There’s a gloomy cloud hanging over this album in places(see the introspective “Still Feel Me”). Every linesnaps with menacing wit and morbid humor: “Are you a thug or a dummy?I’m neither / But I’ve been hot so long it feels like I got a fever.” In a voice honed on Hennessy,Purple Haze weed, and (apparently) the occasional handful of metalshavings, the self-described “Gemini nigga with mood swings” punishesthis collection of top-shelf beats with surgical precision. He knows it too: “Fuckriding a beat, I parallel-park on the track.” With all due respect tothe recently “retired” Jay-Z, Jada is rap’s preeminent formalist: It’snot what he says, but how he says it. That said, he’s one ofthe four or five best MCs breathing. Straight outta Yonkers with a Lox/D-Block membership cardin his wallet, Jada’s an East Coast alpha male who deals exclusively inthreats and boasts, shifting gears only to flex a catalog-likeknowledge of guns, ammo, and fine automobiles. His second solo album offers little in the way ofsocial commentary, colorful storytelling, playful humor–all thehallmarks that make albums by your average God’s son or college dropoutcompelling. Letthis be known from the jump: Listening to Jadakiss will not stamp yourticket to heaven.

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