When Clairo released her debut album ‘Immunity’ in 2019, she was on the cusp of turning 21 and still figuring out who she was and what she wanted. That record captured a push-and-pull between wanting to be independent and needing the comfort of another person; it also saw her taking early steps into exploring her sexuality. When she sang of desire on ‘Bags’, there was a nervousness and uncertainty that ran through the song. “Can you see me? I’m waiting for the right time,” she told a potential partner. “I can’t read you, but if you want, the pleasure’s all mine.”
Five years later and two albums on, Claire Cottrill is diving deeper into desire, more confident and in full control. ‘Charm’ doesn’t just embrace the feeling of wanting something (or someone); it completely owns it. “It’s just a little thing I can’t live without,” Clairo sings in ‘Sexy To Someone’, in which she makes plain that it’s all well and good being the desirer, but she wants to be desired, too.
She explores that craving in every element of the album, from the ’70s singer-songwriter-indebted sounds she weaves together to the words she softly sings over the top. Her delivery is often so hushed it’s as if she’s whispering right into your ear, whether it’s secrets, confessions or just candid musings. “You make me wanna buy a new dress,” she murmurs in the swooning ‘Juna’, quickly adding the seductive follow-up: “You make me wanna slip off a new dress.”
In ‘Add Up My Love’, she writes from a place of solitude, flashbacks of memories with a lover running through her mind and filling her with more longing. “Do you miss my hands sitting on the back of your neck?” she asks. “It’s just something I’m into.” On ‘Nomad’, she mulls whether it’s worth pursuing something with someone despite the distance between them. “I’d rather be alone than a stranger/You’d come visit me late at night,” she concludes. A little time shared, it seems, is better than none at all. In the breezy ‘Second Nature’, she articulates the world-spinning sensation of having someone right by her side: “It’s when you’re close enough to touch, I’ve forgotten the point/My train of thought destroyed.”
Musically, ‘Charm’ feels like an intimate invitation into Clairo’s world of desire. It’s rich and warm and timeless, the flutes and piano and bright cymbal splashes forming a soft, velvety space for you to nestle in and think about what you covet, too. It delves deeper into the sounds she began exploring on 2021’s ‘Sling’, leaning even more into the influence of Carole King.
For the most part, it’s a record that sounds bright and a little buoyant, bobbing through each track. But come ‘Echo’, the mood shifts into something slinkier and sultrier. Clairo’s voice comes in and out of focus in the mix, like she’s singing through suggestive clouds of smoke in a dingy jazz bar. Lines like “There is something that I need from you/And you’re the only one that knows” become heightened and electric.
“Honestly, I look back at those two records and see someone trying to become an adult and doing it in front of a lot of people,” Clairo recently told Crack, referring to ‘Immunity’ and ‘Sling’. In contrast, ‘Charm’ boasts a new level of maturity, its creator more poised and at ease than ever before. You can hear the level-headedness of someone hitting their stride in adulthood in ‘Thank You’, a song that reflects on a past relationship with gratitude. “I really hate to admit it/I put my pride on the line,” Clairo begins. “Cause when I met you, I knew it/I thank you for your time.”
While desire might be the main focus of ‘Charm’, it’s also an ode to connection and the comfort that comes with that – whether it’s fleeting or long-lasting, with a romantic partner or just other loved ones in your life. ‘Glory Of The Snow’, the gorgeously wintry penultimate track, pays tribute to the support of others. “When I cry, I wanna give you a ring,” she shares. “I can breathe with you right there alone with me.” In the end, that’s what the desire of ‘Charm’ boils down to – the yearning to see and be seen, to be with people who not only want you back but understand you and make life that little bit easier to make it through.
During a 2008 interview, Prodigy of Mobb Deep was asked if he ever feared death. Mortality followed him in every lyric he delivered, and few artists could capture that deep chill you feel when survival becomes part of your everyday life. His response carried the same tough energy that defined him, shaped by the reality of Queensbridge: “Every day I wake up like, ‘This might be my last day, and I’m not scared of it.’ I’m never scared to bite my tongue about something, or to come out and speak about something. Like, I ain’t scared of death. What you gonna do to me?”
Nine years later, at only 42, he passed away in a way that felt both tragic and strangely ordinary. While on tour with Havoc in Las Vegas, he was hospitalized for complications tied to his lifelong struggle with sickle cell anemia. There, he accidentally choked while eating alone and died. (His family would later file a wrongful death lawsuit against the hospital.)
