ludacris

Since a supporting role in Best Picture-winning Crash in 2004, Chris "Ludacris" Bridges has had a foot in both the acting and rapping worlds. If Theater of the Mind is any indication, 2009 should be the year where he plants himself firmly in film.

If Theater could be described in one word (which, arguably, is all it deserves), that word would be lazy. Luda turns in verse after verse of uninspired self-aggrandizement, rapping about himself and cars and girls and weed, often at the same time, never in a new or creative way. His metaphors are vanilla and unappetizing ("I'm hung like a jury"), except when they court controversy; on these occasions, such gems like "Hennessy is my remedy/ takin' shots like Kennedy" are merely amusing in their impotence. Even his fantasies lack allure. God knows that if any girl ever told me that I "talk more game than John Madden" or that they'd "blow me like candles on yo b'day" (both taken from the first verse of "Last of a Dying Breed"), I'd flee in terror.

The beats either sound like they were stolen out of Kanye's trash can or were assembled patchwork-style from woodwind and horn samples, drum machines and cookie-cutter synth. I officially just spent more time writing about them than Luda did on their creation.

Last but not least, the guests do little to salvage the record. Rick Ross and the Game compete for the title of worst rapper alive, two dudes named Tity Boi and Dolla Boy rhyme "sumos" with "judo" and for some reason, Spike Lee, Chris Rock and Ving Rhames are all featured on the album just talking. It speaks volumes that, even with a (for him) mediocre and brief verse, Lil Wayne drops more potent lines in 30 seconds than Luda has on the rest of the album. Happy trails, Chris-hope Hollywood doesn't get dull.