that the business of rapping no longer felt good and admitted that he was seriously considering quitting music altogether. On T.I. vs. T.I.P., he repeatedly makes reference to Johnson, and indeed he rarely displays the spark and verve that gave King much of its power. T.I. vs. T.I.P. may be self-obsessed and self-indulgent, but maybe T.I. needed to make this album to keep himself interested. Let's hope he's gotten it out of his system.
