It could have been quite a risky roll for the Vancoo to now-L.A. imprint, putting out a Son Doobie album. While Swollen Members solidified themselves in the past two years of reigning champs of Western (and perhaps all of) Canada, and Moka Only’s growing affection from the masses, not to mention a stellar Abstract Rude album, a rather memorable LMNO effort and somewhat customary Buc Fifty and Mr. Brady releases. This is Son Doobie, a West Coast luminary, arguably a veteran on the scene, who made made huge strides in the early days of the ever-underrated Funkdoobiest (not to mention a highly slept on farewell album to conclude the group). But his first solo appearances back in the day on Battle Axe where at times scary. A horse, raspy Doobie sounded guttural in the rustiest of ways and the ever promised Doobie solo effort seemed sweet on paper but almost too good to be too dope on record. Well, here it is and it’s not too far from banging. In fact, it’s knit solid in a formula that Battle Axe has now aced.

Production plays an integral part in the listener’s attention-longevity throughout the 12 song album, for the even weighed portion of Rob The Viking aside Kemo (The Rascalz), bubbles in a very current Swollen Member-like dark-club-bubble, they get almost half the album’s running time.  Battle Axe L.A. Executive Nucleus, as well as a few slices from Sick Jacken (Psycho Realm), Metty The DertMerchant and Flipout round things out to an aural average, where songs fit their concepts tightly but never stray incredibly far from each other’s musical lending. Kemo packs a strict-party diet while The Viking enhances the vibe with a more subtle sublime nighttime bump (something he’s slowly and surely mastering). All together, when packaged along the unusual
banter of Son Doobie, he’s flailing voice and bugging conceptuals, the album steps a bit further from the doldrums of another aged emcee back for one last shot.

Doobie is on fire throughout, with a stream of consciousness flare that at times may confuse but consistently fuels the bump. “Put Em Up” a strumming, humming collabo with Moka Only (sing that hook kid) and Rob The Viking (good drum rolls) that could very well make any club spin their top or break any national video rotation (if marketed correctly). Topic matter stays on par throughout: late night escapades, drinking, drugs and fucking beautiful women. Not a bad agenda, especially on the streets of L.A.

“Full Moon” blasts with a DJ Premier-like extended cut and paste explosion provided by new-name Flipout. “Icicle stab, I leave ya fucking ass crippled”, there you go, keep nodding. “Reinstated” brings the Doob together with Rob once again for a very Swollen birthed creation, ripe in keys, bass bleeps and just a simply solid dancehall standoff. And that’s the ticket. There’s not much on the side of spirituality, political agendas and the such. This is a backyard barbeque album, set to the sunset of a L.A. vista.