Critics love the storyline — the hype. Nothing brings them more delight than building up artists and then tearing them down with a loud, thundering crescendo. Jay-Z knows this as well as anyone. Continually analyzed and dissected, few have represented the dichotomy of hip-hop in the modern era quite like Shawn Carter.
Hailed as a poetic genius by some, the underground heads scream, “COMMERCIAL!” because he keeps the cash registers ringing. But all this matters very little. Take his seven years in the game and throw in all the good and the bad, and you will see that the truth will inevitably rise to the top — a sharp mind, biting wit and the lyrical dexterity to match the greatest who have ever done it. Skills on the M-I-C, the gift of gab, whatever — he has it.
So, after announcing his next album, the man also declares it his last. Not the first time he’s done it, but people take him seriously. Now this leads to a question: Do you believe in hype?
Public Enemy told you not to, but the waiting has built up, and the rumors have spread. Twelve songs with 12 producers, a prequel, no promotion, a collaboration with Nas: The Black Album. Months of anticipation turn into time for mere speculation, and you know one must eventually show and prove. Even Lebron had to actually emerge from the Nike factory and get on the court.
One thing comes through immediately — this album is honest. “Now all the teachers couldn’t reach me / and my mom couldn’t beat me / hard enough to match the pain / of my pop not seeing me.” Hov will always be able to flip 16 bars better than your favorite MC; this is a given: “I put the boy in the box / like David Blaine / let the audience watch / it ain’t a thang.”
But for his self-proclaimed swan song, he plants his size XXL S. Carter Reeboks firmly on the pavement and waxes poetic on the past and present. Lighting up the Eminem-produced “Moment of Clarity,” he addresses his detractors.
This address is made concrete with the lyrics, “I dumbed down for my audience / and doubled my dollars / they criticize me for it / but they all yell holla / if skills sold / truth be told / I’d probably be / lyrically Talib Kweli / truthfully I wanna rhyme like Common Sense / but I did five mill / I ain’t been rhyming like Common since.”
You can hate him for it, but Jay has never masked his ambition to make as much paper as he can. The Black Album does have its weak spots. Like any Jay-Z album, from start to finish lie several offerings for pop radio to run with, including the Neptunes’ MTV-friendly submission, “Change Clothes.”
But this is beside the point. See, for all his boasts and endless stream of “money, cash, hoes,” the man is about his business. He didn’t create the industry; he just played it real well. And don’t let the “for money or love” question blind you. Those who disregard him for it can’t see the forest for the trees they need to stop smoking.
Though an afterthought to the man toasting over them, the beats are top-notch, from Kanye West’s celebratory horns on “Encore” to underground heavyweight 9th Wonder’s razor-sharp “Threat.” The Run DMC-esque Rick Rubin contribution “99 Problems” is absolutely ripped apart: “Rap Mags try and use my black ass / so advertisers can give them more cash for ads / I don’t know what you take me as / or understand the intelligence that Jay-Z has.”
It’s nasty — and he does it on damn near every track. In a genre that increasingly defines itself by chest-beating shouts of invincibility and manliness, he can run with the best of them. This album is not about that. In one breath, he speaks of his relationship with his father, and in another he talks about how selling drugs gave him self-confidence.
Now, back to the hype. Is this Jay-Z’s last album? Is he really retiring, or is he simply playing the game like he always has? And is he, as the faint ending of “Dirt on your Shoulder” lets you know, “The Best Rapper Alive?” Pay no attention — this does not matter, it’s straight hyperbole. What remains, if you clear all the talk away, is 55 minutes and 39 seconds of honest, heartfelt hip-hop. Leave the hype to the critics.
Grade: A