Album Review: Let God Sort Em Out by Clipse
Pusha remains relentless, Malice newly measured, and Let God Sort Em Out anchors not as a victory lap but as a living archive of choices, debts, and devotion.
When Clipse burst onto the scene with their 2002 debut Lord Willin’, they made their priorities painfully clear from the very first bar. On the album’s intro track, Pusha T famously lays down the mission statement: “Playas we ain’t the same/ I’m into ’caine and guns.” With that single opening line, the younger Thornton brother (Terrence “Pusha T” Thornton) announced that Clipse’s world would revolve around cocaine deals and firepower. It was a baptism by fire into what came to be known as Coke Rap, delivered with unrivaled precision and bravado. Critics noted how no one could rap about the dope game with the meticulous detail that Clipse did—the duo’s tales of baking soda, Pyrex pots, and street politics felt “imitated but never duplicated.” In those early days, Pusha’s verses (often trading off with his brother Gene “Malice” Thornton) were drenched in violence, excess, and nihilistic swagger, establishing Clipse as kings of an illicit empire in their music.
The Neptunes’ (back when Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo were together) production played a critical role in amplifying this gritty worldview. As one-half of The Neptunes, Pharrell crafted sparse, hard-hitting beats; most famously, the minimalist “Grindin’” percussion that sounded like lunchroom tables being pounded, to accentuate Clipse’s raw street narratives. The Lord Willin’ era production was deceptively menacing, yet straightforward, with ominous synth stabs, trunk-rattling 808 drums, and endless empty space for the brothers’ bars to breathe. This was the sound of Virginia Beach’s underbelly packaged as mainstream hip-hop. Pusha T and Malice rhymed about “dirty money” and danger with a cold-blooded calm, and Pharrell’s beats gave their coke-slinging braggadocio a stylish, head-nodding backdrop. Early Clipse music married clever, ruthless wordplay to sinister, skeletal beats, creating a signature style that made tracks like “Grindin’” instant anthems. The chemistry between the Thornton brothers’ lyricism and Pharrell’s production was evident from day one, and it set the stage for everything to come.
Fast forward 23 years, and Clipse open their long-awaited reunion album Let God Sort Em Out with a very different kind of mission statement. However, the path we took to get there is rather complicated. Clipse initially signed with Def Jam (under Universal Music Group) for the comeback, but label politics nearly derailed the project. The trouble centered on Kendrick Lamar’s feature on “Chains & Whips.” After a very public feud in summer 2024 between two of UMG’s biggest artists (Drake and Kendrick, each of whom has their own history with Clipse), the corporate higher-ups got cold feet about Pusha T and Kendrick appearing on the same track. Def Jam execs absurdly asked Pusha to have Kendrick censor his verse, which contained no real disses toward Drake, by all accounts, purely to avoid “optics” of antagonism. Pusha T flatly refused. When the label then suggested dropping the song entirely, Pusha still wouldn’t budge, and the stalemate escalated to the point where Def Jam offered to drop the Clipse from the roster if that’s what it took.
Recognizing an opportunity to preserve their integrity, Pusha and Malice paid an enormous seven-figure sum to buy themselves out of their Def Jam contract and take the album elsewhere. It was a steep price (“not, like, $200,000… it was a lot of money,” their manager Steven Victor revealed), but it speaks volumes about Clipse’s commitment to doing this right. They quite literally bet on themselves and their legacy rather than compromise. In the aftermath, the duo inked a new deal to release the album through JAY-Z’s Roc Nation as a distributor—a fitting home, given Roc Nation’s reputation for artist-centric deals and Jigga Man’s kinship as another coke-rap godfather turned industry wise man. By taking the independent route (albeit with a powerhouse like Roc Nation backing them), Clipse ensured that Let God Sort Em Out arrives as a pure expression of their artistry, free from boardroom meddling. In an era where algorithms and A&R formulas often dictate album content, this record stands apart. It is the sound of two veteran MCs staking their claim in hip-hop history without outside interference.
