Malice in Wonderland

Several years ago your reviewer had occasion to be in the same nightclub as the man they call Snoop. It was after the IRMAs or the Meteors or some such industry do, and at one point in the wee small hours a phalanx of heavies appeared and roped off a section of the room where Snoop and his, um, ‘ho’s’ I believe is the appropriate term, were sequestered, except the ho’s looked suspiciously like Social & Personal type models hired to lend the rapper his customary Sultan of bling patina. Truth be told, Snoop looked bored. The models looked bored. The security guys standing guard looked bored. On our side of the rope, people were having a fine old time. On Snoop’s side, life looked very glum indeed. One could almost pity the guy, excluded from the fun by his own compulsion to maintain pimptastic appearances, and seeming so weary of it all.
As a metaphor for what hip-hop has become – jaded high roller pageantry – we might do worse. It may be unfair to place the blame for hip-hop’s deterioration from the Black CNN to the Shopping Channel, from livid protest form to latter day cock-rock, squarely at Snoop’s spats. After all, he was never what you might call a social commentator, unless your social whirl was poolside in L.A. with Dre and the cast of Bootylicious Monthly. But in musical terms, could Malice N Wonderland (wasn’t that also the title of an old Nazareth LP?), stand up to Liquid Swords or Enter The 36 Chambers or The Chronic or Doggystyle? Not on your Nelly.
This is Snoop’s tenth album, and he’s flying on cruise control, aided and abetted by more producers than a high concept Hollywood disaster flick: Scoop Deville, Danja and Timbaland, The Neptunes. The opener ‘I Wanna Rock’ hinges on a track that’s genuinely menacing in a vaguely killa beez kinda way, but is buggered by a vocal routine as corny as American Gladiators.
And so it goes. High-gloss wallpaper with so-so rhymes lent undue gravitas by Deputy Dogg’s laconic drawl. Tracks like ‘2 Minute Warning’, with its waddling blunt-beats and gunshot porn. Some of it’s great (‘That’s Tha Homie’), some so lame it could be a put-on (‘Gangsta Luv’). Just to switch it up, there’s a host of cameos from folks like Lil’ Jon (who, on ‘1800’ sounds like he’d get along just fine with Jinx Lennon), Jazmine Sullivan (who, on the piano-pumping ‘Different Languages’, doesn’t), Brandy and Pharrell (‘Special’, all gratifyingly blocky beats and vintage Barry White vibe) plus the ever unfeasible R Kelly on the mildly splendid ‘Pimpin’ Ain’t EZ’ (maybe not, but it still beats a day in the bog).
Like I said, autopilot, but, y’know, not all bad. It’s tough at the top, right? Hang on Snoop.