J.T. Money: Blood, Sweat & Years

J.T. Money has been around for more than a decade, spending much of the early and mid-'90s as part of Miami's Poison Clan. But he didn't break through nationally until the success of 1999's Pimpin' On Wax and its ubiquitous single "Who Dat," a Southern-fried club favorite featuring a career-making turn from Sole. "Who Dat" might have made Money an unlikely Total Request Live favorite, but its frenetic bounce paled next to the rest of Wax, a guilty pleasure every bit as catchy as it was intentionally, enjoyably stupid. Coming off like Too $hort's pumped-up country cousin, Money laid the super-pimp shtick on thick, suing the United States for "fucking up the game" and laying into underachieving prostitutes on "Somethin' About Pimpin'" and "Ho Problems." It was a gimmick, to be sure, but an entertaining one, particularly with slumming super-producer Dallas Austin providing Money with a slick and pop-savvy assortment of beats. The TLC producer returns (under the clever guise of Dallas Awesome) on Money's second solo album, Blood, Sweat & Years, but seems more intent on perfecting his Mannie Fresh impersonation than on crafting memorable beats. The production desperately attempts to recapture the up-tempo high spirits of "Who Dat," but succeeds only in sounding like a decent Cash Money knockoff. But Austin and company aren't the only ones to blame for BS&Y's mediocrity. Money's second solo album finds him largely abandoning the pimped-out act that made his debut so entertaining in favor of a dour mixture of straightforward gangsta rap, tinny club anthems, and autobiographical storytelling. "Father To Son" explores Money's more sober, reflective side, but introspection has never been the raspy-voiced MC's strength. Worse, the album is littered with emptily frenetic dance songs, all bearing more than a slight resemblance to "Who Dat"—most egregiously the first single, "Hi-Lo." Ultimately, the difference between Money's two albums comes down to their titles. While Pimpin' On Wax lived up to its title's sublime ridiculousness, Blood, Sweat & Years (which could double as the title for, say, a Kansas retrospective) is as forgettable and by-the-numbers as its moniker suggests.