That man, it appears, passed away circa 2006. In his stead stands some cappuccino-drinking, three-piece suit-wearing executive who still expects the whole world to bow down before him in adoration of… well, what exactly? His legacy? His catalog?
In the last three years, since he officially came out of retirement, Jay-Z seems to have morphed from a skilled, witty, and charismatic rapper into a White-limo-using-5-star-hotel-staying-french-wine-drinking-tuxedo-wearing aristocrat. Not hatin’; just sayin’.
Let me be clear: I’m not one of those young and uneducated fans who thinks Lil’ Wayne is a pioneer or Tupac bit off Young Jeezy. No. I respect Jay-Z’s hustle and history.
In the last three years, occasional flashes of past brilliance have burst forth (cue: “Minority Report”), but, by and large, it has been a culmination of a series of EPIC FAILS—each one more severe than its predecessor.
Most of us realized Jay-Z’s lyrical legacy was in a state of emergency when we first heard his verse from Lupe Fiasco’s “Pressure” (Food and Liquor, 2006). Lupe came prepared with irrepressible force, fused with, as one might expect, earth-grinding metaphorical schemes: “And so it seems that I’m sewing jeans/ And 1st and 15 is just a sewing machine/ So, I cut the pattern and I sew in seams/ And button-in this hustling/ Then, publically, I’m Buddy Lee/.”
Having dropped many more masterful metaphors, Lupe introduced his special guest, “… Big homey’s out of retirement,” giving him much room to fill; but all Jay-Z fans, who had, just three years earlier, been treated to one of the greatest albums in music history, felt confident in his ability to meet all expectations. Then he began rapping, and everything changed: “So, the pen is mightier than the sword,my lord/ My first picture was a line-up; now, I'm on the Forbes/ And I still remain the artist through these all/ If you force my hand, I'll be forced to draw/.” That was it.
Forget: “My mind is infested with sick thoughts that circle/ Like a Lexus/ If driven wrong, it’s sure to hurt you/.” Forget: “And y’all buy this sh**—caught up in the hype/ Cause a Ni**a wear a kufi, it don’t mean that he bright/ ‘Cause you don't understand him, it don’t mean that he nice/ It just mean you don’t understand all the bullsh** that he write/.” Forget: I dumb down for my audience and double my dollars/ They criticize me for it, yet 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 Mil’/ I ain't been rhyming like Common, since/.”Forget: “Put that knife in ya’/ Take a little bit of life from ya’/ Am I frightening ya’?/ Shall I continue?/ … Y’all wish I was frontin’/ I’ll George Bush the button/.”
In exchange, we got: “…You can’t walk in my shoes/ Too much green—you can’t talk in my hue/.”
This led those of us concerned to deliberate over what had just happened—very similar, I guess, to what takes place in C.I.A. clandestine brainstorming sessions. When the smoke cleared, and the fever pitch dropped, we stumbled upon the Rosetta Stone we were searching for. We discovered that there are, get this, two Jay-Zs. Two separate identities. Not quite like MPD, but, to our estimate, close enough.
One Jay-Z delivers such lucidly-laced rhymes as: “We used to fight for building blocks/ Now, we fight for blocks with buildings that make a killing/” and “At age nine, saw my first hate crime/ Blindfolded/ Expected to walk a straight line/ Mind molded/ Taught to love you and hate mine/”and “These f**ks—too lazy to make up sh**/ They crazy/ They don’t paint pictures—they just trace me/.”
The other—new—Jay-Z is more likely to quip: “Lunch with Mandela, dinner with Cavalli/ Still got time to give water out to everybody/.” The new Jay-Z also makes songs like “Ghetto Techno” and “Hate.” That’s not music; it’s torture.
So, you see, this new Jay-Z is trying to make up for lost swag with arrogance. And that never works. He, instead, comes off as elitist, out of touch, and hubristic. The old Jay-Z was swagga’ in the flesh. Swagga’ personified. No question. No other Hip-Hop artist embodied the charisma and dynamic personality Jay-Z displayed with such suave year after year.
But all that changed when he thought himself too big for Hip-Hop. Too big to compete with the bright, young stars of today. Too big to diligently compose a decent rhyme. Not bigger than Hip-Hop—too big for Hip-Hop.
In other words, bow down before me! I’m a god. Your god! Whatchu think they call me Jay-HOVA for? Get low and kiss the ring!
Well, I got news for the old man at the party: Your time is up! You’re not Rakim, you’re not KRS-One, you’re not MC Lyte, you’re not Big Daddy Kane. Unlike them, your old age—35 and up in these times—isn’t a compliment.
Mr. Carter, you can’t recapture your youth by exploiting the buzz of younger artists (Kanye West, Drake, Rihanna, etc.). Let them be!
Your time was once. It’s no more. Accept it with grace. It’s the least you can do to still salvage the last left of your legacy.
Word to the wise: Relevance isn’t defined by acceptance, but rather by remembrance. Remember that.
But don’t feel bad, Jay. You still got all those mills in the stash. (I believe it was close to a nickel—last time I checked.) Yes, the young folks would swear Lil’ Wayne is greater and better than you (*SMH*!), but take joy—pride—comfort—satisfaction—in the fact that they also think Michael Jackson (R.I.P.) stole some of his moves from Chris Brown.
Death of Auto-Tune? Don’t let it be Death of a Dynasty.
