On His Latest Album, Wale Proves that He is Truly One of The Gifted by Zac Pestine

Progress is a value that society cherishes.  To stagnate is to disappoint.  To flourish and grow is to achieve.  One of the biggest knocks on many artists is that they put out their greatest work early on in their careers.  Towards what should be the prime of an artist’s career, they often becomes trite or bland, and their spot in the limelight is ultimately ephemeral.  I am very happy to say that Wale is not one of those artists, though I feared he would be when he signed with Rick Ross and his often hedonistic, misogynistic, and petulant Maybach Music Group (MMG) back in 2011.  I thought MMG to be a miasma.  I am now pretty sure I was wrong.

The Gifted, Wale’s most recent release, is a prime example of what artists should aspire to as they enter the glory days of their music careers.  I must confess that while I thought Ambition, Wale’s second studio album and his first after he gave MMG his John Hancock, to be his most cohesive and august work, I thought his first album, Attention Deficit, to be a much more memorable collection of songs.  But though Attention Deficit covered much deeper topics, it was an apt name for the album, as no slope seemed to connect the songs selected for the work. 

So we have a debut album that has many awesome songs but no clear thesis and a sophomore album that appears to be vice versa (although there were surely a handful of awesome songs on Ambition).  But on The Gifted, Wale finds a nexus between cogency and depth, a happy medium in which the MMG rapper employs a slew of catchy sonics while maintaining consistent lyrical prowess.

This fluid melding of highly palatable beats and clever lyricism is evident on “LoveHate Thing,” the album’s second song and also its second single.  Sam Dew, a Roc Nation newbie, sings a catchy chorus filled with life’s most salient dichotomies, basically singing about how bipolar certain moments and eras of our life can be.  Wale’s song itself deals with his unconditional loyalty to his hometown of Washington, DC, even as he draws criticism from many of its residents and major media outlets.  It is a song about doing one’s own thing in the face of naysayers and staying true to who you are as a person and as an artist.  Wale asserts that people may speak of or about him without actually knowing him personally, rapping, “You gon’ need more than Wikipedia to get to me.”  This is true of all people, and Wale is just reinforcing this fact.  Overall, a pretty unvarnished message and a good song.

Most big summer blockbuster albums require the perfunctory summer chill song, and Wale delivers that via the album’s next song, “Sunshine.”  I think that this is my favorite song on the album.  Wale opens the second verse, rapping, “I don’t like to boast, but they ain’t touching the flow.”  And while this clearly is boasting, it is a correct statement. 

Throughout the album, Wale maintains complex and intricate flows, switching them up both inter- and intra-song, and his bars are often mesmerizing.  On past albums and mix tapes, one conspicuous feature of Wale’s music is the immense amount of times he says his own name per song.  The “My name’s Wale” lyric/ song ratio is similar to a pedestrian ERA from your average MLB pitcher.  On this album, however, Wale replaces his stage name with his Christian name (Ralph), and the last name he has adopted (Folarin).  This doesn’t add or subtract from the much extolled rapper’s album or body of work, but it is an idiosyncrasy worth mentioning.

It is now 2013 of the year of Jesus Christ, many people’s lord and savior.  While billions of people adhere to Christianity, Wale pokes fun at the ubiquity of Jesus’ exploitation by supposed followers on “Golden Salvation.”  I think that this song has top notch word play.  Jesus pieces which are gold, diamond, and platinum encrusted necklaces with Jesus pendants, have been pervasive throughout hip hop culture for many years now.  Wale draws on the irony inherent in this form of bling, as Jesus is known to have died for the world’s sins, while millions of people live indigent and insufferable lives collecting these diamonds in West Africa so that a select few people can impress their friends by wearing them.  Wale’s word play is at his best on this song with lines like “No Fugazi (fake), see Jacob (a popular jeweler in many rap circles and also a major biblical figure) that is real (the diamond is authentic, but also Israel is the name given to Jacob after he emerges triumphant after his kerfuffle with an angel)” and “They stone me on the cross (kill me by way of throwing stones) and niggas stone me for the ooh’s (people put diamonds on me to impress others).”

“Gullible” is a very listenable song featuring a chorus sung by Cee Lo Green.  It is redolent of Lupe Fiasco’s favorite theme, government corruption and the people’s legitimate paranoia.  As we tune in, the media is more and more controlled by the state, and we are told what they want us to hear.  We are also meant to question whether Big Brother is always watching, a salient topic given the apparent constitutionality of wire tappings, and the knowledge provided to us by the Julian Assanges and Edward Snowdens of the world.

On “Bricks,” Wale invokes the much debated question, can selling copious amounts of hard drugs be ok if it is one of the few true paths to a better life.  This is not a new question, but because of Wale’s astute lyricism and wordplay (punning bricks in terms of drugs and those used to build houses, which in effect is what the money from cocaine sales often does), the song does seem nuanced, and I commend Wale for that. 

