When Kamal "Radioinactive" de Iruretagoyena lets loose with a compressed, jammed rush of gobbledygook here — see "Refrigerator" or "Trouble" — it's difficult to understand why this Los Angeles-based MC/producer hasn't yet broken out of the backpacker scene that's home to the Anti-Con contingent and its malcontent fellow travelers. Peep the superhuman (and more mortal) rhyme streams, though, and Radioinactive's quagmire becomes crystal clear: The man is simply too grad-student abstract and too far removed from mainstream hip-hop's bacchanal of street cred, bling, beef, and bitches to fit in with the chart-hogs. Soundtrack has no axes to grind or questions of conscience to posit; it's just Radioinactive tooling about in his cranium, coyly self-censoring and playing with word-pies as though he were the only rapper on Earth.