An essential document of underground hip-hop, 1998's two-disc Lyricist Lounge Volume One attempted to recreate the feel of the legendary concert series, with "hosts" introducing studio songs from a lineup heavy on gifted up-and-comers like Mos Def, Talib Kweli, and Jurassic 5. Like most intros, skits, and interludes, the faux-concert portions of the album didn't exactly beg for repeat listens, but they helped give it an intimate, subterranean vibe, as did performances from the likes of spoken-word artists Sarah Jones and Saul Williams. In addition to providing crucial exposure to a slew of important artists, the album helped turn Rawkus into the epicenter of the progressive hip-hop world. Much has changed since '98, however, and Lyricist Lounge has grown into a multimedia underground-rap powerhouse, complete with a record label, a concert tour, and a sketch-comedy show that matches top-notch hip-hop with insultingly broad comedy. The press material for Lyricist Lounge Volume Two pays the usual lip-service to supporting underground hip-hop, then launches into scary marketing-speak about strengthening the Lyricist Lounge brand. That wouldn't be so disturbing if the resulting album, which does away with the concert element, didn't reek of commercial calculation. Not surprisingly, Rawkus wonder boys Mos Def and Talib Kweli provide the album's only transcendent moments, with Kweli's inspired pairing with Dead Prez—"Sharp Shooters" serving as the album's high point. Mos Def, meanwhile, does triple duty: He joins forces with Pharoahe Monch and Nate Dogg for "Oh No," the album's winningly tough first single; revisits "Mrs. Fat Booty" with Ghostface Killah; and joins DJ Premier and Macy Gray for a remix of "I've Committed Murder" that improves on her original. Take away the contributions of Black Star's renaissance men, however, and Volume Two feels as arbitrary as any soundtrack, with solid contributions from Redman, Dilated Peoples, and Erick Sermon sharing space with the uninspired thuggery of Cocoa Brovaz, Big Noyd & Prodigy, and Beanie Sigel. The album's near-fatal dose of testosterone is particularly disheartening: Even the sole woman, multi-platinum Rosie O'Donnell fave Macy Gray, settles her disputes with gunplay rather than wordplay. The original's progressive spirit helped give it value above and beyond its considerable musical worth. The thugged-out Volume Two, in contrast, adds up to exactly the sum of its sometimes impressive but unmistakably uneven parts.