In 2007, the self-proclaimed poetical pastor Pharoahe Monch released his second album...eight years after his first! No, he didn't fire members of his band 'cause they couldn't handle his artistic fits of temperament and then hire new members and record an entire album only to fire those members and re-record all their parts with new members only to repeat the process yet again and come within a year of releasing the new album only to fire his long-time manager because he didn't like the negative p.r. he was receiving which apparently had nothing to do with his promising each year that his album would be released later that year only to pull it from release to tweak it and add more songs and remove others and then finally allow himself to be pressured to finally release the album by a faux press release by a major soft-drink company that would give everyone in the world a can of their soft drink if the artist in question actually released that album before the year's end. No, Pharoahe Monch (nickname given to him back in school because his classmates said he looked like a Moncheechee) is not W. Ax...uh, the alleged--probably hypothetical--artist whose seventeen-year-one-album-recording process is detailed above. Monch's record's delay is of a much-less monomaniacal nature: record-company-takeover & contract-buyout problems. More details here.
Monch's second album Desire is a great one, solid from song-to-song, and it seems like an old-school rock LP, with album unity and cohesiveness in mind as much as hit singles. The second single from the album--the title track--is my favorite. The producer Alchemist shows select sampling tastes, mixing a Holland-Dozier-Holland melody and string arrangment with the "Uh! Oh!"s from an old M.O.P. rap record. On top of this, Alchemist adds some utterly fantastic soul vocals (Is that Monch singing? I think it is)--think a slightly higher-pitched Teddy Pendergrass along with some great female soul backup vocals. All those elements together would make for a great neo-soul record, but Monch--the illmatic asthmatic--raps, and his verses elevate the record to, "Woh! That record is phat and def and dope and chill--and I must hear it again!" status.
Monch's rhymes: greatness abounds, but so does some sophomoric failings, as does the touch of the off-handedly bizarre. First, the failings: Monch brags--but, hey, that's part-and-parcel of the genre--but his bragging is sometimes too clever for its own good, seeping into stupid sexual similes (the "ovaries" and "sperm" lines), and at times verging into the realm of the truly obtuse (if anyone can explain the metaphors behind "yo' anus" and "chick perms," I'd be grateful). Fortunately, Monch's writing shows humor, depth, detail, and a little bit of self-contradiction (hey, maybe he's rap's Walt Whitman--maybe). He drops a line about the specific type of fur he wears (the only time I've ever heard someone boast of wearing a chinchilla) and then bemoans rap listeners (in prison!) for only caring about the bling. Monch also offers more sage advice by serving up slices of a cautionary tale about the recording industry. He mentions the struggle of having to work his own A&R and the importance of WYA. He confesses that he's still a slave to his label, though--through his hard work, his desire to record, to be heard (I rap, therefore I am)--he now owns his own master tapes. That confession--that humility--is rarely heard in rap (or rock), where (often) the exact opposite--boasting because one is recording for such-and-such company--is de rigeur. He's not preaching, though; he's just witnessing. He's been through it all, and he has to let us know his struggles. He's singing his own brand of blues.
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