No discussion of Clipse’s reunion is complete without examining Gene Thornton’s remarkable personal turnaround. After Til the Casket Drops (2009), Malice shocked fans by walking away from the group at the height of their fame. By 2010, he underwent a spiritual rebirth, converting to Christianity and rechristening himself “No Malice,” effectively burying the old moniker that had signified malice. He publicly declared the death of “Malice,” even tweeting “R.I.P. ‘Malice’ 8/20/2002 – 3/6/2012” to mark his transformation, and released a memoir, Wretched, Pitiful, Poor, Blind and Naked, detailing his awakening. In 2013, he dropped a solo album, Hear Ye Him (followed by Let the Dead Bury the Dead in 2017), firmly in the lane of Christian rap. During this period, No Malice’s music was centered on redemption, morality, and faith. He distanced himself from the coke-slinging content of Clipse, focusing on uplifting messages and warnings about the wages of sin. For essentially a decade, Malice withdrew from the secular rap spotlight, leaving Pusha T to continue alone.
Many assumed Clipse was gone for good, as Malice himself often insisted he had no interest in returning to the old material, and early on he “firmly denied the possibility of a reunion.” It was a remarkable stance where one half of a famous rap duo stepped away to serve a higher calling, potentially at the cost of commercial success. Yet make no mistake. Malice sounds anything but preachy or soft. He’s as formidable as ever on the mic, seamlessly blending “hard-won inner peace with survival instincts he’s never lost.” One of his standout lines on the album comes from “Ace Trumpets,” where he quips: “Never leavin’ home without my piece like I’m Mahatma.” In one bar, Malice packs layered meaning; he references peace (spiritual peace) through a play on words (piece as in firearm) and name-drops Mahatma Gandhi (an icon of non-violence) to ironically assert that he’s not turning the other cheek. He follows it with “Never turn the other cheek, you’ll die at the Oscars,” a grimly witty nod to the infamous slap incident, implying that in his world, responding passively (like Chris Rock did) isn’t an option. This is classic Malice, where he’s contemplative yet cutting, spiritually informed yet street-hardened.
In practical terms, Gene Thornton has even reverted to his old stage name “Malice” for this project, an intentional choice he explained by saying “that’s who the Clipse is—Malice and Pusha.” By doing so, he acknowledges that his secular lyrical persona is back in full force, but it now comes fortified with the insights of No Malice. The result of Let God Sort Em Out is a powerful dual narrative: one verse might revel in the hustler mentality, and the next might reflect on judgment, both earthly and divine. This interplay reaches a peak on the album’s closer, “By the Grace of God,” presumably a reflective epilogue where Malice and Pharrell (who guests on the track) drive home how only grace has kept them alive and prospering. After all the flexes and confessing across the album, ending on a song explicitly invoking God’s grace feels fitting, as it details how Malice’s influence has steered Clipse toward acknowledging the spiritual dimension of their journey. They are rap elders now, with Malice as the conscience and Pusha as the unforgiving id, and their reunion thrives because neither overwhelms the other. Instead, they merge those perspectives into songs that honor both who they were and who they have become.
The first track, “The Birds Don’t Sing,” immediately signals that this project will not be a mere rehash of coke-fueled boasting. Described as a “wrenching” opener, where each brother dedicates a verse to one of their recently departed parents. The song finds Pusha T and Malice baring raw grief that would have been unthinkable on Lord Willin’. Here, the youthful hustler bravado gives way to grown men processing loss and pain. The dramatic shift in tone from Lord Willin’ to “The Birds Don’t Sing” illustrates just how much the Thornton brothers have evolved. Where once their music was almost numb to consequence (e.g., casually referencing death and violence as part of the game), now they confront death directly, with open wounds. It’s a moment of triumph through vulnerability; Clipse proving they can still be as hard-hitting as ever, not by flexing street credentials, but by fearlessly exposing real human grief.
Pusha T’s verse on “The Birds Don’t Sing” addresses their late mother, and the emotional depth is striking. Over a haunting, gospel-tinged hook from John Legend (backed by the Voices of Fire choir), Pusha drops his guard and recounts the last moments with his mom. “Lost in emotion, mama's youngest…/Some experience death and feel numbness/But not me, I felt it all and couldn't function,” he raps, admitting that her passing utterly broke him. He proceeds to detail how he was busy “checking [his] mentions” on social media while his mother was quietly saying her goodbyes, visiting family members, expressing final wishes, without letting him know she was at death’s door. Pusha’s lines reveal profound regret (“I heard what I wanted to hear but didn’t listen”) and longing (“still longs to kiss Mama’s cheek—I miss it” as he confesses elsewhere). It’s a level of vulnerability and reflection that Clipse had never shown before on record.
