The twelve-lane Connector plows through Atlanta like the Nile of pavement. Along its fenced banks lie the majority of the city's attractions. Turner buildings, blossoming with neon network logos, lure Yellowjacket grads from the adjacent campus cluster with the sweet nectar of Powerpuff Girls money. Across the way, The Varsity serves grease between buns, communicating with an enigmatic fast food lexicon that rivals rhyming Cockneys. Tourists walk the overpass to the ghostly Olympic park, built on the graveyard of Techwood projects, in the shadows of Vick's pastel dome. Hipsters and reluctant yuppies settle in the gentrified Five Points and Cabbagetown, giving their quaint subdivisions more verdant '___________ Park' monikers. And finally, there's Turner Field, reverberating collective October sighs, before the highway splits back into its tributaries in East Point, the cultural fountainhead.

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The hip-hop id to New York's ego: the home of Outkast. Lauded retroactively in 2000, upon the release of Stankonia, for a formula that had been perfected by teenagers on 1994's Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik, Outkast charged up the public with silly amounts of reserved anticipation for this double-disc marathon. Since dropping that debut nearly ten years ago, Outkast's singles have charted a steady incline of genre-defiance and pop virtuosity. But now, in the wake of the commercial and critical smash that yielded such classic tracks as 'Ms.

Bloomberg keyboard driver fingerprint. Jackson', 'B.O.B.' , and 'So Fresh, So Clean', Big Boi and Andre 3000 have, for the first time, chosen to work in separate corners, like Beatles after India. Here, on the resulting Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, the two wander down the blacktop from East Point, each plotting their own distinct course: Andre, like I-85, shoots off to the airport and sky-high trips before dipping into the Mardi Gras marshes of New Orleans, while Big Boi rolls deep down I-75 into south Florida, home of booty bass and baby blue.

The consensus in rock circles had unfairly anticipated that The Love Below would reign supreme over Big Boi's Speakerboxxx, since Andre was the one with the guitar in the fuzzy boots. As it turns out, his Prince-mimicking fusion looks a lot better on paper than it sounds in your ears. On too many songs, Andre repeats space-playboy choruses over repetitious, unfinished digifunk. As the brief orchestrated outro to 'Pink and Blue' suggests, each track feels like it's missing something-- strings, guitars, harmonies, organic instruments, and, oh right: Big Boi. Andre does have his moment, though: 'Hey Ya!'

Glitters and towers like the silver Westin hotel over an 80s Atlanta skyline, blending Flaming Lips-like synth-bass and ebullient acoustic guitar with the rebellious joy of 'Little Red Corvette'-- and like all classic songs, it introduces new vernacular with a genius that transcends product placement. Even indymedia.org feeders will shout 'Polaroid!' While miming spanking at this fall's Not-Dog cookouts. Of the few other tracks on The Love Below that come close to reaching 'Hey Ya!' 's apex, the one that most succeeds is 'Spread', which showcases trumpets and piano weaving through a rubber bassline and scattering rimshots. Its chorus has Andre putting on his Camille voice, while the verses contain some of the only moments on the album in which he actually flows.