Anniversaries: Extinction Level Event 2: The Wrath of God by Busta Rhymes
An epic by design, ELE 2 invites comparisons to the disaster movies that inspired Busta’s imagination. There are quiet scenes of introspection, ensemble monocles, ups and downs, and eerie interludes.
Busta Rhymes always treated rap as a blockbuster event. In his prime, he punctuated verses with cartoon—like sound effects and apocalyptic proclamations, building songs that felt like disaster films powered by his lungs. After 2012’s Year of the Dragon, he vanished from the album format, concentrating on his Conglomerate label and his children; occasional singles kept the pipes warm, but a proper LP didn’t materialize for nearly eight years. When he finally resurfaced in late 2020 with Extinction Level Event 2: The Wrath of God, it was as if he had been planning a sequel since the turn of the century. The title nodded to his 1998 breakthrough, yet the circumstances were more urgent: Rhymes had survived a near—death respiratory issue, and the world itself resembled the doomsday scenarios he once rapped about. The album’s 22 tracks, nearly two hours of music, are a dramatic dispatch from a veteran determined to remind listeners of his stature while framing personal survival as part of a broader prophetic arc.
The set opens with “E.L.E. 2 Intro,” an over seven-minute curtain raiser that interweaves Chris Rock’s wisecracks, Rakim’s baritone gravitas, and Pete Rock’s scratches. Rhymes steps into the frame like an emcee returning to a command post, narrating a final judgment with breath—control pyrotechnics. After this preamble, “The Purge” and “Strap Yourself Down” set a frantic pace; Nottz and J Dilla provide thick drums reminiscent of his 1990s catalogue. The sequencing recalls old film serials—an intro sets the stakes, then quick vignettes build tension. Busta’s voice, still a raspy cannon, is the constant; he moves between barked rhymes and melodic cadences with the ease of someone who once rapped on dancehall riddims.
Part of the album’s allure lies in the guest list. Busta treats collaboration like casting, pairing voices to moods. “Don’t Go” reunites him with Q-Tip, whose soft tenor and conversational flow glide over Focus…’s smoky keys. They trade verses like long—time sparring partners, with Tip’s calm balancing Busta’s animated delivery. On “Look Over Your Shoulder”, Kendrick Lamar surfaces for one of his few 2020 guest appearances. The beat, produced by Nottz, samples the original recording of the Jackson 5’s “I’ll Be There,” lifting young Michael Jackson’s voice without the aid of an a cappella. Lamar unspools a multi-layered verse filled with interior rhymes and poltergeist metaphors; Busta matches him with a veteran’s poise, occasionally dropping into the pocket to let the sample breathe. The use of the Jackson 5 master tape underscores the album’s vintage aesthetic and, as Busta explained to Zane Lowe, reflects a “spiritual” connection to the music that inspired him.
The highlight for many long-time fans is “You Will Never Find Another Me.” A self-produced cut with Mary J. Blige, it functions as both a career retrospective and a statement of persistence. The track samples a bluesy version of “The Thrill Is Gone” by Melba Moore, and Busta uses the beat to look back on his evolution. Lines such as “Top-notch of the block, it don’t stop/Chimney hot ’til they miss me a lot like Biggie and Pac” illustrate his belief that his fire never waned. Later, he reflects on the advice of an elder who told him the world would miss him once he’s gone. Mary J. Blige plays the role of an angelic guide in the song’s video, symbolically watching over his journey; on record, her hook provides a gospel—soul counterpoint to Busta’s bars, reminding listeners that his bombast has always been grounded by melody. The collaboration underscores the album’s theme of redemption: survival is not just physical but spiritual, and the emcee is seeking acknowledgement for decades of cultural contributions.
Levity arrives midway through the album. “Outta My Mind” flips the beat of Bell Biv DeVoe’s 1990 hit “Poison.” Busta and producer Dready mash the original’s stuttering synths and drum breaks with new percussion, while the Bell Biv DeVoe trio themselves lend vocals. A feature on the tracklist and a sample source, the group turns up as if stepping into a time machine. This single is a throwback, packed with old-school angles, produced by Busta and Dready, and built around a mashed-up sample from “Poison.” The result is a club-ready banger: Busta toggles between syncopated flows and call-and-response chants, Spliff Star’s hypeman energy bleeds through, and the hook invites crowds to sing along. As a party track, it offsets the apocalyptic tone, reminding listeners that even at the end of days, there is room for celebration.
