Pitchfork

Fist. Skin. Blood. Cheers. This would prove to be a common sequence of events for the greatest boxer in history, Muhammad Ali. While sports historians never forget to mention his ability as a fighter, most will recall that he partially made his name by talking shit. From one Ali to another, the tradition continues. This time in the visage of a young Brother with two red eyes, pale white skin, a black soul and what I believe can safely be called one of the year's best albums.

A Molotov cocktail of Nas' chipped-toothed storyteller, Slug's introspective emo-thug, and Common Sense's wordplay aficionado, Brother Ali has clearly studied the album structures of mid-90s masters. From the urine-soaked authenticity of his portrayal of inner city Minneapolis life ("Room with a View") to the staggering detail of a conflict with his wife-beating neighbor ("Dorian") to a bass monster spiritual alloy of The Legion's "Jingle Jangle" and Atmosphere's "Flesh", where he claims to be "a cross between John Gotti and Mahatma Gandhi" ("Bitchslap"), Ali focuses his powerful delivery equally on reality-based depth charges and classic rap braggadocio. In this regard, Brother Ali truly is the bad motherfucker his nom de plume ancestor was. On "When the Beat Comes In", he claims to be, "A big teddy bear/ Until they scream 'stop slamming the car door, that's my fucking head in there!'" and, subsequently, tells an invisible adversary that he'll "serve your family and write about it in my journal like I'm Mr. Belvedere."

Brother Ali made a name for himself through freestyle competitions and mind-blowing live shows, and this energy translates well to the compact disc format. His greatest power lies within his sedimentary flow. His rhyme schemes skit and scat across instrumentals like pebbles breaking waves on the beach, while his sheer force-of-will cadence drags this album into the upper echelon. When Ali tells you that he's "walking tall enough to make your half-moon whole," he says it with the confidence of a man that just stuffed the ballot box.

Although the focus is consistently directed to Mr. Ali's magnetic delivery, props must be given to Atmosphere's Ant for his most consistent production to date. While his work with Slug has typically been hit ("Flesh", "Guns and Cigarettes") or miss ("Tears for the Sheep"), this album is more or less flawless instrumentally. Clearly influenced by the RZA, and more recently, Rocafella associates Kanye West and Just Blaze, Ant has finally surrounded his single drumkit with samples that distract from his trademark headphone-destroying snare. The cheery church organ flourish of "Forest Whitaker" and the ridiculously smooth flute-guitar battle of "Star Quality" both exemplify Ant's sudden willingness to diversify his portfolio.

Granted, not every beat is completely rock solid, and some of the most interesting tracks end far too quickly ("Forest Whitaker" was a verse away from being the best song about living with Albinism ever, while Ali's collab with Slug, "Missing Teeth", sports one of the best beats on the album, but only lasts for less than two minutes), but when these kinds of minor issues are an album's only shortcomings, you tend to look past them. Shadows on the Sun one-ups Ali's already sick debut, and proves him one of the first great voices to emerge from the underground so far this century.