For the last 16 years, Clipse have been in self-imposed exile. Shortly after the duo’s 2009 album ‘Til The Casket Drops’ was released, No Malice quietly quit the group, suffering from the pressures caused by a federal investigation that would see their former manager sentenced to 32 years on drug trafficking charges. In the years since, rumours have abounded about a return, but it wasn’t until 2019 when Malice and his brother, Pusha T, reunited – first for Kanye West’s ‘Jesus Is King’ album, and then slowly dropping a handful of tracks.
Finally, the pair have a full new album to share in ‘Let The Lord Sort Em Out’. It’s a record that was supposed to be a coronation – a reminder of the Virginia brothers’ uncanny ability to turn corner store cautionary tales into glossy cultural blueprints. Instead, the album – which is drenched in grief, self-mythology and spiritual wrestlings – lands a well-tailored shrug; elegant in craft, rich in detail, but rarely as impactful as it wants to be.
This isn’t just a reunion for Push and Malice, but one for the duo with frequent collaborator, Pharrell, too. From the opening moments, there’s a haunting, almost churchy quality to his production. For the most part, the thick choral layers and the celestial organs give the album a sombre backbone, but his hip-hop beats aren’t as innovative, lacking the neck-snapping grit used to power Clipse’s 2002 classic ‘Grindin’’. On former single ‘A.C.E. Trumpets’, brass-heavy melodies swirl around restrained percussion, hinting at grandeur but never quite erupting into full triumph. Pusha T brings back that old dope-boy bravado (“You rappers all beneath me”) while No Malice retorts, “All of you imposters, simply just Ferrari window-shoppers” – a cold reminder of their pedigree. But these moments, as sharp as they are, drift by rather than hit the soul.
Malice’s presence is complicated on the record. He remains the reflective anchor, dropping sermons rather than street manifestos. On ‘All Things Considered,’ he raps, “I’m too refined to address these swines, that’s below me / You still got white on your nose, that’s why you owe me”. He’s both elegant and dismissive, simultaneously flexing spiritual enlightenment and street authority. But while his maturity is admirable, it can dilute the tension, veering closer to being a preacher than a street prophet.
The features here threaten to overshadow the hosts completely. Tyler, the Creator injects his wild, signature mischief on ‘P.O.V.’, Nas flexes his elder statesman muscle on the title track and then there’s Kendrick Lamar on ‘Chains & Whips’. Lamar – long past kumbayas – taps back into his broken saviour complex with the same snap we witnessed last year in his beef with Drake. “Let’s be clear, hip-hop died again,” he testifies. “Half of my profits may go to Rakim / How many Judases done let me down?” It’s clear he’s hijacked the entire album’s emotional centre – the one true moment where the record actually feels dangerous and alive.
There are sparks of the old magic: the catchy staccato chorus on ‘P.O.V.’, the grandiose pop-rap sweep of “M.T.B.T.T.F.’, the buoyant bounce and Pharrell’s rap on ‘E.B.I.T.D.A.’ feels like a glimpse into Clipse’s heyday. Thanks to the introspection on their past lives of selling dope and their reflections on their parents’ deaths throughout – especially on ‘Grace Of God’ – the album had all the means to be a gospel-rap masterpiece. It could, too, have been a manual for surviving vice and violence with your soul intact. Instead, it all feels too clinical.
The tag “This is culturally inappropriate” repeats throughout the record, and at first, it feels out of place. The brothers don’t say anything particularly shocking – no wild antics or cartoonish threats. Pusha’s lines on the title track about Fentanyl rushes and plastic surgery might provoke a slight brow twitch, but largely, it’s safe. And maybe that’s the biggest provocation here: in an age of controversy-chasing, Clipse avoid cheap shock value. Even the production isn’t as flashy and frenetic as the rest of the pop-rap world. In controversy’s place, they deliver raw grown-man rap: frank and deeply embedded in real-world scars.
‘Let the Lord Sort ’Em Out’ isn’t a total misfire: it’s composed, thoughtful and often impressively lyrically detailed. But after 16 years, Clipse didn’t come back knocking down doors and shocking the world. They came back to remind you they’re still here, still alive, still ruminating.
Details
- Record label: Roc Nation
- Release date: July 11, 2025