Malice’s verse, in turn, is devoted to their late father, and it’s even more harrowing. He vividly describes discovering his father’s body at home, weaving in spiritual imagery and personal revelation. Malice arrives to find “your car was in the driveway” and feels a chill by the third knock, knowing something is wrong. He enters to see his father in the kitchen, scripture notes left in the den, and unsent text messages on his phone. In heartbreaking detail, Malice recounts how his father died shortly after their mother, almost as if he couldn’t let her “go alone.” Amid this tragedy, Malice also relays a final conversation with his dad that changed his life: his father encouraged him to return to music. “I can hear your voice now… asking ‘Should I rap again?’, you gave me your blessing…/Boy, you owe it to the world. Let your mess become your message.’” This poignant instruction (let your mess become your message) is a thesis for the entire album. Clipse are no longer glorifying the hustler life for its own sake; they are transforming their trauma and life lessons into art. The birds don’t sing anymore in their world; they screech in pain, as the chorus goes, and Clipse is finally owning that pain on record.
One constant bridge between 1999 and 2025 is the presence of Pharrell Williams behind the boards. Pharrell (now working solo, without his Neptunes partner Chad Hugo) serves as executive producer and sole beat-maker on Let God Sort Em Out, just as he helmed all of Clipse’s albums (Lord Willin’, Hell Hath No Fury, Til the Casket Drops). His touch remains unmistakable as the latest release is full of the same spare, ominous sonic palette that defined Clipse’s early work, updated for a new era. Take the lead single “Ace Trumpets”, for example. The track rides nothing but hard 808s and eerily sparse instrumentation, leaving ample room for the brothers to unleash battle-ready verses. It’s a direct descendant of the Grindin’ blueprint, “gritty, menacing,” and stripped-down, proving that Pharrell can still cook up beats that hit hard with very few ingredients. On “The Birds Don’t Sing,” his production is appropriately somber, layering a plaintive piano and church-choir ambience under John Legend’s hook, yet it still carries that slithering, uneasy feel that ties back to Clipse’s darker material. On “Chains & Whips,” Pharrell flips noxious synths and a thunderous drum line, matching the track’s aggressive theme (more on that later). And on a track like “So Far Ahead,” he can introduce slightly brighter chords or a soulful touch, only to submerge it in brooding sub-bass.
The hard-hitting “M.T.B.T.T.F.,” or put, “Mike Tyson Blow to the Face,” treats language like contraband—cut, weighed, compressed—and each bar lands with the snap of cellophane around a fresh pack. It’s everything that made Clipse folklore, packed with airtight cadence, layered coke slang, mordant flexes, and an endless appetite for phonetic puzzles. Coke talk is the organizing grammar, but the metaphors are as sharp as the margins, both once hustled on. The luxury flexes come braided with gambling and tech metaphors: “What’s a Testarossa if you don’t test ’em?” toys with the Ferrari model name while daring rivals to provoke him; even casual boasts hide double meaning: “Ice dressin’ on my chestin’, leave impression.” You go from this to “E.B.I.T.D.A.,” which is “Earnings Before Interest, Taxes, Depreciation, and Amortization,” has a throwback Neptunes feel (which sonically can be out-of-place compared to other knockers on here), has the Thornton brothers outlining the wholesale math: a discount on bricks turns into literal ice in champagne, a curb-side version of vertical integration.
One of the joys of Let God Sort Em Out is hearing the reunion of Pusha T and Malice in full force as their lyrical chemistry picks up right where it left off, and perhaps even reaches new heights. The brothers have always had distinct personalities on the mic: Pusha T delivers razor-sharp coke metaphors with cool confidence, while Malice often brought a more introspective, world-weary edge to the duo’s songs. On this album, that dynamic remains intact, albeit with some role evolution. After a 15-year hiatus, Malice sounds just as good as ever.. Time away from secular rap clearly sharpened his blade because he’s hungry on these tracks. On every song, you hear two veterans spurring each other on, trading bars with a tight-knit timing that only actual brothers could achieve after so many years. The creative chemistry is palpable and gives the project a crackling energy even in its heavier moments.