The “Bad Remix,” featuring Rihanna, is probably the catchiest song on the album, though it does not sacrifice depth for popularity.  If there is a common notion that all people bereft of a Y chromosome are loyal and seek companionship, Rihanna proves adherents of that belief misguided, as she sings the chilling chorus detailing her lustful sexcapades but inability to commit to a single beau.  She is not isolated in this habit either as her feature is meant to stand in for many a female in the sybaritic world we live in.  In truth, Rihanna probably steals this song, but though Wale may play the concomitant on this one, he does his thing as well. 

The level of difficulty in mimicking the flow on “Simple Man” is probably a couple rungs higher than schooling LeBron in a game of one-on-one (Wale, a huge sports fan, would approve of all of these athletic references).  Its flow is anything but simple.  Not much depth to the lyrics, but it’s definitely a track to replay nonetheless.

While it is most definitely not a perfect attempt, The Gifted is Wale’s most complete and solid work to date.  His flow, word play, lyrics, and presence clearly demonstrate elevation from sophomore status.  His talent level is certainly on par with the other hip hop heavyweights in his generation, such as J. Cole and Kendrick Lamar.  With that said, there are a few problems on this album.  Firstly, many of the themes covered, while authentic, have been discussed, and even filibustered, many times before.  While Wale is hardly cliché, nothing he discusses here is revolutionary or monumental.  Also, it is not bereft of skippable tracks.  “Clappers” and “Tired of Dreaming” don’t add much to the album except for a chance for MMG Don Rick Ross to offer a mediocre verse and an opportunity for Nicki Minaj to be annoying and get paid for it.  One last qualm, the album’s cover art kinda sucks.  It is bland and forgettable. 

In all, The Gifted clearly demonstrates Wale’s rapping acuity, even despite its obvious pitfalls. Wale is a hell of an artist.  My reluctance to embrace the Maybach Music Group milieu persists.  Would Wale be an even better artist an another label?  Possibly, maybe probably.  But even having to give Rick Ross the obligatory feature on each album now, he is pretty damn good.  I very much look forward to what Wale will do on his next venture The Album About Nothing, which will feature Jerry Seinfeld throughout the album, as was alluded to on “Black Heroes/ The Outro About Nothing,” the album’s penultimate song.  While I have my reservations about his music group, Wale is so good that I may back him in any rapping situation.  

J. Cole's "Let Nas Down" inspires a response from Nas, "Made Nas Proud"

I guess sometimes there are fairy tale endings.   J. Cole inspired us all with his new track "Let Nas Down", a venting ode to the legend, and also a public apology/commitment to keep his music authentic. See my previous post if you want an in depth analysis of the track, titled "The song of the unsung poet" which ironically was close the first line of Nas's response: "I ain't mad at you, young king, this unsung song is haunting".

When I heard that Nas responded with a track titled "Made Nas Proud", I almost dropped the easy mac I had made, and rushed to hear what the God's Son had to say about J. Cole. When I actually heard Nassir spit fire with his usual wordsmithery, I couldn't help but smile the entire way through. Not only did Nas absolutely murder the track with his unique flow, complex lyrics and delivery as per usual, but his whole voice sounded like a man who's finally been given the respect he deserves, from someone who's worthy of giving respect.  The Nas I heard on this track was one who is a wise, seasoned veteran of the game, a content man, even complementing his former rival and co-idol Jay-Z while giving advice to J Cole: "At least you got Jay [Jay-Z], but he already one of the greats".

Rap so often succumbs to petty name-calling, jealousy, and as I so elegently put it in my prior blog, dick-measuring. And this is quite entertaining sometimes, but more often its annoying. When I hear good vibes like this track, it's like a breath of fresh air. It's finally nice to kick back, relax, and watch the best to ever be in the game laugh, smile, and pass the baton. Pure class.

Cole, damn straight you made Nas proud.  Nas did us proud too with this gem.  The only bad thing I can think of after hearing it is what can possibly follow a such perfect set of tracks? Then of course, comes the obvious thought: J. Cole featuring Nas and Jay-Z. It's only perfect, or as Nas might put it, "haunting".

The song of the unsung poet: A historical lens for J. Cole’s new album, “Born Sinner” through a case study of the track “Let Nas Down” by Roee Astor

While J. Cole’s new album, “Born Sinner” is impressive at times with focus, intelligence, and skill, “Let Nas Down” is without a doubt the most emotional and exceptional track on the album. Don’t take my word for it…

The song’s epicness immediately jumped out at me and raised my hormone levels to that of a pre-pubescent Justin Bieber fan. Even on the surface level, it is making a big statement, which is more or less the following, and I’m paraphrasing:

 “I let down Nas, one of the greats of Hip Hop, by making a bubblegum radio hit to boost me to fame. While this compromised my artistic depth, I’m not perfect, and I like money, a lot. Sorry for partying.  However, now that I have money and fame I have a bigger audience and more freedom I can get back to the important stuff. Or will I?”

