On paper, each dial possible has been set again. Exterior of a stray COVID point out and a dumb Havoc bar about getting canceled for joking about somebody’s chromosomes, references are both era-specific (“Taj Mahal” is called for the previously Trump-owned on line casino) or common sufficient to not matter. As an alternative of the steady of producers behind Notorious, Havoc handles 11 of the album’s 15 beats, with Alchemist embracing his dirty Murda Muzik and Infamy roots on the opposite 4.
The very best Havoc beats from Mobb Deep’s prime took acquainted sounds and bent them into menacing shapes. Right here, tracks like “The M. The O. The B. The B.” and “Mr. Magik” combine that menace with the muted drum patterns he used on Kanye’s The Lifetime of Pablo, giving the low-end much more depth. Alchemist, for his half, falls again on the fashion that made him well-known—all gutter drums and echoing samples. The glitzy fuzz of “Taj Mahal,” particularly, sounds prefer it was pulled off a lesser-known Road Sweepers mixtape, whereas “Rating Factors” and “My Period” wouldn’t sound misplaced on his collaborative albums with Prodigy.
Prodigy has no half-way appearances, both; he has a minimum of one verse on each music, and does the hooks for a bit of them. P’s supply is as curt and chilling as ever (“RIP, you’ll be able to’t son me/My pop’s lifeless,” he deadpans on “My Period”), even when his writing treads well-worn floor. There have been seams to tighten and holes to fill, however Havoc and Alchemist deal with his vocals with care. Most significantly, Havoc and Prodigy’s chemistry stays intact. Neither has ever been a very showy author or lyrical gymnast—their respective enchantment comes from their pugilist directness and the way in which their personalities stayed burrowed deep within the cement of LeFrak Metropolis, regardless of how excessive their stars ascended. On this sense, “Mr. Magik” will get the closest to classic Mobb Deep, significantly when the 2 commerce the mic each few bars to go in on their enemies whereas dodging CIA brokers and laying up with mistresses. The identical could possibly be stated for the shuffling “Straightforward Bruh,” anchored by a drumbreak, faint keys, sirens, and the tightest Prodigy raps on the entire album (“Niggas mad? Put a cape on ’em/Now they tremendous mad” acquired chortle out of me). At its finest, Infinite feels easy in a manner Mobb Deep hasn’t for years, the pair comfy of their older, wearier pores and skin.