Another injection of fun arrives on “YUUUU.” Co-produced and co-performed by Anderson .Paak released the track as a single in September 2020. The song’s monochromatic video depicts Busta and Paak as duelling assassins, directed by Benny Boom with creative direction from Sam Lecca. While the visuals are cinematic, the song’s concept is metaphorical: Consequence of Sound noted that “YUUUU” is “much more metaphysical than literal,” framing the idea of making a U-turn as a willingness to retrace and address unfinished business. Anderson .Paak sings the hook with his voice pitched high, narrating the act of pulling a U-turn in a relationship; Busta responds with rapid-fire rhymes that evoke screeching tires. The production’s sparkling synths and crisp drums lend a sleek sheen, making it one of the album’s breezier moments. In the album’s narrative arc, it functions as a detour, a momentary pause from sermons and paranoia, yet the motif of reversing course fits the broader theme of correcting past missteps.
Within these guest-heavy tracks, Busta still engineers room for introspective interludes and thematic continuity. “Master Fard Muhammad” features Rick Ross over a lush Terrace Martin and Hi-Tek beat, with Busta likening his divine purpose to the founder of the Nation of Islam. “The Don and the Boss” pairs him with Jamaican dancehall star Vybz Kartel; the two trade patois and Spanish Town slang, bridging his Brooklyn roots with Caribbean heritage. Short interludes like “The Purge,” “Strap Yourself Down,” and “The Young God Speaks” function as narrative connectors rather than full songs, albeit at the cost of runtime. DJ Premier’s hand scratch on “True Indeed” and Pete Rock’s boom-bap on “Boomp!” anchor the album’s East Coast aesthetic. Even when Busta experiments with trap-ish hi-hats or airy synths, the sequencing always returns to dusty drums and sample loops; the album is an homage to the era when his style was forged.
A notable moment is the title track, anchored by a spoken monologue from Nation of Islam leader Louis Farrakhan. The monologue was recorded exclusively for the record and amplifies its ominous atmosphere. Farrakhan’s words, delivered over Nottz’s tense chords and creeping bass line, frame the album’s apocalyptic themes as a moral reckoning: he urges humanity to atone for its sins and warns of divine judgment. Busta’s verses draw on biblical imagery and conspiracy theories, conjuring secret societies and shadow governments. For listeners attuned to such rhetoric, the sermon amplifies the sense that the world is on the brink; for others, it may feel heavy-handed. Rhymes has always flirted with end-times paranoia—see the Y2K fears on his 1998 album—and Farrakhan’s appearance is consistent with that legacy. Whether it deepens the album’s atmosphere or tips into over-indulgence depends on one’s tolerance for proselytizing. The track’s placement early in the sequence ensures its impact reverberates through subsequent songs.
“Satanic,” the album’s closing track, pushes the conspiratorial imagery further. Over Rockwilder’s churning beat, Busta rails against hidden societies operating in the shadows. He invokes biblical wrath and warns of demonic forces, his voice alternating between preacher and battle rapper. In the context of 2020’s political turmoil and pandemic anxiety, the song functions as both catharsis and cautionary tale. It also ties the album’s cycles of prophecy and redemption together: after hours of rapping about doomsday, Busta ends by exorcising the demons he conjured.
Yet for all the doom and gloom, the album remains anchored by human moments. Busta has always balanced his larger-than-life persona with humor and warmth. On “Best I Can,” he shares the mic with Rapsody, playing out a conversation between separated parents about co-parenting with maturity—a rare moment of vulnerability. “Where I Belong” reunites him with Mariah Carey for a breezy love song built on a sample of her own 1992 hit “I’ll Be There,” a callback to their 2002 collaboration “I Know What You Want.” “Slow Flow,” featuring a posthumous verse from Ol’ Dirty Bastard, is both a tribute and a time capsule: the Wu-Tang rapper’s wild ad-libs contrast with Busta’s precision, capturing the chaotic energy of 1990s New York. These songs expand the album beyond its apocalyptic scaffold and demonstrate Busta’s range.
The overarching narrative of Extinction Level Event 2 centers on judgment and atonement. The album is tied together loosely by themes of apocalypse and humankind atoning for their wrongdoings at the end of the world. Busta frames his return as both personal and collective reckoning: he survived a health scare and wants to prove he can still outrap younger MCs, but he also positions himself as a prophet sounding the alarm. Songs like “Deep Thought” and “Freedom?” dwell on mortality and liberation; others like “Boomp!” and “Czar” revel in lyrical fitness. The album wavers between sermon and showcase, with interludes and skits sometimes weighing down momentum. At 22 tracks (more in deluxe editions), the project can feel sprawling; some listeners may find the narrative bloat undermines its urgency. Yet the length also reflects the abundance of ideas Busta accumulated during his hiatus. After nearly a decade, he wasn’t content with a lean statement; he opted for a maximalist opus.