Armand Hammer & the Alchemist ‘Mercy’ Review: A Minor Entry in a Singular Rap Canon

Armand Hammer’s second collaborative effort with producer the Alchemist, Mercy falls short of the dizzying, Dada-esque thought experiment that was 2021’s Haram. While rappers Billy Woods and Elucid remain incisive and mercilessly exacting verbal forces, the Alchemist seems to be coasting a bit too heavily on instinct this time around. The album sounds good but rarely attains the abrasive sonic character or ambitious genre fusion of 2023’s We Buy Diabetic Test Strips, which drew on the skills of 15 different producers, along with a group of live jazz musicians, to shape its cacophonously cerebral sound.

The music on Mercy leans toward the menacing and oppressive, thick with simmering tension. “Grabba” creaks along with sweltering bow strokes, while “Peshawar” erupts with digital noise, like a supercomputer that’s moments from meltdown. But however efficient, the Alchemist’s sonic palette—murky loops, lo-fi samples, and so on—is limited. There’s a sense that he’s content to find the right mood and just linger there, which in turn boxes Woods and Elucid in, as on “Super Nintendo,” which is built entirely from a looping 16-bit–style synth motif.

Still, the duo remains a captivating study in contrast. A weary nihilist, Woods raps with a bemused resignation, while Elucid, the theatrical orator, is all bombastic doomsday warnings. They complement each other by never quite syncing, generating a tension in tone and cadence that keeps their verses alive. Yet when they trade bars on “Super Nintendo,” the exchange feels clumsy, made worse by the disruptive pauses between their verses. They operate best when orbiting one another, letting their thoughts flow free with no superfluous interruptions.

Woods, as ever, commands the most attention. On “Nil by Mouth,” his line about “crocodiles weeping while they eat your salty tears,” which he delivers with a stinging matter-of-factness, feels like a distillation of his worldview. And during the back half of “Dogeared,” he hyperlinks a bunch of benign activities—taking the bus, feeding his kids, walking the block, turning the heat on as the seasons shift—with mesmerizingly mundane precision before casually indulging in self-mythology, saying he feels like “Spider-Man on that ledge” with his mask off “like Future.”

Mercy is the kind of album that elicits respect more than it does excitement. Woods and Elucid remain elite craftsmen, and the album functions well as a reminder of their abilities, but it’s a minor entry in a decade-long discography that has stretched rap into singularly unclassifiable territory.