Nobs sort of makes sense, which is better than just plain old making sense. This guy is a mess, spewing out verses for us to sift through, making anti-war proclamations and crying over cancer, then insisting that he blendered that pussy from solid fruit to a purée. The fact that Nobs is strictly indie means gangsta shit is largely replaced by bitching about hip-hop itself. That he's self-produced means this album will kill in the living room but won't fly at the roller rink. And that he's passionate, pale-faced and at his best when he's at his most venomous means folks sniff about Eminem without a label -- as if that's a bad thing. "Paint Her Dead" wastes a $1,000 vocabulary on a $10 whore; the hysterical "Radio" finds him claiming that Kelis' milkshake gave him genital warts. "I Sing Happy Birthday With a Grenade in My Mouth" is the scathing dissent this war deserves. Nonsensical as Nobs can be, when you're pissed at everything, you're bound to nail some truth.
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