Hip-Hop doesn’t hand out grace periods. Time away from the mic is usually treated like exile, and comebacks often arrive soaked in nostalgia rather than relevance. That’s what makes Malice’s return so remarkable. With Let God Sort Em Out, Malice doesn’t sound like an artist trying to reclaim a past throne. He sounds like an MC who never truly left…only evolved. That’s why AllHipHop proudly names Malice our MC of the Year.
From the opening moments of the album, Malice makes it clear this isn’t a victory lap. Over stark, minimalist production, he states plainly, “This the darkest that I ever been.” It’s not melodrama. It’s framing. This is a man who has lived, lost, reflected and returned with purpose.
Malice has always been cerebral, but here his pen feels even more precise. He raps like every bar has weight because it does. On “M.T.B.T.T.F.,” he draws a clean line between surface-level rappers and true architects of culture: “You n##### is screenwriters, we dreamwriters / Took chains and touched change like King Midas.” It’s classic Malice. He brings the mythology, street economics and self-awareness in one couplet.
What separates him from many of his peers is restraint. There’s no filler, no chasing trends, no unnecessary flexing. Each verse feels surgical. Malice reminds us that lyricism isn’t about how much you say, it’s about how much meaning you compress into a line.
One of the most impressive aspects of Malice’s return is his swagger, the calm authority of someone who knows exactly who he is. He doesn’t sound like an older rapper trying to keep up with younger energy. He sounds like a man who understands that dominance doesn’t require shouting.
On “The Birds Don’t Sing,” as he reflects on the passing of his parents, Malice delivers one of the album’s most powerful lines: “Boy, you owe it to the world, let your mess become your message.” That is leadership. It’s the kind of bar that lands heavier because it comes from experience, not theory. As a person that has lost a parent, this song is a hard, but necessary listen.
This is grown-man rap done right.
Beyond the bars and the presence, what cements Malice’s elite status is his willingness to live in contradiction. On Let God Sort Em Out, he wrestles openly with faith, legacy, capitalism, trauma and temptation. He doesn’t sanitize his story, nor does he glamorize it. He lets the tension between the worlds breathe.
On “Chains & Whips,” that internal conflict is unmistakable—success and spirituality pulling against each other in real time. Malice doesn’t resolve the struggle for the listener. He documents it. That honesty is rare, especially in a genre that often rewards certainty over complexity.
Most importantly, Malice doesn’t hide behind nostalgia or even behind his brother. Alongside Pusha T, the balance feels restored. This isn’t a reunion driven by brand equity. This is Clipse operating at full strength again.
In a moment where attempts at relevance often outweigh craftsmanship, Malice’s return is a reminder of what an MC is supposed to do. He challenged listeners, elevated the art form and roll over comp with a competent rollout.
Malice represents Hip-Hop at its highest level: lyrically disciplined, spiritually complex and unapologetically confident. This is elite MC work.
Malice is AllHipHop’s MC of the Year.
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