It is safe to say that anger and fear are two valid forms of expression and emotional response that good hip-hop music can thrive off of; both are brain stem sensations, adrenal-goosing stimuli that circumvent the frontal lobe — seat of higher brain function, that part of the brain from which society springs — and reverberate in deeper, darker recesses, places born of the first rustle in the forest, or eyes in the blackness outside of the proverbial cave, of the first cheat, first crook, first adulterer. The immensely powerful capabilities of fear and anger to pull something ancient from within us has been exploited by artists forever, and hip-hop is no different.

That primal root is perhaps what makes these forms of expression so popular as well; few can legitimately find resonance in tales of yachts and cocaine, but all have felt angry or afraid. The machete-hacking rage of Eminem found many troubled souls who felt the same way, but lacked the eloquence to express it. Upon hearing someone putting their pain to paper, they had found not only a kindred spirit but a champion. The macabre imagery of Bone Thugs-n-Harmony, combined with their eerie rapping abilities, created a cult (occult?) following not unlike slasher films or Gothic novels. More recently, a detached, dead-eyed response to the blood-soaked streets of Chicago has brought Chief Keef, Lil Durk, et al, the same disconcerting and legitimately disturbing capabilities that other horrific children, of the corn or otherwise, can inspire in adult minds.

Righteous anger (hereafter known, when I want it to be, as “RA”) is capable of producing our most powerful works (“The Jungle”; “Jesus Walks”; “100 Miles and Runnin'”), yet is also the root of so many of the most groan-inducing art works mankind has ever made. The key to wielding this double-edged sword is simple: Righteous anger directed at a true injustice, whether suffered personally or inflicted upon a larger demographic, can provide the genuine fire needed for a moving work of Beautiful Violence. Righteous anger directed at personal slights, “haters” (can we please, for the love of God, retire that fucking word? High schoolers on Facebook do not have “haters”; rappers whose careers are too inconsequential to legitimately be considered in the General Rap Landscape Conversation do not have “haters”) and any issues, challenge, or pet peeve that the listener may interpret as shallow, or, worse, blown out of proportion for the purpose of inflating false righteousness, will almost assuredly end with the perpetrator falling on their own sword.

Which brings us to the curious case of Art Vandelay, a Seattle-based duo consisting of vocalist Ricky Pharoe and producer Mack Formway, and their third release, Eye 8 The Crow. The curiosity stems from Crow‘s use of righteous anger, the mode of its expression, and the soundscapes upon which it is placed, and manifests itself mainly in one nagging question: Is it any good?

Let us answer that question by eliminating the RA from the equation and beginning with the pure appeal of the sound. Art Vandelay is, without a doubt, meant to be fear-inducing, albeit a kind of creeping, bizarre fear. Whereas one listens to Death Grips and sees the roiling inky blackness of the abyss and the clawing, desperate motions of the damned so confined within it, Vandelay comes across more like a high school art student’s heavy ink line drawing of a graveyard, all blacks and reds and skeletal trees and crows perched upon degrading, cross-adorned tombstones. While this is undoubtedly creepy, and the work of a superb high school artist, most likely headed to SAIC or some other similarly minded institute next fall, it seems coated in candy compared to Death Grips (granted, most everything outside of some godforsaken Scandinavian blackvenomSatandeathmetal falls similarly short). But being unsettling and approachable is far from a curse.

Organic, massive drums tramp along most of the production like “Man-Thing,” which in turn are offset by sweeping prog-pop vistas and undulating swells, or, lacking those aspects, find service as the backbone for rotating little lines and almost indie rock-ish sensibilities. Formway is capable of truly memorable beats, including the standout “So What?,” which drops Danny Brown samples atop an electro-pop framework; the PCP ’90s rap-listening party that is “Scribbles Fall”; and the welcomingly outlying soft spring rain of “Emilio Estevez.” Formway truly shines on “Run For Your Life,” whose lush, piano-driven production manages to captivate even while going predominantly without Pharoe.

That feat is impressive because Pharoe’s voice is a source of great interest to the listener; it pours across tracks like spilled promethazine, thick and viscous and yet still surprisingly nimble, with a rubbery, slightly mumbled edge that adds even more character, and which jumps from a low simmer to a low boil — it never careens into pitched outrage, which is a good thing — while simultaneously leaping from solid, if not awe inspiring lyrics, and contrite, tripe-y cliches and borderline spoken word segments that would be more at home on an Atmosphere album (not meant to be a compliment). Pharoe’s gifted voice suffers mainly from the RA of its lyrics; one has a hard time accepting the true ferocity of it all when he can unflinchingly riff on something so banal as “dance with the devil in the pale moonlight” and seems to dip so frequently into the Rhymesayers’ Bin of Angry Screeds.

Still, despite this misguided usage of RA, Crow manages not to be a failure; the sometimes eye roll-inducing corniness of the whole thing is whipsawed both by the aural appeal of Pharoe and Formway and by the seemingly genuine belief that Pharoe infuses the lyrics with, which goes a long way towards an audience’s forgiveness. Indeed, it is the only saving grace for the Hitchens-lite atheism of “Eyeballs,” which reads like an r/atheism troll or a pontificating, two-blunts-deep college freshman.

Basically, Crow teeters precariously on an edge, kept from toppling into the preachy whine that subdues Slug, Eyedea, et al. purely based on its aesthetic merits. If one does not find that graveyard scene intriguing, however, it is likely that the eyes will roll, perhaps with proptosis-inducing fury.

(Unimpressive Records, no address provided)

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B. David Zarley is a freelance writer based in Chicago. You can find him on Twitter @BDavidZarley.