There's something endearing about a rapper who, barely two verses into the leadoff track of his debut album, finds it necessary to clear his throat. G. Love is rapping about the "Things That I Used to Do," and his excitement is taking him into his upper register. His voice gets scratchier as the chorus progresses, and when he gets the chance, he gives it a good "ahemmm."

Typically, such an utterance would end up on the cutting-room floor. But G. Love, a k a Garrett Dutton III, the Philadelphia artist whose debut is the damnedest thing to hit hip-hop in a long time, makes it musical. He's an improviser dealing with the live moment, kicking when the track kicks him.

You can tell there's no script. There's just one raggedy vocal on top of one raggedy live rhythm section, and that rhythm section tears through slow and growly grooves, taking the tempo up and down, finding moments of repose and then slamming. It's the sound of a band breathing the blues as lived by John Lee Hooker, Muddy Waters, Blind Lemon Jefferson and Willie Dixon.

Coming after the success of rap's jazz acolytes, G. Love's blue hip-hop may seem tardy. But he doesn't sample or borrow phrases. Instead, his songs emulate the soul-shot-through feeling of classic blues. And though he's channeling hellhounds and crossroads meetings at midnight, this 21-year-old is definitely a child of his age: One blues is about basketball, another takes on homelessness. Scat-singing in a blend of street patois and boho code, G. Love creates the feeling that things are about to explode – a feeling enhanced by the wide-open Special Sauce backbeat, which comes straight from New Orleans second-line rhythm. Drummer Jeffrey Clemens and bassist Jimmy Prescott contribute steady understatement.

This leaves plenty of room for G. Love's guitar playing, which lashes rhythm riffs to frenzied solo turns. In the process, he brings the musical ideas of Hooker and Robert Johnson out of the box-set bin and into the air. Reinventing the blues, G. Love arrives with a message that's far more eloquent – and bone-chillingly funky – than anything the gangstas have said in ages. (RS 684)

TOM MOON