Havoc spent years mourning his brother and bandmate, unsure how to properly honor him through music. “You wanna do something to send your comrade off with a 21-gun salute…because he deserves that,” he said recently on the Bootleg Kev podcast. With help from longtime collaborator the Alchemist, Havoc pieced together Infinite, Mobb Deep’s ninth album and part of Mass Appeal’s Legend Has It series. It marks the first posthumous release in the collection, which always comes with its own challenges. Yet Infinite flows as smoothly as any project of its kind. For better and worse, it feels like an album the duo could’ve released after 2014’s somewhat forgettable The Infamous Mobb Deep, an update to their signature gritty sound with a few hints of modern polish.
On paper, it feels like everything has been rewound. Aside from a brief COVID reference and one cringey Havoc line about getting canceled for a joke about chromosomes, most of the lyrics are either locked in time (“Taj Mahal” references the old Trump casino) or so universal they could live anywhere. Instead of calling on a team of producers like they did for Infamous, Havoc handles 11 of the 15 tracks himself, with Alchemist revisiting the dirty, menacing textures he perfected on Murda Muzik and Infamy for the remaining four.
The strongest Havoc beats from Mobb Deep’s golden era twisted familiar sounds into something dangerous. That edge is still there on songs like “The M. The O. The B. The B.” and “Mr. Magik,” where the tension mixes with the quieter, stripped-down percussion style he used on Kanye’s The Life of Pablo. It gives the low-end even more power. Meanwhile, Alchemist falls back into the rugged rhythms that made his name — dusty drums and echoing samples. The shimmering haze of “Taj Mahal” feels like something from an old Street Sweepers mixtape, while “Score Points” and “My Era” would fit perfectly on one of his earlier collaborations with Prodigy.
Prodigy is present on every track, never halfway in. He raps at least one verse on each song and even takes on some of the hooks. His voice is as cold and sharp as ever (“RIP, you can’t son me/My pop’s dead,” he spits on “My Era”), even when his writing circles back to familiar themes. There are still small gaps here and there, but Havoc and Alchemist treat his vocals with care. What matters most is that the bond between Havoc and Prodigy still feels unbroken. They were never flashy lyricists or complex writers — their power came from directness, from how rooted they stayed in LeFrak City no matter how far their fame reached. “Mr. Magik” gets closest to that old-school Mobb Deep feel, especially when they pass the mic back and forth, going at rivals, dodging CIA agents, and spending nights with mistresses. The same goes for “Easy Bruh,” a song driven by drums, faint piano keys, sirens, and some of Prodigy’s sharpest lines on the album (“Niggas mad? Put a cape on ’em/Now they super mad” actually made me laugh out loud). At its best, Infinite feels effortless, Mobb Deep comfortable in their seasoned, world-weary selves.
Things drift off when the production stretches too far or leans toward trends. Some guest spots make perfect sense, like Big Noyd showing up on “The M. The O. The B. The B.” with his trademark nasal intensity, or Ghostface and Raekwon bringing color and life to “Clear Black Nights.” But the Clipse feature on “Look at Me” feels more trendy than meaningful, and Nas, another close ally, drops in with one of those standard Mass Appeal-style verses that sound recycled from his recent albums. “Down For You,” which flips Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” into a hard-hitting love track, is a welcome addition to Mobb Deep’s catalog of street romance. Still, it loses impact when it reappears later on, this time swapping Jorja Smith’s hook for one by H.E.R. I can understand the decision, the beat goes hard — but it’s hard to take Nas seriously when he’s rapping about keeping a side chick like Tony Soprano. It’s one of the few moments that feels forced, and because there are so few, they stand out more.
Posthumous rap albums in the last decade have often been tangled in questions of control and exploitation. Thankfully, Infinite avoids those traps. It doesn’t carry the awkward tension that surrounded Gang Starr’s One of The Best Yet, nor does it feel stitched together the way DMX’s Exodus did. It never feels like Havoc or anyone else is cashing in on Prodigy’s legacy. In fact, it’s moving to hear them side by side again, even when Prodigy’s words hit too close, meditating on death while “staring up at the cosmos” on “Pour The Henny,” or dodging enemies both real and imagined as he gambles in Atlantic City. Still, much of the album feels like a return to familiar ground, reworking echoes of their strongest years. There are no moments that reach the levels of The Infamous or Hell on Earth, but Infinite does succeed in giving one of hip-hop’s greatest duos one final, heartfelt ride.