That covers the sparknoted basic plot summary.

But if you just scratch the surface of the song, Cole’s attention to detail speaks louder than his intricate lyrics.  “Let Nas Down” is laden with explicit and subtle allusions to “the idols” of rap from the production’s reminiscence to Jay-Z’s “D.O.A”—a song about bringing Hip Hop away from autotune and back to its roots, to the sampling (in the opening from “Nas be Like”), to the heartfelt versus, and the chorus. This reminds us that J. Cole loves the soul of Hip Hop and that he knows where he stands in the long history of a genre that is rooted in pain and anger towards the status quo.

Everything in this song is there for a reason. Why did his chorus hail 2pac and Nas but not Biggie and Jay-Z? I’ll get into all that, but first you gotta’ understand where he’s coming from, and for that, a little refresher of one of the greatest rap feuds in Hip Hop history, the Jay-Z—Nas feud, is vital.

The Jay-Z—Nas feud of the early 2000’s was extremely high profile, as the two MC’s duked it out for who would be the next King of New York after the murder of Notorious B.I.G. in 1997. Most rap feuds, though entertaining and full of emotion, ultimately are public penis measuring competitions. It’s kind of the point of the whole thing.

The Jay-Z—Nas feud followed suit in the terms of the drama and dick-measuring.

To summarize, Nas somehow finds a way to call Jay-Z a homosexual in at least 6 ways: “H to H.O.M.O”, “Fuck Gay-Z”,  “Cockafella records”, “Dick suckin’ lips”, “Put it together, I rock hoes, yall Rock Fellas” and the less subtle “You a dick riding faggot, you love the attention”. On the flipside, Jay-Z’s “Supa Ugly” talks at great length of his affair with Nas’s baby-mama Carmen Bryan, immortalizing the affair with the line, “Me and the boy A.I. (Allen Iverson) got more in common than ballin’ and rhyming, get it, more in Carmen”.   Word. That sucks for Nas. The whole thing seemed pretty personal and intense but hilarious.

With this name-calling it is easy to forget the better part of the feud (okay fine, I admit I liked the other parts too). Like the part where Jay-Z calls out Nas for not producing many good, high-selling albums consistently after Illmatic, or the part where Nas responds on the brilliant track “Ether”(a subtance that “makes your soul burn slow”) by painting Jay-Z as a sociopath who sold his soul to the devil to sell more albums—mysogynist lyrics, stealing Biggie lines, switching personas, mainstream bubblegum songs, you name it—anything to sell albums.

In this sense, the battle was not about only two egos, but much more of the timeless debate of where rap should go, and what it stands for. Should rap stick to its roots of social commentary as Rhythmically Assisted Poetry (in case any of you forgot what the word “rap” stands for :0!), a poetry of oppression and poverty? Or has rap transcended this original purpose? If so, should rappers capitalize on the mainstream appeal to gain more power that can effect real change?

Clearly accusations were exaggerated. Yet, as the truth was exaggerated, over time the exaggerations become the truth in terms of how the public saw these two titans of the rap game. As a decade passed, with the feud now long over, it seemed that those personas, Jay-Z as a boss-dawg business tycoon (“he got beyonce???”) and Nas as the less flashy prophet of Hip Hop, have settled into both of their highly respected legacies.

I have heard time and time again from friends that ultimately, looking back ten years later, they feel Jay-Z has won this feud.  On paper (get my drift) there’s no question they’re right. HOVA has remained the most consistent in the rap game, has achieved legend status, amassed an inordinate body of wealth, and is the most visible rap legend in the game. Despite this, though I love Jay-Z’s music, I have always kind of rooted for Nas and viewed him as a sort of underdog in this feud, an unsung poet without as much commercial success or power as his rival.

But now he’s not unsung.  Throughout “Born Sinner”, J. Cole confirms that I’m not the only one who feels this way. Jermaine tells us that, as a kid, he had an affinity for the martyrs of the socially conscious legends of Hip Hop, namely 2pac and Nas, and he disapproved at one point of Jay-Z and Biggie, the rap legends whose personas are  that of the Rap Mogul, the hustler New York boss, whose rise from rags to riches combined with skill alone is enough to earn the hearts of his fans. J. Cole even says in the opening track, “Villuminati” that he sided with Pac during the East Coast west Coast hip hop feud: “Rap nerd even copped Rah Digga Digga
Pac had a nigga saying ‘Fuck Jigga, fuck Biggie’ " , though he quickly recovers by noting that he was only eleven. 

