There's a thin line between a Pitbull and a Daddy Yankee, both of whom rap in Spanish, and it's entirely based on production. Put Pitbull's rousing bursts over some rowdy-rowdy Lil Jonesque drum machines with lots of congas, bells and whistles and I'm 'getting my condor on' so intensely I couldn't care less that I don't understand a word. But Daddy Yankee's wiggidy-wiggidy-wack beats sound like children beating pots and pans against the appliances. Suddenly, all I have to fall back on are his strained, pained, incomprehensible singsong flows. By the time the Paul Wall cameo kicks in, no number of promises to fill my mouth with icebergs can alleviate la tortura.