Clipse ‘Let God Sort Em Out’ Review: Coke Rap with a 401(k)

Clipse’s first album in 16 years, Let God Sort Em Out, feels like a prestige project that’s meant to be admired from afar—the hip-hop equivalent of a Criterion Collection release. It’s less of a comeback than a corporate brand reactivation. The album is so fixated on signaling its importance that it loses any sense of vitality or spontaneity.

In theory, the ingredients for greatness are all here. Pusha T—fresh off a streak of lean, mostly strong solo efforts—reconnecting with Malice, whose self-imposed exile once lent the group’s mythology its only real hint of mystery, should’ve been a cakewalk for him. And Pharrell, the architect of Clipse’s sound, returns to the booth to helm the entire project. But the results are weirdly flat and overly fussy instead of lean and mean—technically proficient across the board, sure, but burdened by a creeping sense of hollowness.

The most glaring issue is how eagerly Let God Sort Em Out cloaks itself in self-seriousness to the point of parody: funereal gospel flourishes, overwrought luxury minimalism, and a nonstop stream of winks at comically petty industry beef. It’s so over-designed and assembly-line-constructed that it feels less like an album and more like a business brief—complete with imaginary liner notes from the Louis Vuitton marketing team (Pharrell is currently LV’s men’s creative director, and the album was partially recorded in his Paris office).

The production on Let God Sort Em Out is the clearest sign that the past isn’t being reimagined so much as reheated. These aren’t the brittle, off-kilter loops of Hell Hath No Fury, but tastefully maximalist backdrops that could score a Balenciaga perfume ad. When the beats do nod toward that old stripped-back menace—on tracks like “Let God Sort Em Out/Chandeliers” and “E.B.I.T.D.A.”—they’re undercut by half-hearted beat switches or syrupy vocal beds.

Most of the time, the music is devoid of friction, proudly flaunting its sleek sonics. Pharrell once made hard music that sounded weird; nowadays, he cranks out expensive music that sounds, well, expensive. Simply put, this is coke rap with a 401(k) and several crypto investments.

Malice is as stoic and methodical on the mic as ever, sermonizing like someone pitching eternal salvation as a lifestyle brand. He sounds sturdy, if a little mechanical, and often lapses into flat moralizing and dated pop culture references (including two Lion King name-drops in under eight bars on “Ace Trumpets”). His return is framed as a capital-M moment—the prodigal son back to reclaim his legacy—but outside of a few solid lines, he seems more like a lifetime achievement Oscar attendee showing up for the photo op.

Meanwhile, Pusha, ever the mustache-twirling verbal technician, mostly coasts. He remains a master of sneering contempt, but his disdain rarely lands on anything worth hitting. The veiled Drake and Kanye jabs feel like contractual obligations and the Travis Scott diss barely registers, though those are at least more tolerable than when he lashes out at “content creators” and clarifies that “I despise that,” lest you forget that the guy who once dissed the McDonald’s Filet-o-Fish doesn’t cotton to internet tomfoolery.

The moments that clang and snap, like “Inglorious Bastards” and “All Things Considered,” hint at what Let God Sort Em Out could’ve been: two masters of mouthing off talking turkey over sparse, skeletal beats, fully aware that the reunion itself is the event, not all the artificial hoopla surrounding it. But those flashes get buried under the weight of unnecessary features, such as Kendrick Lamar’s histrionic theatrics on the already try-hard “Chains & Whips,” aiming for scorched Earth but ending up mostly huffing and puffing, and Pharrell’s stifling varnish.

In the end, Let God Sort Em Out is too reverent to ever bother being interesting. Clipse once made music like their survival was on the line; now they rap like men who’ve already won, politely jogging through a well-deserved but tedious victory lap. The album wears its sterile shine like armor—which, given how rare this level of slickness is for hip-hop albums made by MCs older than the presidential age requirement, might even be admirable—but it doesn’t move forward or backward. It just poses and expects us to applaud.