By TJ Love
Wordsworth’s rep as an emcee is as solid as they come. A regular contributor to the legendary Lyricist Lounge, he’s universally known as the epitome of a rappity rappin’ ass rapper with out-of-this-world skills off the dome with bars that make aspiring spitters consider sticking to their day job. In short, rapping comes to him as naturally as inhaling an all you can eat buffet does to Professor Klump.The Photo Album, Wordsworth’s first solo endeavor in a hot minute, is his attempt to avoid being pigeonholed as a go-to guy for every underground cipher, but the final product is a bigger let down than when Olivia Munn posed for Playboy.
Wordsworth’s bars have never been in question, and if there is one thing consistent with this album, it’s Wordsworth’s unwavering lyrical excellence. Duke constructs verses like his life depended on it and he does it to the point you almost take it for granted.
“911,” featuring Torae, is vintage Wordsworth in his spitkicking comfort zone, with more ‘oh snap’ moments than most people have on entire albums. He makes going in look easy with a rapid-fire delivery and wordplay that while not quite double time is damn near mind boggling.
Hello to all that hated and welcome to all that waited/to help me along to make it, the wealthy and poor related/felt I felt all your favor, how wellness was orchestrated/myself I would call the greatest, yourself you could call me greater/outside without your ID trippin’/ got your family bedside with an IV drippin’/head wrapped up and your eyes need stitchin’/doubt you still livin’ whenever I be kickin’/don’t try me spittin’/it highly isn’t recommended, who else besides me livin’/got such a repertoire for a couple bars, a couple grand for me to do the hook now that’s an extra charge/the spots don’t look the same since you came in/furniture trashed, walls gotta be repainted/half your friends fainted, you the last one remaining/but it ain’t entertaining’ til the neighbors start complaining”
“Knock On My Door” is a banger propelled by hand claps, tambourines, agitated guitar licks, keys, horns, and literally the sound of the police knocking on the door. The way the dreaded cop knock is incorporated is genius. Listen to it loud enough after enough paranoia inducing greenery and you’ll scare yourself to death, especially at the end of the track. Words waxes semi-autobiographically, detailing his misadventures with NY’s finest and it’s apparent that he’s picked up a lot about the art of story telling from his eMC comrade, Masta Ace.
Ace and Wordsworth’s longtime partner-in-rhyme Punchline turn in dope guest verses on “Vanish,” an Apollo Brown production that’s lush with melody and harmony while still maintaining a granite-hard edge.
Unfortunately for Wordsworth, for every whiplash-inducing track there’s some straight up garbage on The Photo Album. The LP is littered with more missteps than white people trying to do the Cha Cha Slide. Wordsworth has gone extremely far out of his way to prove he’s not a one trick pony, and in doing so, he’s crafted a litany of tracks that shouldn’t have seen the light of day. There’s entirely way too much formulaic, hot-at-the-moment nonsense.
A handful of joints go hard, but the production on the album is inundated with the mundane. The problem is compounded by the 18 song length of the LP, with half featuring somebody singing a lame hook. “Coloring Book” is an abomination, as is “Betrayed,” which features some bizarro world version of a poor man’s Akon wasting his breath on an auto-tune chorus. The abundance of corny, cringe-worthy sangin’ has pushed this project perilously close to the arch-enemy of hip hop, rap-n-bullshit.
The saving grace of The Photo Album is Wordsworth’s skill. Even with suspect decisions in regards to beat selection, features, and regrettably, the overall vibe, there’s only a handful of human beings that can fuck with him on the mic. In the end, he’s done himself a disservice.
To the casual observer, The Photo Album will barely register, and die-hard fans will be crying foul harder than Joey Crawford when the game’s on the line. It’s like Romeo Must Die; you tune in to watch Jet Li whoop ass but you’ve got to endure so much wackness in the process, for not enough payoff.
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