"I swear to God, it's all real."

With these words, Philadelphia's resident gully guru, Freeway, kicks off his
sophomore effort, Free At Last. His previous album, 2003's Philadelphia
Freeway, was more promising than it was realized; though powered by some of
the best work from Roc-A-Fella's wiz-kid super producers, it suffered from way
too many high-profile guest spots and a general lack of distinction. What
should have been a showcase for Free was instead an unnecessary spotlight
opportunity for his already well-established friends.

All things considered, Free At Last's greatest strength is how focused
it is. Free grips the mic snugger than ever before, and even on tracks with
name features (this time around, guests include Jay-Z, 50 Cent, Busta Rhymes
and Scarface), he's unwilling to concede his shine. He doesn't just hold his
own, Freeway truly owns all 13 tracks. His voice is like a grizzly bear
articulating his demand for respect: This is the sound of a hungry, unsatisfied
artist. Four years of record label limbo will do that to you.

There's also, thankfully, an organic variety in Free At Last that you
don't see too often in the post-Jeezy world of rap. It's got gentle,
introspective thug moments ("Reppin' The Streets," "I Cry"), explosive bouts of
bragging ("It's Over," "When They Remember"), even the bottle-popping exercise
that is "Roc-A-Fella Billionaires" (if this song doesn't catch on at parties
this winter, this reviewer will eat his fitted pillbox hat). Where other emcees
test the audience's patience with ode to slinging after ode to trapping,
Freeway keeps it diverse, spending as much time rocking the mic as he does asserting
his street credentials.

Lyrically, Free is a consummate battle rapper. He talks mountains of smack
about carrying a variety of wig-splitting weaponry and loads of cash he almost
certainly doesn't have (re: every lyric of "Roc-A-Fella Billionaires"). And
somehow, it's refreshing. Has it all been said before? Maybe. Nonetheless, with
hip-hop generally as polarized as ever, Freeway offers a much-needed head-bobbing
deviation. A little conviction, a great voice and a dancing crowd go a long
way. Subtle allusions to the turbulence behind closed doors at Roc-A-Fella/Def
Jam are also intriguing, however improbable — the more sides to a story the better
(the Rashomon principle).

It also helps that the production is, for the most part, stellar. A cast of
known and unknown beat-makers do their part to make Free At Last
soulfully bump and grittily bang. In fact, the only truly cringe-inducing
moments on the album come from overused hit-makers J.R. Rotem and Cool &
Dre, who both lead the way for genuinely weak attempts at crossover success. To
ignore the obvious strength of Free At Last like this is unforgivable,
no matter how ridiculous a line like "quarter stick of dynamite in that ho bag/
she da bomb" is (courtesy of "Lights Get Low" guest Ricky Rawwss). Rotem's
"Take It To The Top" is simply horrid, a brutally out-of-place cheesefest with
the corniest of synthesizers and Forbes' most obnoxious billionaire doing his
worst Nate Dogg impersonation.

Aforementioned trash aside, Free At Last is an effort as strong as its
architect's delivery. The harder the artist is suppressed (rapidly becoming too
common an occurrence with inexplicable record label filibusters), the more
ferociously he responds. What results is a top-to-bottom, formidable collection
of hip-hop songs. Here, Freeway is harsh but clever, boisterous but hard, as
complete a realization of his rugged sound yet. The spotlight sits transfixed
on Philly's fiercest tongue, and with or without famous peers, he's not
stepping off again.

3 1/2 stars out of 5