Reunion or comeback projects often miss the mark, largely because they become attempts to revisit the glory days instead of evolving from them and adapting to the present. Yet, if there’s one subgenre of hip-hop that has aged gracefully, it’s coke rap. For the past decade, Pusha T has proven that coke raps, no matter how far back they sit in his periphery, still make for compelling art. That said, the return of the Clipse after a 16-year hiatus would have undoubtedly been in ruins if Push had managed to get his brother to abandon the spiritual path Malice embarked on after bowing out of the music industry, instead of revisiting the glory days of the 2000s.
In the past decade, Push fused tales of his drug-dealing past with his celebrity and leadership at G.O.O.D. Music, forming the image of a retired kingpin, one not entirely removed from the streets. Fortunately, the duality the brothers shared across albums like Hell Hath No Fury and Lord Willin’, where sin and repentance occupy the same bar, isn’t displaced on their new album Let God Sort Em Out. If anything, it becomes even more vivid, especially when contextualizing the losses and growth they’ve experienced individually and as brothers. Malice’s retreat, paired with Pusha T’s ascent to hip-hop royalty, creates a necessary tension that gives the album gravity and credibility in the hardened perspectives they’ve developed.
That growth has emerged through divergent paths: Malice removed himself from music, while Pusha T dove deeper into it. The result is incredible musically—Push has grown stronger as a writer and tastemaker, leading most of the album, while Malice unleashes a well of festering creativity he’s clearly waited years to express. Unlike their last effort Til The Casket Drop, this time they locked in with the one person who understands their identity as much as they understand his: Pharrell Williams.
Though no longer on speaking terms with his Neptunes collaborator Chad Hugo, Malice calls Pharrell “Saturn,” and the chemistry between Clipse and Pharrell is equally beneficial for both. For the duo, it reconnects them with someone who saw their trajectory from the jump, hence why lead singles like “So Be It” and “Ace Trumpets” feel like luxurious leaps that came after the storm settled. The essence of Louis Vuitton’s headquarters, where they recorded the album, comes alive through roaring synths on “Ace Trumpets,” reminiscent of G.O.O.D. Music’s early reign, while the Talah Maddah sample on “So Be It” creates a hypnotically wealthy aura that seeps through the luxurious fabric they’ve woven.
But beyond that, Let God Sort Em Out becomes Pharrell’s ideal playground for creativity. Unlike some of his other collaborations over the past decade—which often leaned toward his pop sensibilities even alongside rappers—Push and Malice bring something passionate and magical out of Pharrell. Each track feels perfectly curated and fitting to the orbit he created over 20 years ago. Pharrell’s role here is more than just bridging two distinct eras for the Clipse. This is ultimately a family affair, birthed from what Pusha T described as a “family ask,” evident through recent outings like “I Pray For You” and “Punch Bowl.” The emotional depth hits hard from the first track, “Birds Don’t Sing,” which began circulating years ago. It’s a gut-wrenching, emotionally dense moment where Push and Malice divulge their final conversations with their mother and father, respectively. Malice’s verse, in particular, offers a clear window into how the loss of their parents became the catalyst for this album: “I can hear your voice now, I can feel your presence / Askin' ‘Should I rap again?’ You gave me your blessing.” It’s a grief-driven, somber song that doesn’t fully capture the essence of the rest of the album, but it becomes a centerpiece that explains how this entire project came about.
This album is less about feeding a rabid fanbase and more about speaking truths. The transition into “Chains & Whips,” featuring Kendrick Lamar, symbolizes this reality. Push revives a Drake-adjacent beef, addressing Jim Jones for minimizing his lyricism in a surgical and cerebral way. Lines like “Too much enamel covers your necklace” feel like poignant, deliberate jabs—esoteric yet direct. This track is especially contentious considering that “Not Like Us” held the charts while Universal Music Group tried to convince Clipse to scrub Kendrick’s verse. Nearly 20 years ago, Clipse were stuck in label purgatory when trying to drop Hell Hath No Fury. This moment ahead of LGSTO propelled the duo to cut ties with Def Jam and UMG entirely, signing a distribution deal with Roc Nation instead—a move that has given them the liberation they aspired to early in their career. The raps throughout this album feel reflective of that newfound freedom.
With everything aligned, the features—like Kendrick’s dizzying contribution to “Chains & Whips”—feel deliberate, though some fit better than others. Kendrick’s verse alone makes up for whatever contributions he made to the Playboi Carti album and stands as a verse-of-the-year contender. Pharrell’s production on “P.O.V.” evokes the off-kilter cinematic vibe of producers like Alchemist or Madlib, while Push and Malice’s verses breathe life into the streets they once knew. Tyler, The Creator’s verse on “P.O.V.” fits his oddball aura without losing potency. Other features, like Nas, don’t quite land as well—Nas sounds like he mailed in a verse without fully grasping the album’s context.
This isn’t necessarily the cocaine rap album people might have expected. While that element isn’t absent, it clearly moves beyond it. The moments when they do dive deeper into that territory yield phenomenal results. “F.I.C.O.”, for example, could turn Stove God Cooks into hip-hop’s go-to hook man. His soulful, smoky delivery ties together Push and Malice’s flashbacks of dodging K9s and navigating pissy hallways. It reminds listeners that the Clipse may have evolved spiritually and professionally, but they haven’t forgotten how to paint the world that raised them. And that world is encompassed in a love for hip-hop above all else.
“M.T.B.T.T.F.” brings classic Pete Rock-esque production, while Push’s delivery channels Biggie’s cadences and Malice bounces with a Run-DMC flair. Meanwhile, “E.B.I.T.D.A..” embraces Pharrell’s penchant for jazz—experimental and bright—yet this has always been core to Clipse’s artistic imprint since “Grindin’.” For those craving a bit more nostalgia, Ab-Liva’s appearance on “Inglourious Bastards” serves as a quick throwback to the Re-Up Gang tapes.
Growth and grit don’t stand at opposite ends—they go hand-in-hand through uncertainty. For all the questions that loomed over a new Clipse album, Let God Sort Em Out stands as proof that cocaine, gospel, and grief can coexist—if the voices behind them can carry the weight. “By The Grace Of God” eloquently ties these themes together with the context of their careers. Navigating the streets, the music industry, and the loss of their parents, Push and Malice are still standing. Ultimately, Let God Sort Em Out lands not just because of skill or songwriting, but because of the scar tissue it wears proudly. The honesty, the soul, and the clarity only a lifetime of sacrifice and loss can bring shine through. This is an album shaped by the cost of the past—one that boldly declares the Clipse aren’t just back. They’ve evolved, and they’re still unbreakable.
