Remember rock-rap? Rap-rock? Whatever the hell Limp Bizkit played? Yeah, that. Maybe if Fred Durst had had the cajones or talent to wax poetic on Saigon tunnels and dirty old men leering at high school girls over a waterlogged harp sample, he and his dreams of an unholy platinum crossover might've stood a chance.

Really, though "rock" isn't what The Wall (aka Bryian R) rhymes around—though his flashes of weakness do owe a debt to Durst & Co., as "Forsaken" lamentably demonstrates with its doomy Hot Topic-Goth guitar-n-bells. More often, it's easy listening. Seriously. Under dry, aluminum beats, you'll find plenty of plucked Japanese instruments to counter that harp and corny wind chime glissandos. Without accompaniment, the spaced synth guitar tones of "The Battle Of Bryian R" are a Brian Eno wannabe's exercise in formal ambience. What never wavers are the acerbic, sarcastic lyrics, which traffic in enough cred to make the hip-hop components of The Wall a non-issue.

As a result, The Wall's self-titled album lives or dies mainly on its textured backgrounds as they veer from haunting to schmaltzy to the digital voice-warp of deep house. It's a mixed bag by design, not without its share of surprising and successful results.