On the song "30 Something," one of many bland entries on his new album Kingdom Come, Jay-Z proposes that "30's the new 20." If this formula is applied to its creator, it means that Hova is actually 27, an age that was a milestone year for New York's ultimate hip-hop practitioner. In 1996, Jay ignited the modern rap scene with his brilliant debut, Reasonable Doubt. On it, he audaciously postured like the commanding godfather of the streets, youthful but still sufficiently engaged and gritty to be a ghetto populist. The dynamic entrepreneur's present lot in life is a bit different: He's the current president and CEO of Def Jam and Roc-A-Fella Records; an acquaintance of Kofi Annan, with whom he recently crusaded to stimulate awareness of the global water shortage; and a recipient of GQ's International Man of the Year Award. Just last year, he personally grossed $38 million in his various business endeavors. Jay-Z has come to embody American success.
But do such worldly accolades and corporate opulence ultimately inhibit the creation of pure, thrilling hip-hop? Also, after ten exhaustive solo albums, does the greatest rapper alive (or ever?) still have a resonant story to tell? On 2003's standout The Black Album, Hova lavishly displayed his exemplary skill in beats and rhymes, despite his protracted separation from the streets. But, as his alleged retirement offering, at least The Black Album had the unifying theme of death to direct its flow.
Kingdom Come suffers from the absence of a similarly vitalizing idea or topical umbrella, among other shortcomings. Emerging from a faux retirement, the rapper inevitably muses about being back, about his rampant success and about how his Christ-like superhero persona will graciously save hip-hop. But the frustrating repetition of these themes makes for a dry, drab affair. A backdrop of unimaginative and ineffectual beats compounds the errancy of his lyrical defects, making Kingdom Come the "Phantom Menace" of hip-hop comebacks, sprinkled with superior moments but still a regrettable move for a predominantly great artist.
The perplexing lead single, "Show Me What Ya Got," embodies the flaws that plague Kingdom Come. It's not a bad song; it's just difficult to imagine Jay enthusiastically sanctioning it as his triumphant comeback single. The lush "Shaft in Africa" sample, with its full-bodied sax and kinetic clicks and clacks, creates a sugary overlay. But Jay barely attempts to match his vocal line with its flow, creating a lazy, discordant rhythm. At its outset, he states, "I'm sorry/ I'm back," a sentiment predictably revisited soon after with "Get the fuck out the throne, you clone/ The King's back." So, yes, while he often amazes like the self-proclaimed "Mike Jordan of recordin,'" here he delivers more like MJ circa 1994, when he was a minor league baseball player for the Birmingham Barons.
On the subdued, tonic-like opener "The Prelude," Jay confesses in a hushed tone that he's "just a hustler disguised as a rapper." However, the following track "Oh My God" appears to hastily dismantle such a conceit with its talk of Jay's exorbitant taxes and dinners with Nelson Mandela. This incongruity pervades Kingdom Come. Furthermore, the beats on "Oh My God," choppy and scattered, were clearly over-thought and create a grating roll.
Other numbers, like "I Made It" and "Hollywood," fit awkwardly in their broader surroundings. Put to a restrained, tropical rhythm, "I Made It" is Jay's self-congratulatory victory speech to his mother that seems foolishly belated. Why, after 10 years of consistently superior output and resounding notoriety, would Jay-Z finally decide to release his "Be proud of me, ma" song, if not for a paucity of relevant ideas? Besides, Kanye already nailed this song type with his emotive "Hey Mama," so why even try?
"Hollywood" sparkles with diamond-encrusted production work but also witnesses the partial emasculation of Hova. Here the disguised hustler, the man who routinely refers to himself as "God MC" and "J-Hova," admits a fear of Hollywood, labeling it "the most addictive drug in the world." It is truly dispiriting to hear him spit such effete lines and then desperately feign street tenacity while demanding "Respect me, I'm a thug." Jay lays bare the contradictions of his persona but, instead of embracing them, he often selectively invokes one image to fit a specific slice of his weak subject matter.
Shortcomings aside, Kingdom Come is no abject failure. It can shine gloriously and, at times, even stand with Jay's finest. The title track glides with a jagged, richly layered flow that ingeniously manipulates (as Jay's protégé Just Blaze has done) a sample of "Super Freak" without making it the expected romping dance-floor shaker. John Legend's highly evocative guest vocals on "Do You Wanna Ride?" meld perfectly with the dreamy rhythm's hollowed-out bounces and midnight grooves. Jay doesn't roll as low-key here but he still upholds the song's overall poignancy.
The album's most shocking high point comes with the Chris Martin-produced closer "Beach Chair." With naked self-doubt, Jay finally begins to wrestle with reconciling his life's vast contradictions. Martin is integral to the number's majesty as he injects a shot of Coldplay's swooping bombast into the affair: A dense, almost impenetrable overcast of shiny, xylophonic hits and metallic howls offers a rare instance of fresh sonics. For once on his comeback, Jay didn't passively under-reach, but instead submitted to his once reliably pomp-filled instincts.
It's sadly ironic that, on an album replete with grand, self-reverential claims, Jay appears apprehensive of musically stumbling over his own towering greatness. This caution further inhibited a rewarding exploration of his actual fears and hang-ups. It seems that our stalwart hustler, at least momentarily, has been exorcised as a confused corporate leviathan, one who trembles at Hollywood and thinks "30's the new 20."
Grade: 2.5 out of 5
