Madchild

Since kicking his habit, Madchild has been frank about his size, so much so that on his sophomore LP he crawls right up into the mic and bursts out like a jack-in-the-box. What began as an EP, then stretched into a 15-song "between-masterpiece" slasher film, is the West coast MC's rendition of a Stephen King story, where an unforgiving neighbourhood landscaper, who prefers his lawnmower to mow by itself, butchers his employer for taking issue with his mowing technique: tagging behind the mower, naked, eating grass. It's a sharp album in a string of impressive Canadian releases this summer that's accessible enough to usurp some of the American blockbusters. Right out of the box on "Crazy," Madchild spits like he's let go of the insecurities triggered by mainstream scrutiny and, perhaps, himself. His confident, grammatically flawless bars ("I don't care if it is forever or only briefly, every rapper in the world is going to be beneath me") cut through beats by Rob the Viking, Chin Injeti, C-Lance and the iKonz, sounding like the invasion of some reptilian army dressed in metal armour. On "Chainsaw," Madchild likens his voice to a carburetor and on "Underground King," he growls at Ronald Reagan rappers: "these kids retarded, they just party and they spew garbage." Guest spots by Slaine, Prevail, Bishop Lamont and JD Era sound equally inspired and comfortable in their skins, while Madchild, the fallen idol, eggs them on with chants of redemption.