Crucially, Pharrell Williams is the catalyst in this chemistry. As a producer and occasional hookman on the album, Pharrell knows exactly how to get the best out of Pusha and Malice. His history with them spans two decades, and that comfort level results in inspired performances. He often appears vocally in subtle ways (background vocals, ad-libs; he’s credited as a guest on several tracks), acting almost like a bandleader keeping the vibe on track. The trio’s creative trust, honed since the Lord Willin’ days, means no idea is off-limits. The Neptunes maestro might push the brothers into new flows or song structures, and they, in turn, inspire his production choices. His role is akin to a third member of Clipse, and his sparse, menacing beats seamlessly frame both the old Clipse (youthful kingpins) and the new Clipse (battle-tested survivors). This three-way chemistry (Pusha, Malice, Pharrell) is the backbone of the album.
Beyond the core team, Let God Sort Em Out recruits a star-studded roster of guest artists, not for pop appeal, but to add depth and contrast to Clipse’s vision. The features read like a who’s who of musical heavyweights: John Legend lends a soulful gravity to the chorus of “The Birds Don’t Sing,” essentially baptizing the album in gospel pain from the outset. Kendrick Lamar delivers an outstanding and much-buzzed-about verse on “Chains & Whips,” a hard-hitting track that tackles the trappings of wealth and oppression in the rap game. Full disclosure: The best verse of 2025 doesn’t deserve Clipse to remove the verse requested by Def Jam and/or UMG. His entry kicks off by upending expectations from the first line—“I’m not the candidate to vibe with”—where he immediately distances himself from any packaged persona and refuses the hollow fellowship of a kumbaya approach.
He layers religious and political imagery to stake a claim on both spiritual authority and artistic sovereignty. References to Judas and to hip-hop’s recurrent deaths (“Let’s be clear, hip-hop died again”) not only nod to betrayal and rebirth but also frame his career as a cycle of challenge, survival, and reinvention. By suggesting that part of his earnings might go to Rakim, he pays homage to a forefather while reminding that his rise is tethered to legacy as much as innovation. Technically, this verse is an exercise in precision and surprise. Notice how he pairs hard consonants with long, stretched vowel sounds—compare the tight staccato of “two-time Gemini with the genocide” against the fluid swerve of “I drop your pentagon.” Multisyllabic rhymes surface in unexpected places (“Gentlemen and gangstas connect, the agenda of mine”) and are punctuated by turn-on-a-dime shifts in cadence. His flow snakes around the beat, at times spitting rapid-fire couplets and at others stretching syllables across bar lines to heighten tension. Even brief moments of humor—“Niggas want the tea on me, well, here’s the ginger root”—highlight his command of wordplay (by playing on ‘gen’/‘gin’) and timing.
Malice uses his verse to surgically critique the materialism of hip-hop culture from a spiritual lens. Over Pharrell’s ominous beat, he raps about luxury trappings turning into shackles, a clever play on the title (chains and whips being both slave instruments and slang for jewelry and cars). He pointedly invokes John 10:10 (a Bible verse about the thief that steals and destroys) as a warning amid the flexing. “Your lucky streak is now losin’ you/Money’s dried up like a cuticle/They gaspin’ for air now, it’s beautiful/John 10:10, that’s my usual,” Malice spits essentially rejoicing as he sees sinful lifestyles implode under their own excess. In interviews, he’s explained that he wants to remind listeners that “when sin goes unchecked, it can lead to anywhere,” and he does exactly that on the record, firing cautionary shots at rappers chasing hollow decadence. This moral gravity in Malice’s verses adds a new dimension to Clipse. We still get Pusha T on the same song bragging in peak form (and Kendrick adding his perspective too), but now there’s a voice within the duo questioning and reframing the celebration of vice.
