So, another week, another underground hip-hop record. Rubberoom is the current entry, a collective of DJs and rappers from Chicago working that raw, minimalist groove for all it's worth. You know the drill: spacious drum machine beats, tiny samples floating in and out, rapping front, center and angry. So what are these guys so pissed about? As far as I can tell, it has something to do with people failing to acknowledge that Rubberoom are, in fact, the best rappers in the world. Y'dig?

I don't. This record is remarkable only for its lack of distinction. The programmed beats stumble along without ever glimpsing the funk, there ain't a hook in the place, and there's too much rapping about nothing much in particular. I don't know how these MCs are supposed to say anything of substance with these clipped, staccato lines that rhyme every third or fourth word. Apparently, neither do they. Where for art thou, Black Elvis?

The only track here that stands out at all is "Smoke," with a punishing guitar riff (possibly lifted from Black Sabbath) that pushes the song forward with some genuine momentum. Beyond that, it's merely serviceable, utterly forgettable hip-hop. I've said it before and I'll say it again: this genre is in trouble, and in serious need of some serious innovation. Architechnology illustrates this point all too well.

-Mark Richard-San