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The Wu-Tang warrior's second solo joint is so conceptually huge, only somebody who's been high every day for a decade could have imagined it: hip-hop album as science-fiction double-feature as celebrity parade as horror movie as multilayered masquerade as an endlessly Baroque flow of spiels and skits, hallucinatory fantasy, and killer-bee menace. The romantic strains of Tical have been replaced by pure, sweaty sex, and Meth's image transformation from laidback muscle to bloodthirsty cyborg (with a phone book's worth of guest stars) just means he compacts his flow more tightly. The production is the Wu standard of berserk little loops and spare boom-bap, though RZA's tracks are head and shoulders above those of his disciples. --Douglas Wolk