Tyler, The Creator appears on the digital-only version of “P.O.V.”, bringing his off-kilter energy and a mutual respect (Tyler has long cited Clipse as an influence). R&B auteur The-Dream joins on “All Things Considered,” sprinkling his smooth vocals to lighten the song’s end on an otherwise gritty album. New York lyricist Stove God Cooks handles the hook on “F.I.C.O.,” a boisterous track that Pusha T singled out as a personal favorite performance from Malice, even though Stove should’ve had a verse. Still, his presence nods to the new school of street rappers influenced by Clipse. Longtime Re-Up Gang affiliate Ab-Liva pops up on “Inglorious Bastards,” giving day-one fans a thrill as the crew trades bars like it’s 2006 again. And perhaps most fittingly, rap icon Nas pops up on the album with a guest verse on the two-part “Let God Sort ’Em Out/Chandeliers.” Having Nas—another elder statesman known for his longevity and storytelling—on the climax of the record is a statement in itself, where it situates Clipse among the greats and emphasizes the album’s ambition as a legacy piece.
What makes Let God Sort Em Out so compelling is how Malice’s faith-driven perspective now coexists with Pusha T’s relentless street lyricism, producing a richer, more layered interplay than ever before. Rather than sanitize Clipse’s music, Malice’s spiritual outlook seems to have sharpened the edge of his writing. He returns to the fold not as a wide-eyed prodigal son meekly apologizing, but as a man who has made peace with God and can still rap with ferocity. As Rapzilla outlet observed, “Malice’s story of conversion hasn’t sanitized his world. It has sharpened it, showing that confession and conviction can be every bit as menacing as the coke bars that made Clipse famous.” In practical terms, that means Malice is now infusing Clipse’s songs with biblical references, moral insights, and hard-earned wisdom, all while still boasting the gritty wordplay and punchlines that made him a fan favorite. His perspective acts as a counterbalance to Pusha T’s unapologetic hustler mentality, and the album thrives on that tension.
This ethos is apparent in every aspect of the release. Even the rollout has been measured and true to their brand, from debuting new songs at Pharrell’s Louis Vuitton fashion show, to dropping the uncompromising “So Be It (Pt. II)” as a teaser (where Pusha fires pointed shots at Travis Scott, unconcerned with ruffling feathers). The original (with a Middle Eastern flip and reversed drums) is on YouTube with a music video, but the sequel reworks Giorgio Moroder’s “Tony’s Theme” in orchestra. It’s a flex record built on icy minimalism, leaving acres of space for Pusha T and Malice to jam stiletto-sharp coke talk, brand talk, and veiled threats into every bar. Pusha’s cadence mimics a high-RPM engine, piling multisyllabic rhymes before snapping back to menace: “Niggas that I’m with like to draw when it’s sketchy.” Malice enters with a barrage of negations, turning absence into identity, and flips the group’s celestial history—“Ain’t no more Neptunes, so P’s Saturn”—suggesting Pharrell’s absence while naming another planet to keep the cosmic motif intact.
Where Clipse once rapped as hungry young hustlers trying to claim the throne, they now rap as 40-something survivors building a throne of their own life experience. The album’s closing stretch drives this home: on “Let God Sort Em Out/Chandeliers,” Pusha and Malice rap alongside Nas about the fates of themselves and their peers, essentially passing judgment on an industry that they outlasted – letting God sort out the real from the fake. And on the final track, “By the Grace of God,” they seemingly acknowledge that every triumph (from street victories to music success) has been by the grace of a higher power. It’s a mature, unflinching posture seldom seen in hip-hop, especially from artists who once prided themselves on being villains. Clipse have come to recognize their blessings and their losses, and they pour both into the music.
After a decade and a half, Let God Sort Em Out feels like a triumphant homecoming and a hard-won catharsis. It is the album where Clipse lay it all on the table – the glory and the guilt, the pride and the pain. They have, in effect, built a monument in audio form to their own lives and losses. The title itself resonates on multiple levels: it harkens to the ruthless attitude of their younger days (implying, “we’ll do what we do and let a higher power judge the outcome”), but it also suggests a surrender of ego, an understanding that time and truth will reveal all things. After surviving the music industry’s ups and downs, personal turmoils, and a long separation, Clipse have earned the right to speak with authority about legacy. And they do so boldly on this record. In a rap era without a clear king or unified direction, the story of two brothers who rose from Virginia’s streets, conquered the rap game, found God (in Malice’s case), waged wars (Pusha’s Drake saga), and came back together to create art that’s deeper than dope tales.
Standout (★★★★½)
Favorite Track(s): “Chains & Whips,” “P.O.V.,” “M.T.B.T.T.F.,” “By the Grace of God”