was a true event album—a long-rumored, highly anticipated meeting of two hip-hop legends. It delivered on the hype in surprising fashion: a minimalist opus that shivered and smoldered more than it slapped. Though it bore the stylistic markings of its creators, and , the album felt distinct in their respective catalogs.
Instead of mangled soul loops and hard-edged boom-bap, this was mafioso rap tuned by Tibetan singing bowls; Al provided a pineal gland-stimulating airiness through which Marci floated like the ghost of a kingpin. Two years later, after attending to their solo careers, Al and Marci return with , a weirder, bleaker, more hermetically sealed take on prestige street rap. There’s no bloat, no guests, and no superfluous sounds.
Each of its 10 songs feels like peering around a dark corner, an inescapable menace saturating every moment. After finding a collective voice with , the pair settled into a comfortable rhythm, capitalizing on a long-simmering artistic connection. “We always making music,” Marci .
“I’m always sitting on a batch of beats from Al.” Their near-constant workflow makes the product of a shared musical syntax that only comes from a deep and constant creative practice. On this leaner, meaner second record, Al’s beats are spacious yet brittle, peeling the layers from samples until only a groove remains.
Marci writes with laser-cut precision, his exploded-view rhyme schemes locking together like the gears of an expensive wristwatch. When .
