Pitchfork

Why is it that hip-hop artists have so much trouble reinventing themselves once they're established in the game? In the rock and roll milieu, someone like David Bowie can adopt a different persona with each record he drops, and not only get away with it, but have it increase his marketability. With hip-hop, though, conventional wisdom is to stick with the tried-and-true as long as it moves units, then get the hell out. Think about it: Run-D.M.C.'s Back from Hell was based upon the premise that they went underground and re-emerged as hardened thugs, a ploy that got hip-hop's equivalent of the three wise men nearly laughed out of the kingdom. Meanwhile, others that have had drops in the bucket of post-revisionist success either possessed suspect credibility in the first place (can I get an Everlast?) or just changed the punchline to what was already a bad joke (that's you, Kid Rock).

Upon first glance, it appeared Common may have achieved that kind of transformation with his follow-up to Like Water for Chocolate. From the Sgt. Common's Lonely Peeps Club Band cover art to an 8\xBD-minute ode to Jimi Hendrix, Electric Circus resonates with a lava lamp glow that's a lot more hip-pie than hip-hop. But that's Com's idea of where hip-hop should be headed-- to a land far, far away from the bling-blingity of his mainstream peers; if only his record hadn't been released so close to The Roots' Phrenology (note to MCA management: fire the person responsible for that little "oversight"), Common's three steps backward might not pale so harshly in comparison to his peers' two steps forward.

The most difficult sword to swallow in this particular circus is the near-absence of noteworthy vocals. Though Common's never exactly been a top-shelf emcee, his previous records always had enough good ideas to cover up what he lacked in invention on the mic. This time out, Com comes off as alternately uncomfortable and downright lazy, half-speaking-- or worse, singing-- new-age revelations to the masses. Even on a crunk-ass Neptunes track like "I Got a Right Ta", he plods along with an awkward flow only to boast, "I'm the only cat in hip-hop/ That can go to a thrift shop/ Bring that get-up to the ghetto/ And get props," as if it's something to be proud of. But for better or worse, he still delivers some vintage Common flow on "I Am Music" and the equally imposing (and nonsensical) "Electric Wire Hustle Flower", making it impossible to write him off completely.

Common's also always had a soft side, which has more often than not stood up in defense of his tendencies toward lyrical misogyny. Unfortunately, returning to that comfort zone on Electric Circus translates into some of the record's weakest moments. If "Star *69 (PS With Love)"-- a totally predictable phone-sex love song that reeks of cheap incense and leopard-print upholstery-- isn't example enough, Com's smarmy duet with Mary J. Blige on "Come Close" should be sufficient. With a line like, "The pimp in me may just have to die with you," Com invalidates any claims he might have to renaissance man status in a mere eleven syllables.

Yet there's one crucial element to Electric Circus that salvages it from the razor-sharp ends of our three-pronged fork: listening to it on headphones is another experience altogether. The record has a mellow tide to it much like that of Like Water for Chocolate, with brief musical interludes that fuse even the sharpest stylistic changes together nicely. It all builds up like a slow fever to the two marathon-length tracks that dismantle the big top-- "Jimi Was a Rock Star" and "Heaven Somewhere"-- both of which are laudable for their ambition, even if they're not quite cohesive.

If nothing else, Common does at least succeed in his mission to offer an alternative in a culture that, on the surface, values material wealth over spiritual well-being. Because even if Electric Circus isn't the sonic coup d'etat he might've intended, it does plant the seeds for future revolution within anyone who cares enough to kick back and listen.