Unlike the sex-charged Usher and Ciara singles, crunk, as reaffirmed here by the genre’s foremost technician, is more about rage than anything else. The songs are practically all hook — two to four refrains per track — with sentiments like ”I don’t give a f—, nigga, I don’t give a f—, ho,” and ”motherf— that nigga, motherf— that b —-” recited ad nauseam in Jon’s throaty growl. Most of the album’s musical triumphs — the creepy-cool movie soundtrack that is ”Da Blow,” the Chocolate City go-go anthem ”Aww Skeet Skeet” — are multilayered with over-the-top vitriolic rants and nausea-inducing misogyny. Come on, sing along: ”No more d— to your p—- , just d— to your throat/You ain’t gonna get no child support.” Catchy? Yep, like warts.