Clipse, the dope duo that brought us the classic Hell Hath No Fury, has dismantled. Big brother Malice dropped the powder and picked up the bible. Good for him. Lil brother Pusha T, on the other hand, is still obsessed with coke-slinging storytelling.
Pusha’s solo debut My Name is My Name is filled with imaginative cocaine lyricism. In “Hold On,” he claims, “I sold more dope than I sold records.” In “Suicide” he boasts, “I’m still a snow mover, blow harder than tuba / Designated shooters, turn weed to woolers.” In “Nostalgia,” he reflects, “Twenty plus years of selling Johnson & Johnson / I started out as a baby face monster / No wonder there’s diaper rash on my conscience.” The metaphor gets more intricate in “40 Acres.”
Without a doubt, Pusha is still one of the dopest lyricists in the game. His punchlines are menace and his attitude is unapologetic: “School of hard knock, I attended / Selling hard rock, fuck who I offended.” Yet the main setback of My Name is the lacking of raw aesthetics Pusha and Malice brought to Hell Hath No Fury. The productions, which are oversight by Kanye West, are surprisingly over-glossed. Out of twelve tracks, only the first two have no guest spot.
Too many guests and too many hooks only get in the way of storytelling. “Sweet Serenade” is a perfect example of how a r&b, bitch-ass whippersnapper could ruin a track. What the fuck is Kanye doing on “Hold On” with Auto-tune shit? It’s a torture and should it have been left out. “Let Me Love You” with Kelly Rowland is an obvious mainstream target. The Mase’s flow is spot on though.
“S.N.I.T.C.H.,” an acronym for “Sorry Nigga I’m Trying to Come Home,” closes out the album with a poignant story. Too bad, Pusha restricts himself too much to the same subject with glossier productions and pop hooks. It’s sort of like he used to be a coke rapper and now he’s still a coke rapper with a cherry on top.