The early 2000s proved to be the peak years for raprock. Rage Against the Machine released its final album of original material in 1999 with The Battle of Los Angeles, while Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit were transitioning away from the stylistic dichotomies that made Hybrid Theory and Chocolate Starfish and Hotdog Flavored Water so popular. Needless to say, the genre was on its way out.That’s why the persistence felt on Manafest’s fourth album, The Chase, is so perplexing. In 2010, there isn’t a lot of raprock to choose from, making The Chase the genre’s champion by default.However, this title merely brings to fruition the reason behind the genre’s decline. Raprock survives on its ability to combine a metal influence with poignant lyrics. RATM was overtly political, Limp Bizkit was overtly offensive, and Linkin Park was overtly emotional. Specifically, the topics dealt by the genre’s pioneers were aptly articulated, while the supporting instrumentals boasted their own complexity. On The Chase, Manafest fails to deliver either satisfying extent.While the opening track, “No Plan B”, acknowledges the record’s potential as a self-reflective, self-motivating fist pumper, the rest of The Chase becomes an uninspired, self-obsessed cash grab from skatepunks who are lusting for a soundtrack. For example, both “Supernatural” and “Bring the Ruckus” embody this with their thick, riffs and pounding choruses, alluding to an obvious Morello influence, but remove themselves from any depth with generic, cookie cutter lyrics that deter any sort of meaningful connection to the listener. Other times, like on the shamelessly sugarsoaked “Married in Vegas”, it’s clear that this connection was never the intention.  The mid-tempo drone and implied deviancy (“Aces high, we got jackpot in our eyes”) makes the track a mindless crowd-pleaser, but the hooks are aggravatingly constructed (“do you take this man to be your husband? I do, I do, I d-d-d-d-do”) and predictable (“I got married in Vegas, I’m so glad that you made it”) that the track becomes difficult to listen to.By the halfway point of the record, one thing is clear: Manafest is all about Manafest. The constant self-assurance on this record makes him either increasingly less believable or incredibly insincere. However, on “Every Time You Run” featuring Thousand Foot Krutch’s Trevor McNevan, Manafest lets his guard down, allowing himself to be intimate and personal overtop of minimal piano and simplistic guitar-work. The self-conscious lyrics and religious implications express an honesty that is absent throughout the majority of the record.It’s easy to overanalyze a record like The Chase. Like a good action film director, Manafest requires the audience to check their brain at the door. The glossy production, musical superficiality, and predictable songwriting expect little of the listener. For the fair-weather music fan, The Chase may satisfy a misguided angst, but for anyone who requires substance in his or her music, this record should be left alone.