Pitchfork

Some will get hung up on whether Plastic Little jacked Ghostface for this verse, how much they paid him, or how many platinum eagles they had made for dude from their own melted-down fillings. Hey: They got their hero on the track, invited all their friends along, case closed. Why ask who-eats-who when Plastic Little are on Vespas wearing Espo raincoats and Ghost is buying some empty bar out? Put his OxyClean gleam against Plastic's love of being broke and sniffing coke and tell me they want the same things from hip-hop. These Philly boys'n'girls are sideline guys, telling jokes, getting onstage and rapping 'cause a rock band is too much work and none too cool to boot. That endlessly, shamelessly looped clap-riff is just fun and games to them; they'll let it play forever, even let the legend play them out on their own track. That the Champ can "out rap" four Plastic Littles and one Amanda Blank with one eye closed, half-asleep, and probably still woozy with whatever they kidnapped him with is just proof he's on a different grind.