One of the criticisms that Virginia Beach rap duo Clipse has faced over the years is that they only rhyme about dealing cocaine/crack and the luxury that comes with it. Well, that’s not completely true. 

 

Ever since Clipse’s 2002 debut album, Lord Willin’, brothers Terrance “Pusha T” Thornton and Gene “(No) Malice” Thornton Jr. have dabbled in subjects that deal with sex, women, relationships, and rap beef. But yes, a great majority of the raps are centered around the drug game, including their legendary breakout single, “Grindin’.” Some critics may see that as being stagnant and one-dimensional, while others may feel that they rhyme in a pocket that suits them. Clipse is not the only rap act that spends a generous chunk of their time writing about coke, but few rap acts have been as lyrically inventive about coke. 

 

Let God Sort Em Out, the duo’s first album in 16 years, does indeed have a lyrical focus on drug dealing. However, they provided some subtle, but crucial context. No, it’s not the type of context that gives exposition on why the Thornton brothers became drug dealers in their native Virginia. The album’s opener, “The Birds Don’t Sing,” provides an emotional context of why Pusha T and Malice are no longer drug dealers and why they portray their past lives in their raps: their parents. 

 

“The Birds Don’t Sing” finds the Thornton brothers navigating through the grief of losing their parents, with each speaking of the final conversation they had with one respective parent each. Pusha T’s opening verse finds him realizing in hindsight that his mother was prepping herself and her family for her impending death, while he was too occupied with his own life to notice. Meanwhile, Malice, who quit Clipse in 2010 after finding Christianity, reminisces about how his father gave the MC his blessing to rap again in their final conversation before his death. 

 

“The way you spelled it out,
There’s an ‘L’ in every lesson,
Boy, you owe it to the world,
Let your mess become your message.” 

 

From that point on, the remaining 12 songs, full of vitriolic disses towards rival rappers, flaunt extravagance, and embrace villainy, carry an emotional and moral weight that makes each bar that much more potent and less superficial. Pharrell Williams, their main collaborator since the late 1990s, returns as the album’s producer. Their humble days of recording are well in the past, as they recorded a majority of Let God Sort Em Out in Paris, the sight of Williams’ offices at the Louis Vuitton headquarters where he serves as Creative Director. The opulence of France and high fashion, however, did not tame Clipse’ or Williams’ competitive fire. Williams crafted a signature sound with former production partner Chad Hugo as The Neptunes, a sound that Clipse helped make famous. But with Williams flying solo, he gives Pusha T and Malice some of his darkest, and organically sinister sonics yet.

 

Songs like “Chains and Whips,” “P.O.V.,” and “So Be It” are anchored by Pusha T’s scathing, surgical stabs at rappers like Jim Jones and Travis Scott, atop Williams’ seething bass lines, ominous guitar licks, and seismic 808s. And while these diss records come at a time when the culture is flooded with diss records from the likes Kendrick Lamar, Drake, Joey Bada$$, Ray Vaughn, Joyner Lucas, and others, the potency of Pusha’s delivery is comes with the knowledge his snipes aren’t just attacks on those who offend him, but a defense of the culture of rap and rap battles in and of themselves. 

 

On “Ace Trumpets,” “M.T.B.T.T.F.,” and “Inglorious Bastards,” we are treated to some of the most vivid double entendres, textured rhyme schemes, and clever word play that hip-hop has seen this decade. Lines like, “I got slave masters’ souls in my safe,” take the place of mundane euphemisms for cash like dead presidents. Also, the aforementioned inventiveness involving coke dealing is so creative and varied, like when Malice rhymed, “Dressed in House of Gucci made from selling Lady Gaga,” to describe using drug money to pay for his expensive wardrobe. 

 

But as much as one can get caught up in Pusha and Malice’s top-tier word play and one-liners about pushing weight, it’s the personal moments that beef up the album. On “All Things Considered,” Pusha T laments loss, again referencing missing his mother, but also a void in his own family after his wife, Virginia, suffered a miscarriage. On the same song, Malice explains the polarity of rapping about the drug life while living his life with Christ, and later, pays tribute to his late dad in “E.B.I.T.D.A.” with the line, “open the sunroof, wave to my father.”

 

Malice, who doesn’t curse for the majority of the album, does an expert job balancing his enticing anti-hero bars with his moral code as a man of God, best exemplified on the gospel waltz of “So Far Ahead.” He raps, “The grass is greener on both sides/I done been both Mason Bethas,” slyly comparing his worldly and spiritual duality to that of Ma$e, who infamously turned to Pastoring after being a platinum-selling rapper. 

 

The chemistry between Pusha and Malice is at its peak, four albums into their partnership. While they both released solo work during their hiatus, it’s clear that they’re at their best when feeding off each other. This is particularly true for Pusha T. Sure, he’s had a successful solo career with four critically acclaimed albums and two Grammy nominations. However, the presence of Malice seems to push (no pun intended) him to reach further. At the same time, there’s not a trace of rust on Malice’s part, as his raps are sharper, wittier, and more confident than ever. 

Let God Sort Em Out is a triumphant feat for Clipse. They had to live up to their classic albums in Lord Willin’ and Hell Hath No Fury, while still carving a place for themselves in the 2020s as two men in their late 40s and early 50s, respectively. They exceeded expectations to say the least.