In the grand scheme of pop culture, few things from the early 2000s still hold major relevance in the now mid-2020s, and even fewer have been able to maintain it without conforming to an ever-changing industry. Not Clipse, though; you’ll be hard-pressed to find any egregious differences between a Clipse album in 2002 and one in 2025. Coke raps delivered from pristine Pyrex measuring cups are still the main product, while Pharrell — now sans Chad Hugo — is still crafting left-of-center beats for the duo to tackle. A higher power is still the only force with more dominion than Clipse; they initially let go and let God with Lord Willin’, and that principle remains on Let God Sort Em Out.

Clipse still being revered as “cool” in 2025 can be attributed to many things. Pusha T’s solo career after the duo’s disbandment to close the first decade of the 2000s kept their legacy alive while also adding fuel to the loud “could have”-“should have”-“would have” calls for a reunion. Their early proximity to both Pharrell and Chad Hugo, who continued to thrive into the 2010s and beyond, ensured that the Clipse story would live on as The Neptunes’ story can’t be told without it, as seen in Pharrell’s 2024 animated biography Piece By Piece. There are certainly more things to explain Clipse’s relevance nearly three decades in, but ask Pusha T and Malice and they’ll probably tell you it has much as music to do with their music as it does their determination to never be less than the henchmen – both as rappers and as people – that rode with Jesus Christ on the cover of Lord Willin’. To know Clipse is to know two things: perseverance and principle.

Those traits are deeply entwined into the ethos of Clipse, and fans were once again reminded of it during Pusha and Malice’s promotional run for the album, as the duo detailed a label dispute – the most recent of many in their career – they had with their now-former label Def Jam over the legendary imprint’s attempt to censor and even remove Kendrick Lamar’s verse on “Whips And Chains.” According to Pusha, Def Jam claimed that their request was over Kendrick’s mention of a “trump card,” though he believes it’s tied more to the label’s ongoing lawsuit with Drake and their belief that Kendrick was subliminally dissing Drake on “Whips And Chains” (which, as of press time, he was not).

Regardless, the audacity of Def Jam to (allegedly) make such a request was a grave violation of Clipse’s principles (or, more specifically, Pusha’s, who hardly conceals his disdain about the situation each time he speaks about it). That yet another Clipse album, this time their first in roughly four presidential terms, was held up yet again, forced Push to… well, push through to ensure that hip-hop finally received their big moment. Def Jam agreed to release the duo, but that wasn’t enough for Pusha; as confirmed by the rapper’s manager Steven Victor, Ziplock P reportedly paid a “seven-figure sum” to free both himself (as a solo artist) and Clipse from their contractual obligations. A distribution deal with Roc Nation was then signed, granting a smooth runway for Let God Sort Em Out to take flight.

Label disputes are embedded into the Clipse DNA as much as Virginia, coke raps, and The Neptunes beats. The first time around presented itself as a somewhat exciting challenge to prove doubters wrong and overexceed expectations. The second time ushered in frustrations and questions about the requirements needed to be met in order to operate without restriction. Every time after that? Well, that’s just plain disrespect, considering their accolades and cultural impact. After hurdling label issues in 1999 (when Elektra Records shelved their original debut Exclusive Audio Footage), 2004 (when work on Hell Hath No Fury – released in 2006 – was halted after a label merger left them stuck on Jive Records, who neglected them in favor of pop acts), and 2018 (when Pusha T faced censorship in the aftermath of “The Story Of Adidion”), you can understand Pusha’s disgust when he and his brother once again faced off with Industry Rule No. 4080. It went against the principle of rap and business, but another chance to triumph against lesser beings wasn’t out of reach for Push and Malice; it’s what they always do.

Without their perseverance, there’s no “Grindin’.” The record served as a reset for Clipse after their Elektra Records troubles and eventual freedom. It was another chance for Pusha and Malice to seize the attention of the music world – and that they did. “I’m tryna show y’all who the f*ck I am,” Pusha demands on his opening verse for “Grindin’,” and the world listened. Clipse has never been driven by the glitz and glamour of the music world, and Malice says as such to start the song’s third verse when he quips, “My grind’s bout family, never been about fame.” Twisting and contorting oneself for a chart-topping single or album, a Grammy, or other accolades is not something Clipse has done or ever plans to do. To discredit Clipse for any perceived commercial shortcomings is to not know of the world that Pusha and Malice come from and speak to: one that is driven by principle, integrity, and loyalty. So when Pusha ends “So Be It” with a series of scathing shots toward onetime labelmate Travis Scott (“You cried in front of me, you died in front of me / Calabasas took your b*tch and your pride in front of me / Her Utopia had moved right up the street / And her lip gloss was poppin’, she ain’t need you to eat”), that isn’t a clout chaser-esque pursuit for notoriety; it is just a response to a simple violation.

Their principles are why they took issue with Birdman’s refusal to pay Pharrell for producing his 2002 single “What Happened To That Boy.” That rift jump-started what would turn into one of hip-hop’s biggest and longest-running beefs, simply because Pusha is not one to stand for any disrespect. So when Lil Wayne stood beside Birdman, Clipse mocked him with “Mr. Me Too” and Pusha later held up a mirror to show Wayne his ugliest blemishes with “Exodus 23:1.” When Drake tagged himself into the beef, Push — ever the professional low-road taker — made a uniquely crafted mirror for The Boy with “The Story Of Adidon.” Even Kendrick Lamar referenced Pusha on “Euphoria,” his own vitriolic attack against the Toronto rapper, which the brothers called “incredible” and “a master class.” However, Malice would love not to talk about these kinds of things and people. “I despise… I could vomit every time I have to hear about someone else’s name in our interviews,” he said in a New York Times interview. Despite this, he’s not surprised that it comes up. “I’m cool because I’ve seen it before,” he continued. “I didn’t expect much to change.” If the music industry wasn’t going to change in the many, many years since 2009’s Til the Casket Drops, then Pusha and Malice sure as hell weren’t going to either.

With Let God Sort Em Out now available, Malice (a grandfather!) and Pusha (a great-uncle!) are a testament to how rappers can age gracefully in a supposedly “young person’s game.” The “concept” of ageism in hip-hop isn’t real, and Clipse’s reunion is a prime example of how time doesn’t always call for change. Rap’s stigma as a so-called “young man’s game” wrongfully ignores its denizens who literally grew up with a culture that just reached middle age itself. There is always a space for what once was to still be; it’s just a matter of how willing one is to stand firm on their beliefs, trust the craft, the systems, and people who never did you wrong, and never lose touch with your identity. Pusha T and Malice have done all of the above as Clipse. They controlled what their rap skills and artistic vision allowed them to, and as for the rest, well, they let go and let God sort ’em out.