On paper, every dial imaginable has been set back. Outside of a stray COVID mention and a dumb Havoc bar about getting canceled for joking about someone’s chromosomes, references are either era-specific (“Taj Mahal” is named for the formerly Trump-owned casino) or universal enough to not matter. Instead of the stable of producers behind Infamous, Havoc handles 11 of the album’s 15 beats, with Alchemist embracing his grimy Murda Muzik and Infamy roots on the other four.
The best Havoc beats from Mobb Deep’s prime took familiar sounds and bent them into menacing shapes. Here, tracks like “The M. The O. The B. The B.” and “Mr. Magik” mix that menace with the muted drum patterns he used on Kanye’s The Life of Pablo, giving the low-end even more depth. Alchemist, for his part, falls back on the style that made him famous—all gutter drums and echoing samples. The glitzy fuzz of “Taj Mahal,” in particular, sounds like it was pulled off a lesser-known Street Sweepers mixtape, while “Score Points” and “My Era” wouldn’t sound out of place on his collaborative albums with Prodigy.
Prodigy has no half-way appearances, either; he has at least one verse on every song, and does the hooks for a chunk of them. P’s delivery is as curt and chilling as ever (“RIP, you can’t son me/My pop’s dead,” he deadpans on “My Era”), even when his writing treads well-worn ground. There were seams to tighten and holes to fill, but Havoc and Alchemist handle his vocals with care. Most importantly, Havoc and Prodigy’s chemistry remains intact. Neither has ever been a particularly showy writer or lyrical gymnast—their respective appeal comes from their pugilist directness and the way their personalities stayed burrowed deep in the cement of LeFrak City, no matter how high their stars ascended. In this sense, “Mr. Magik” gets the closest to vintage Mobb Deep, particularly when the two trade the mic every few bars to go in on their enemies while dodging CIA agents and laying up with mistresses. The same could be said for the shuffling “Easy Bruh,” anchored by a drumbreak, faint keys, sirens, and the tightest Prodigy raps on the whole album (“Niggas mad? Put a cape on ’em/Now they super mad” got a good laugh out of me). At its best, Infinite feels effortless in a way Mobb Deep hasn’t for years, the pair comfortable in their older, wearier skin.
