Album Review: Snoop Dogg - BUSH

The greatest surprise about Snoop Dogg – aside from the fact he’s apparently happily married – is his ability to genre hop.

More than two decades ago he came out as a jiggy, G Funk era West Coaster. He’s since adopted the Snoop Lion moniker to perform reggae. Also, equally criminally overlooked, he’s had a crack at country music. If you haven’t heard Superman from the otherwise pointless 2011 record, Doggumentary, then do yourself a favour.

BUSH, a Pharrell-produced, ‘70s era R&B compilation of sex jams and braggadocio, is another genre hop. Sounds fun, right? Well, sort of. The funnest part of opener, California Roll is its playful title. R U A Freak is a pedestrian, gentle bit of derivative sing song. Even Charlie Wilson’s turn on Peaches N Cream does little to elevate the album. It’s Kendrick’s guest spot on closer I’m Ya Dogg that shows the best way to go about getting into the swing and sway of old time R&B.

One of the joys of Snoop’s previous genre jumps was his earnestness. Even though he was essentially a fly-by-night scene-stealer, his “born again Rastafarianism” beliefs seemed earnestly held. And those who know country music say that, when done well, it’s about building a compelling persona and sticking to it. That’s the fundamental failure that courses through BUSH. It’s competent disco-inflected pop – sure – but Snoop is phoning it in. He’s nearly anonymous. He’s wandered into new scenes before and found success. Here, he’s exposed as a charlatan. It’s a disheartening experience.