Pitchfork

Less than three years ago, Cincinnati producer Hi-Tek-- then known almost exclusively as the primary sound architect for Rawkus' brief, romanticized run atop underground rap-- showed up in the liner notes of G-Unit's Beg For Mercy, the debut from 50 Cent's nascent crew. This was shocking but not without precedent. In fact, Tek had worked with Snoop Dogg a year prior on Paid tha Cost to Be da Bo$$ and had been tabbed by Dr. Dre to become a member of his Aftermath production inner circle. Still, for many who held Soundbombing compilations close to their heart, the G-Unit association was a devastating revelation. Since then, Hi-Tek has impressively weaved between his bohemian friends and the likes of D12 to form a fairly reputable production history. His best beat ever is still a photo finish between Black Star's dusty "Fortified Live" and 50's pristine "Bitch, Get In My Car"-- two songs that couldn't be more different.

So Hi-Tek (né Tony Cottrell) arrives after this transformation with Hi-Teknology, an album many point to as Rawkus' last gasp. And it's almost exactly what we expect: confident, if underwhelming, stylistic leapfrogging. Yeoman's hip-hop. One minute Jadakiss rasps his way through an inspired bundle of distorted organs and tumbling piano rolls on the rousing "Where It Started (N.Y.)". Then Hi-Tek is re-teamed with his old Reflection Eternal partner, Talib Kweli-- one of three such collabos-- on the flute-laced, doily rap, "Can We Go Back". It's a sentiment Kweli has long begged for, despite things moving further and further from 1998 as the days pass.

This kind of inconsistency is wonderful for cherry picking; the vibrant "Josephine", featuring Tek's parents as the Willie Cottrell Band, and a frisky Ghostface Killah yammering "Yo, I know this chick from the hood named Courtney Cox/ And the brain is easy to pick like faulty locks/ She's awfully hot, asshole burnin' like Tabasco/ She used to be thick, it's like 'Where the hell the ass go?'" is a perfect mid-album soul quencher.

Album closer "Music For Life", featuring deceased compatriot J Dilla and a fierce verse from Nas (who has always done nostalgia 10 times better than Kweli), best approximates the groove he so often relied on in the late 90s, a shimmering flute loop over snares that sound like drummed empty bottles. One of the few hyper-commercial moments comes on the clearly Dr. Dre-inspired "1-800-HOMICIDE" featuring The Game. Its tense string plucks and West Coast r&b chorus, sung by Aftermath crooner Dion, are quintessential Dre-jacking. Later, Devin the Dude and Bun B, Texas' two active best voices, show up for a weighty jam that only serves to remind us that Devin's follow-up to To Tha X-Treme and UGK's reunion album can't come soon enough.

So there's a Texas song, a West Coast song, an NYC song, a Busta Rhymes song, and so on... This is the problem with Tek's elasticity: Without a primary style to lean on, we get a grab bag of strong records. The only unifying factor is that Tek can rock as smoothly with a bulldog like The Game as he can with mush-soul songstresses like Floetry's Marsha Ambrosius. Without the punishing consistency of say, The Chronic, or the daring oddity of Quasimoto's The Unseen, we're left with nothing but a glorified mixtape.