With the long-delayed, viciously imagined Hell Hath No Fury, Clipse-- hip-hop's meanest, smartest duo-- have done what a gathering collection of internet seekers, record-store goers, and street corner mixtape shoppers hoped they might: release a classic. With musical partners the Neptunes, Clipse have crafted 12 unrelenting tales of desperation and distribution, glamour and gloating. Lyrically, the album is spare and incisive-- wordplay abounds but the punches are quick and devastating-- and musically, Malice and Pusha T have arguably snatched the best dozen Neptunes tracks in years. Together, the quartet has crafted an album that's sonically deep, dark, and one of 2006's finest.

An unforgivable mean streak powers this album, which is no surprise considering the endlessly documented label drama Clipse have endured, and the ascetic rage that courses through their music. Push and Mal spent much of their lauded 2005 mixtape, We Got It 4 Cheap Vol. 2, elucidating both their ethical and financial dealings: They were cold-blooded, joyous, and morally complex all at once. But the subject matter remained mostly street talk-- deals, slang, stunting-- with dabs of glitz tossed in. This album isn't about cocaine per se; it's the aftershock of a coke sale-infused existence. The results spray everywhere, from the vacant spending spree of "Dirty Money" to the terrifyingly earned braggadocio of "Trill". This is lifestyle assertion, not something as negligible and confined as drug music.

The two men in the middle of it all are brilliant at nearly every turn. The younger Thornton brother, Pusha, remains star and stylist, brazenly dishing on minor details like his sunglasses ("Louis V Millionaires to kill the glare") while injecting a malevolent, almost maniacal intensity to his verses. His elder brother, Malice, is the vulnerable antecedent, not without floss but more leaning on family and fraternity: "Grandma, look at me, I'm turnin' the other cheek," he laments on "We Got It For Cheap (Intro)". Their rhyme patterns aren't overwhelmingly technical; Pusha rhymes straightforward syllables without tangling his syntax into a jumbled hush-mutter. (Jay-Z, take note: Sometimes directness is a blessing.)

And, as if the sniping slow burn of lead single "Mr. Me Too" wasn't enough notice, Clipse are self-contained entities, seemingly uninfluenced by their contemporaries. Occasionally they recall duos of the past-- EPMD's playfulness, Outkast's willingness to attempt the unconventional, Mobb Deep's unerring rancor-- but they're true only to their sound, a simmering executioner's song. Rarely explicitly violent, their blistering conviction feels like carnage on "What It Do (Wamp Wamp)"-- Malice even compares himself to the genocidal Hutu tribe on the track. It confirms their unjustifiable relishing of moral decay, and while it's impossible to comprehend or condone, the energy and flair is undeniable.

All that said, the Neptunes' mystifying, irregular sonics further elevate the record. When the drum sounds are light and chimey, the surrounding melodies sound sinister and serpentine. Otherwise that formula is completely flipped, as doorknocker snares often accompany spacious arrangements. It's an interesting juxtaposition-- fitting the furious and odd against bubbly and blissful-- but this is what the Neptunes have always done best (think Noreaga's "Superthug" or Kelis' "Milkshake"). Accordions, steel pan drums, harps, distorted synths, cowbell-- Pharrell Williams and Chad Hugo throw everything at Clipse. (One assumes Hugo, whose work has leaned toward the dark and spare in the past, had a large hand in this album.) "Trill" and "Ride Around Shining" in particular are monstrous, freakishly beautiful constructions. "Trill" surrounds you with its blown-out bass sound while the tense harp plucks of "Ride", posed against clipped groans and a single straining high note, are both fractured and gorgeous.

But what's perhaps most important here is that Hell Hath No Fury is uncompromising music: Delayed more than three years and pushed into some unclear anticipation vortex, Clipse still refused to make concessions. The one ballad, "Nightmares", featuring Bilal, is long and morose and ragged, while the frothiest ditty is about spending drug money on expensive shoes. Clipse make street music, so the more unlikely members of their fanbase-- hipsters, bloggers, students-- might seem perplexing. Of course, their wit and verve, always touched by a hint of self-loathing, connects with most anyone who's done any wrong in their life. Living with yourself can be a tricky thing, and for Clipse, that's now truer than ever.