CD reviews: New Snoop Dogg entertains, Rick Ross mediocre

‘Ego Trippin’

Snoop Dogg (Doggy Style/Geffen)

Grade: B

Leave it to Snoop Dogg to breathe new life (and a few laughs) into a borderline-overused urban music trend. On the slinky first single “Sexual Seduction,” the West Coast rap veteran utilized the popular Auto-Tune processor — the production device that digitizes music to sound much like Roger Troutman’s vocoder-assisted vocals — and scored with a major hit and a hilarious ’80s-inspired throwback video.

But that shrewd ability stay in step with the times while not taking himself too seriously is partly what has enabled Snoop to extend his career long past his gangsta-rapping, early ’90s heyday.

After more than 15 years, Snoop may be covering familiar lyrical terrain on his ninth studio album, “Ego Trippin’.” His brags again reference his gangsta-slim sex appeal, his gang affiliation and undeniable star power. But Snoop’s brand of cool make the redundancies seem more like excusable character ticks than artistic liabilities. On “Press Play,” a stellar, horn-accented track produced by DJ Quik, Snoops explains: “Still toking, title holding, Desert Eagle 4-5 toting ... yeah, I’m still focused.”

For periods of “Ego Trippin’,” Snoop does sound focused. The first half is chocked with bangers, including a wistful look back at his career, “Neva Have 2 Worry,” and the bass-heavy, Neptunes-helmed, “Sets Up.” But two-thirds in, it’s clear that Snoop has trouble editing himself as he crams in odes to a range of musical influences. “Cool” is an average remake of The Time’s synth-funk party-starter. “Staxxx In My Jeans” meekly mimics the trunk-rattling Southern rap sound and contains an inane, slo-mo hook: “My pockets look like Re-Run’s/ your pockets look like Raj.” Snoop even goes country-western on the Everlast-produced “My Medicine.” However, that track, like most of the disc, is an undeniable good time, and further proof Snoop’s still not wasting his breath.

—Brett Johnson, Associated Press

‘trilla’

Rick Ross (Def Jam)

Grade: C

Given the outsized success of Rick Ross’ summer 2006 smash “Hustlin’,” it’d be easy to regard the Miami rapper as a one-hit wonder. Though that single was representative of the top-notch production heard throughout his major-label debut, “Port of Miami,” a closer listen reveals an MC without the greatest lyrical chops. Ross relies on hooky, elongated syllables (“I’m a bawwwssss.”) and a husky, deliberate flow rather than evocative wordplay.

Now, on his follow-up effort, “Trilla,” his limitations as an MC seem even more apparent. Meanwhile, the disc’s same-sounding beats rarely impress beyond the grandiose synth-heavy productions of his debut.

In fact, the singular bombast of his beats only mirror his bold lyrical pronouncements — loud and ominous but without nuance to make the details jump out of the speaker. His main concern is to brag about his wealth. On “All I Have in This World,” a high-octane boastfest with Mannie Fresh, Ross compares his bulging pockets to that of a lame rival: “My money so long/ His money ain’t nothing/ My money in front of me/ His money just frontin’.” Ah, the brash poetry of the nouveau riche.

Even with big-name collaborators, the results are just average. The Runners-produced “Speedin”’ features a soaring R. Kelly-sung hook but awkward Ross rhymes: “Every dollar that I count can’t go in my account/ my accountant can’t count all my money in an hour.” And all that Jay-Z (“Maybach Music”) and Lil Wayne and Trick Daddy (“Luxury Tax”) do is highlight the gulf in talent between them and their host. With “Trilla,” Ross proves he has all the right connections, just not enough savvy to elevate his game to the next level.

—Brett Johnson, Associated Press

‘soul speak’

Michael McDonald (Universal)

Grade: C

On two albums of classic Motown covers, McDonald proved that his voice, like Rod Stewart’s, translates well to all sorts of material. But with this collection, McDonald may have gone back to the well of old soul standards once too often. You can tell because about half way through, the album loses its thematic thread and comes unstitched.

Things begin promisingly, with a spry cover of Aretha’s hit “I Knew You Were Waiting (for Me).” But even though songs like “Love T.K.O.” and “For Once in My Life” are beautifully produced, this white-maned wailer simply can’t touch the originals.

He redeems himself with a wan, lovely version of Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic.” But he’s already wandering from the soul path. By the time McDonald gets to “You Don’t Know Me,” Eddy Arnold’s country chestnut, he’s way out in the briar patch.

—David Hiltbrand, Philadelphia Inquirer

‘warpaint’

The Black Crowes (Silver Arrow/Megaforce)

Grade: B

The Brothers Robinson — dirtball guitarist Richard, swaggering singer Chris — mine the hard coal of pop’s southerly past to form diamonds of countryfied blues, gospel and hillbilly soul. That deeply nuanced burr and aged-whiskey whine seeps through their every chord and pore.

From the rickety ruckus of “Goodbye Daughters of the Revolution” to the open-prairie moan of “Whoa Mule,” there’s Mississippi mud in the blue water mixing Warpaint’s true colors. Having slide guitarist Luther Dickinson on the Allmans-like ride helps Richard take to the starry “Movin’ on Down the Line” with greasy ease. And covering Charlie Jackson’s “God’s Got It” with a soulful kick is a blessing.

But it’s Chris Robinson’s beat-dog howl, snippy whinnying and hippie-ish cheer guiding tunes sadly ruminative (”Oh Josephine”) and sunshiny (”Evergreen”) through their dustiest paces that makes “Warpaint” battered. It’s just like the difference between an old leather jacket and a new “distressed” one. You can’t fake beat.

—A.D. Amorosi, Philadelphia Inquirer

‘old growth’

Dead Meadow (Matador)

Grade: B

The D.C. power trio pursues more of the lighter quasi-Pink Floyd and psych-folk touches of recent years on their fifth album. More acoustic guitars than ever, sure, but they’re still bringing the stoney blooze on tracks like “The Great Deceiver” (not the King Crimson tune) and “What Needs Must Be” — the latter a bit more T. Rex than Blue Cheer. Vocalist-guitarist Jason Simon delivers lyrics in hazy phrasing, again sounding much like J. Pierce of Spacemen 3/Spiritualized.

—David R. Stampone, Philadelphia Inquirer