Remember the days when we was walkin' and talkin' ...

More than just a quartet of MCs, Leaders of the New School were the last high profile group that really, really had lots of harmless fun. Oh, sure, they drank and smoked and chased skins ... but they were young! It was fun! And you could scream the lyrics with all your friends and sound a lot like the record!

Doin' what we gotta do, doin' what we wanna do ...

Doctors diagnosed a terminal case of Egotris Solitis, egged on by chickenheads who lock on to solo jockstraps like Sidewinder missiles, and we got the one, the unaccompanied Busta Rhymes. Shouting, guttural noises emitted from between full grinning lips where calmer tones once sounded. More and more, people rewinded when he was on, not because he was geometrically doper but because it was harder to understand what the hell he was saying. Flanked by Ol' Dirty, Mack da Maniak, and a slew of other latter-day Biz Markie knockoffs, Busta led a new school with antics that could make Steppin' Fetchit pause.

Often to my walkathon missions -- why -- 'cause the brothers that I knew with the cars rode by ...

Now with much more subtle backing from Flipmode Squad, we find out what happens When Disaster Strikes, a new LP from Busta with more than a healthy respect for the radio, and upbeat dance tracks to keep you moving in the club. Less shouting, more clear tones of voice ... but somethin' somethin' just ain't right.

Yeah yeah yeah's what I'm sayin',' wish I had a little ride of my own ...

Even in the simple-but-damned-fun single "Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See," or the Al Green-driven "Turn It Up," this project lacks the wide eyed gleam of someone who busts a phat lyric for nothing more than the joy of watching people's eyes shine, watching hands fly up in the air, hearing that "Whooooooaaaaaaa!" This sounds ominously like the professional musician, jaded by drugs and groupies, making music more out of habit than for creative reasons. You can hear the mocking grin as he says, "look at shorty, she a little cutie yo/ the way you shake it make me wanna get all up in the booty, yo." The thought, "yeah, niggaz is gonna go buy this," echoes in the scratches and echoes of bass guitar in the track, vibrate from the sound waves of Busta's voice.

... but since I don't that is my Sobb Story ...

Several cuts from this album will grace mix tapes, have lovelies in lycra shakin' it in front of brothers wearing those corny $15 faux silk Oak Tree button downs. You'll see homeboys on the ave noddin' their heads and slappin' five. Numbers can't be wrong, if so many people like it, it must be right, right? That's what they say ... about things like ending affirmative action, about sayin' all young people and their rap music are nihilistic wastes of flesh, like calling Kenny G a jazz artist. Unfortunately, just because a bunch of motherfuckers like some shit does not make that shit fly. Vanilla Ice went platinum, after all ...

To be fair, Busta does actually flip it in some interesting ways, most notably "Rhymes Galore," which is fast paced and pretty damned enjoyable. You'll probably hear the aforementioned "Pump It Up" and the made-for-cruising (tested with a car fulla heads in a Buick at about 3am) single "Put Your Hands ..." more than most. "We Can Take It Outside" has some of the best celebrity sound alikes on wax (Foxy and Saafir should sue the people on that track who bit), and the Dolemite intro and dramatic prelude that precedes it show only that some people haven't grown up and watch too much cable. The Ghost of Puffy snuck its way on to this album, and you'll have fun playing "where have I heard that sample before" with your peeps, and Erykah Badu flips it lovely singin' and rhymin' on a hella tight "Just One.".

This album is way better than, oh, Comradez or the Busta Lite Clone, Rampage. To not applaud its virtues and the manner in which an experienced performer finesses his way through a musical gamut would be unfair and incorrect. However, to call this a shining gem in hip hop history, or to deny the fact that even the "stars" of the genre are really not as dope as they used to be would be a crime as well. The same crime that allowed missionaries to penetrate the Afrakan rain forests and the same one that caught Amerikkka sleeping in Oklahoma -- complacency breeds incompetence. Go 'head, Busta, yo' shit is aight -- but if you keep Will Smith cruising through your career, you'll be right there at the Grammies, between Young MC and Ice Cube, dyin' for white approval, a revoked ghetto pass hangin' out your Girbauds.

I know you and you know me, I know you and you know me, I know you and you know me ...