that the weak -- of heart, spirit and mind -- are objects of scorn. In this ghetto fever dream of an album, the real war is already deep in progress -- the war for "survival of the most fit, for real niggas."
Fans who hopped aboard Busta's train via such videos as "Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Could See" (from 1997's When Disaster Strikes) may feel bitch-slapped by his third solo album, Extinction Level Event -- The Final World Front. Those videos turned Busta into a star by flattening out his complexities. They captured his warmth, his strong, offbeat visual aesthetic, his unbridled energy and his iconoclastic take on hip-hop. But they did so by downplaying his darker currents. There's always been a wary eye rolling in Busta's music, a streak of paranoia, a sense of him feeling under attack but fearlessly standing his ground. While the media and the music industry played up the party vibe, they neglected to flesh out the context, to show how Busta's trademark grin drew its power from being beamed in the face of his demons.
There's no denying those demons on ELE (which takes its title from the disaster film Deep Impact). At one point, Busta says, "Sometimes I can't describe the wicked shit I feel in my heart." In truth, he does just that. ELE is a triumph of old-school minimalism gone futuristic. Hard, gut-punching beats anchor the disc. Electro bleeps, computer-game effects, a harpsichord, Asian-music flourishes, thick and funky bass lines, and string-laden samples from old movies are sparingly, precisely doled out on top. A choir of overdubbed, hardcore male voices barks out call-and-response exchanges.
Into this musical tapestry Busta breathes militaristic Blade Runner scenarios, a crucial theme being that "Corny niggas is finished/Y'all time been over, past due." Cash is artillery to be stored for later use, when shit blows up. His men are niggas and his women bitches, and though he doesn't spell it out, what seems like casual misogyny is rooted in the baked soil of male fear and anxiety: No one is to be trusted.
It is past the disc's halfway mark when Busta serves up a different kind of sustenance; he knows that any revolution that doesn't include dancing ain't worth waging. The funky, shake-what-ya-mama-gav
