I’m so torn. Torn between great production and monotonous lyrics whether above or below ground. Torn by scathing, crunkin’ funk held down by lyrical gangsta-pop. And torn here by looming, compelling rhythms held down by obtuse emo-spittle showers. Sole, the unofficial Anticon leader, tears me up with lyrical exercises in self-reflexive futility-though sometimes delightfully eccentric, his strained whine becomes wearing. Meanwhile the beats, in-house Anticon stuff, carve out some of the nicest hip-hop spaciousness since RZA’s chamber of doom, some tunes breakin’ down into fluttery bongo bass-backed bliss, all the more necessary as Sole’s shoulders buckle from the weight of the world.