Wale doesn't take it slow when it comes to introducing us to Attention Deficit, which is probably appropriate. If you're going to name a record after the most over-hyped pop child psychology diagnosis of the last twenty years, you'd better not waste any time with the usual played out hip-hop fare. You know what I'm talking about: unintelligible intro tracks from lesser emcees whose voices you'll never hear again; clichéd rap skits detailing exploits sanguine, sexual, or just plain scatological. Hell, The RZA kicked off Bobby Digital in Stereo with the slurred words of a drunken Frenchman. Wale doesn't even stall for time with the usual “what”s, “uh-huh”s, “ungh”s, “yeah”s, or the insufferable “(insert name of record label, squad, team, group, flock, gaggle, or geographical affiliation here)”s. Upon playing “Triumph” the listener is instantaneously immersed in Blaxploitation-era brass and baroque style synths which sound as though they traveled thousands of light years from planet Bitch Imma Tell You What's Up.

Plenty of other rappers have claimed association with the heroes of Blaxploitation—see every rapper that has worn a ridiculous hat, ridiculous jewelry, a ridiculous suit, or proclaimed themselves to be some sort of player or pimp. Other rappers, whose names start with “D” and end with “wayne Carter”, have even made not-so-veiled references to an interplanetary heritage. However, amid all the posturing and pretending, all the Martian talk and shiny bling, Wale's voice stands out, kicking into the track with the swagger of Dolemite and the force of Predator within a short twenty seconds of the initial blare of the horns. By thirty-six seconds, Wale has drafted his own personal Declaration of Independence: “I asked Mr. West for a little bit of help, / realized us new niggas gotta get it ourselves”. Thirty seconds later, Wale is still going strong, without even pausing to catch his breath.

A rump-rattlin' beat from the get-go? Hells yes! An upstart emcee creating distance between himself and Kanye ”The King of Rap That's Safe for White Hipsters” West? Ballsy! But then Wale goes and does something that is incredible, at least in terms of hip-hop—he eschews the concept of a “hook” completely. While many rappers are content to come up with one memorable phrase to repeat ad nauseam with negligible verse strung in between iterations, Wale defiantly tells fair-weather listeners looking for something to drunkenly chant to, essentially, piss off. In the case of “Triumph”, the meat is in the verse—an occurrence that happens far too seldom in pop music in general, let alone hip-hop. Instead of composing a hook, Wale forces the audience to pay attention to the absolutely sublime beat backing his words. This must be the part where we’re supposed visualize Wale as some kind of cosmic Shaft figure, flying above the streets on rocket-powered Air Jordans and disintegrating haters with lasers coming out of his eyes. A short while later Wale spits another verse. This one is a little more standard—references to his Caesar-esque conquest of all the bitches and hoes in his general vicinity. While this is a little disappointing, at least Wale relates to us a clever anecdote of a girl who “swallows like Kirby”. He then clarifies that he does not mean Puckett.

Wale, a Nigerian-American who came to prominence in the Washington D.C. scene, has already proven that he cuts against the grain with last year's The Mixtape About Nothing, in which he shrugged off traditional hip-hop motifs and recorded an entire rap album centered around Seinfeld. He even got Julia-Louis Dreyfus to do a shout-out. Kicking off Attention Deficit with a track like “Triumph” only further showcases his subtle iconoclasm. Does he cover the standard subjects? Sure. Not referencing respect, money, and sex in a rap song is like hearing an indie band not whine about girl trouble – we're not quite ready for that territory just yet. But that aside, Wale's strength ultimately lies in restraint—uncharacteristic for a rap artist and certainly ironic, given the album's title. He says what he has to say and doesn't jam his ideas and opinions down the listener's throat with superfluous rhymes. At the end of “Triumph”, he gives us two verses, sans hooks, and then allows the beat to speak for him for the remaining twenty seconds of the song. It's an eternity to Adderol-addled music appreciators, but it's a quick, 2:26 step in the right direction for an emcee deftly trying to break new ground in an art form that's been steadily becoming a cliché and a parody of itself. Wale, you certainly have our attention.