Missy Elliott

Missy Misdemeanor Elliott is quite a piece of work. Not only has she devoted her lauded career to proving that she can be overweight and sexier for it (as well as very, very active in bed); she also has used her videos to turn otherwise forgettable rappers into surreal sci-fi heroes, and dancers into wall-crawling, Matthew Barney-worthy creatures. Elliott’s syle is far enough from hip-hop camp to be interesting but close enough to be fun. But in spite of all her hyperactivity and frivolous sex talk, and aside from every cloying holla! and yes! in the production (well, maybe not every yes! — there are about 73 too many on this album), Elliott remains one of the most subversive figures in pop music. Unlike blowup dolls Ciara or Tweet (whose career Elliott occasionally rescues with a walk-on), Missy is mistress of her domain. She towers over even the gruffest of rap ruffians and big-namers — Mike Jones, Slick Rick — and she does it like the deceptively sweet, sultry older lady next door who flirts with the neighborhood boys for kicks, because they couldn’t possibly satisfy a woman like her. In a genre dominated by dime-a-dozen braggarts and dick-waving posers, Elliott comes out refusing to be serious, then knocks you on your ass and walks out laughing. It’s not Missy Elliott’s best record, but it’s one of the best mainstream hip-hop albums since, well, her last album.