DJ Quik delivers the catchiest, fastest, and most satisfying verses out of the whole LP, sliding his squeaky voice under devilish one-liners like: вЂњWe play Mario Bros. But soon the remorse bleeds away with вЂњSpur of the Moment,вЂќ wholly west coast and wholly celebratory. вЂњI got some questions for you, Lord, because my mentalityвЂ™s hood/ So why is everything thatвЂ™s bad for me feel so good?вЂќ Ludacris asks in вЂњChild of the Night,вЂќ offering up a second side to the bare-knuckle habits of his own Red Light District. вЂњLarge AmountsвЂќ is the craftiest use of a theatrical soundbyte since вЂњHard Knock Life,вЂќ bouncing a baroque oompah behind soft Spanish guitar. Otherwise, The Red Light District is a bloody sponge: filthy, juicy, and ready to leak. And, for the love of God, please lose the Rick James taglines. LudaвЂ™s words are phoned-in at best, but next to these two nincompoops, heвЂ™s a prodigy. вЂњWho Not Me,вЂќ though, is inexcusable: Dolla Doy and Small World are the Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum of putrid flow, the former stilted with a two-year-oldвЂ™s vocabulary and the latter stultified by a bloated tongue. вЂњGet BackвЂќ barely registers in cursory listens 'The PotionвЂќ ruins a whirlwind moog and tribal shuffle with words that lash back at the MCвЂ™s best instincts and вЂњPass Out,вЂќ while delightfully loud and nihilistic, canвЂ™t make it one verse without passively watching Ludacris become bored by his own lyrics. When he strips a refrain or stanza of its noodling musicality, the beat flattens and the cut spoils. Even вЂњGet Back,вЂќ DistrictвЂ™s lead single, swings a hammering, anthemic background, complete with what could only be piano wires slapped with tacks, the whole track tripping into self-parody with awkward aggressivenessДMXвЂ™s spare aid in вЂњPut Your MoneyвЂќ is nothing if annoying, a growled chorus of three lines that epitomize the biggest fault in Luda-Luda Mr. вЂњNumber One Spot,вЂќ liberally sampling Austin PowersвЂ™s theme song, feels dated under incessant Goldmember allusions, but Ludacris saves the song by unrolling his tongue in the sleaziest way possible. Never before has вЂњbroke as fuckвЂќ felt so imperative. вЂњIntroвЂќ is a dangerous march, and Luda pulls a vicious pulp out of each terse word. IвЂ™d venture that much of LudacrisвЂ™s success is in his uncanny ability to marry beat and flow, regardless of whether or not the beat and flow are actually any good.

Could it be his infectious-and near-uniform cadence, twisting the last words of each line into indecipherably tuneful grunts? Could it be his precognizant chops in double entendre? Could it be his self-deprecation laced with rueful misogyny? Could it be the Blueberry Yum Yum? ItвЂ™s not that the Ludalog is particularly rife with indomitable wordplay or revolutionary concepts rather, Chris BridgeвЂ™s lines always have a knack for skidding by only to leave tire marks later.

What better way to assert what all your wealth and great weed and blowjobs have already affirmed than letting your image speak for itself? Call him slow, call him predictable, he still governs the dirtiest of the Dirty South.Д«ut then, besides a flock of beats that practically hatch from speakers like rabid baby birds chirping and catching yellow down on the shrapnel, LudacrisвЂ™s lyrics and song structures have always been disarmingly simple - so subtle that his melodic verse and way with rhyme usurp the impact of an otherwise deviously mastered phrase. Maybe LudaвЂ™s even quite aware of his ridiculous pairing of вЂњshitвЂќ with вЂњshitвЂќ (I realize heвЂ™s rhyming вЂњplayвЂќ with вЂњsay,вЂќ itвЂ™s still lazy). One wouldnвЂ™t often think of Ludacris as having a divisive flow - especially in his more than predictable pop culture image what, with his guaranteed, and often show-stealing, guest spots, or, hell, his declaration of domination using the stupidest, gaggle-jawed scheme since DMX rhymed вЂњWHA?!вЂќ with вЂњWHA?!вЂќ Far from a вЂњmatureвЂќ output, The Red Light District is exactly everything weвЂ™ve - world unite! - come to expect and sincerely enjoy from the Illinois-born, Atlanta-raised cowboy hustler. вЂњRamblinвЂ™ at the mouth, I donвЂ™t play that shit / IвЂ™m the best and I donвЂ™t really gotta say that shit.вЂќ

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