I’ve had Pharoahe Monch’s Desire for a little over three weeks now. The editors here at Drop came to me and asked if I’d be interested in reviewing it, and naturally, I jumped at the opportunity. As someone who had always heard about Pharoahe Monch but wasn’t very familiar with his material, I was intrigued.

Weeks passed and the editors kept asking me, “Do you have that Pharoahe Monch review yet?” and I’d invariably respond, “soon, I promise.” This pattern continued for the following three weeks and now I sit here, listening to the album I’ve heard to over and over again, trying to review it. The only reason I’m doing it though is because I’ve had an epiphany: Desire is one of the most uninspiring, unremarkable albums I’ve heard in years. But it’s strangely not that bad.

The production is very good, but not exceptional. Pharoahe’s flow is solid but doesn’t invoke any certain praise. The pacing and construction of the album is done well but that’s something to be expected from veterans.

The intriguing part of Desire is the dichotomy it creates. Pharoahe is essentially a backpack rapper, though on this release, he rides countless glossy, high-powered beats. Each track sounds like a club banger as Pharoahe avoids flowing about his 24”s and hoes in the club.

The melody of the album opener “Free” occasionally sounds strangely reminiscent of Fabolous’ “Breathe” while “What It Is” is carried by a horror-movie keyboard drone. Pharoahe makes note of these diverging styles when he spits on the latter, “They thought I was backpack, slept / Didn’t know what I kept inside my knapsack.” This admission further emphasizes the discombobulating coalescence of styles on Desire.

The most interesting track on the album though is the closer, “Trilogy,” a collection of three different songs thrown into one another like a thirty-car pile-up on the freeway. Act One rides a minimalist, plucked-guitar beat and soulful chorus while Act Two is an introspective, conscious jazz breakdown. “Trilogy” finally opens up in Act Three when the syncopated percussion is hammered by a pounding horn section and frantic lines before divulging into a piano driven denouement.

In the end, Desire is a wholly enjoyable album but fails to make any headlines. Pharoahe Monch holds his own with his contemporaries, but can’t seem to make it past the crux of backpack rapping. He seems to have too little to say (witnessed by his cover of “Welcome to the Terrordome”) and not enough ways to say it. The cover of Desire is a picture of presumably Monch’s face, shrouded by a dirtied cloth. If he can find a way to remove that muzzle and truly let his style free like he did on Internal Affairs, he’ll be someone worth watching in the future.

by Chris Gaerig

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