But then throughout the album, J. Cole more than once refers to the pressure Jay-Z and the label put on him to produce a radio hit before they would give him an album release date.  In “Let Nas Down” for instance, he says, “Hov askin where’s the record that the radio could play”.  J. Cole ultimately says he gave in to this pressure from Jay-Z and the label, at the expense of disappointing one of his idols, the idol who truly has the authority to call out what’s real and what’s trash.  In essence, Nas has the final authority on realness.

So in this context, the whole song becomes quite interesting.  Here we have J. Cole,  who in his heart is a conscious soul searching rapper from the start (his lesser known rap name is Therapist), who as a kid felt closer to 2pac and Nas, over Biggie and Jay-Z, signed to Jay-Z’s label, but is feeling disappointed in himself for satisfying Jay-Z but not Nas.  What’s happening here? Cole is being pulled in different directions by the two symbolic leaders of rap with stark differences in philosophy. To get more fame and power, the Biggie-Jay-Z route is the one to take. But the conscious 2Pac-Nas route is the, dare I say it, morally superior route? With all the Jesus references Cole sure seems to think so…

Don’t get me wrong, J. Cole has the utmost respect for the man that discovered him. The line in the chorus, “No I.D. my mentor now let the story begin,” is taken from Kanye’s ode to Jay-Z on “Big Brother”.  No disses involved there. In fact, throughout the album, he respects and pays homage to all of the greats, namely Pac, Biggie, Jay, Nas, Kanye, A Tribe Called Quest, and others. 

But when he says “Pac was like Jesus, Nas wrote the Bible” he picked those two purposefully. They are immortalized most of all for their consciousness and pain for the world around them and their ability to express this pain and hope through their art.  

When he says he taped Nas pictures on his wall as a kid, and that he “apologizes to OG’s for sacrificing my art”, he means it. 

When he opens the song with a Nas sample:

“Freedom or jail, clips inserted,

A baby’s bein born the same time a man is murdered,

The beginning and end, as far as rap goes

Its’s only natural, I explain my plateau,

And also what defines my name”—Nas from “Nas Be like”

Nas is saying that in this complex world full of immeasurable evil and injustice, an artist cannot solve all the problems. The only thing he can do is explain what he stands for, and what he believes in. 

And with this song, J Cole is letting us know that his plateau is being pulled in different directions. But 2pac’s and Nas’s plateau—the one that wrote the Bible—is  the one to aspire to. 

J. Cole’s ambiguity on the album and in the song show what is obvious: J. Cole wants to be as successful and powerful as Jay-Z, but as real and conscious as Nas. The ideal would be 2Pac, who unequivocally did both. Thus, he’s Jesus, and Cole is the second coming.

He can’t be Jay-Z and he can’t be Nas. And he won’t be remembered as either if he tries to be both. He can only do J. Cole.

But at the very least, all the dick-measuring aside, it’s nice to know that he’s thinking about it. And as far as I’m concerned, the unsung hero is now sung.  

So, in terms of legacy, has Nas really lost this feud?

That’s up to you. But one thing’s for sure: If the best rappers take the Nas route, and he’s not let down again, then in ten years the lines may not be as clear.

It's a Cole World, We're Just Living In It by Zac Pestine

Whether it be writing rhymes, vacationing, signing athletes, or marriage, Shawn Corey Carter, also known as Jay-Z, does things on the grandest scale possible.  It should then come as no surprise that he has also discovered the immense talent of Jermaine Cole.  Before J. Cole had released his debut album in the fall of 2012, big things were expected of him.  That is a logical necessity of signing with Hova.  With an awe-inspiring flow and top-notch word play on Jay-Z’s song “A Star is Born,” combined with the fierce panache of “Who Dat,” in conjunction with the massive success of his first few mix tapes, J. Cole became the Bryce Harper of the rap game.  He was able to hit 500 foot home runs as a youngin’, and the rap world eagerly anticipated his first full length studio album.

J. Cole’s rookie album, Cole World: A Sideline Story, was rife with emotion, pain, depth, wordsmithery, and flowtasticness.  However, it lacked the cohesion, both lyrically and sonically, inherent in legendary albums.  While clearly demonstrating his rap acumen, J. Cole’s first album at times suffered from ennui, and overall lacked a clear thesis or message.  At some junctions, the album was poppy, at others, galvanizing, and yet often lethargic as well.  While the album may have garnered Cole a Rookie of the Year trophy, it was obviously manufactured by a rookie.  As an audience, we recognized the talent we had seen on his mix tapes, but we still pined to know who J. Cole was as an artist.  What was his identity? 

After a few more mix tapes and dispersed ballads, I was still at a loss for how to describe the persona of someone whom I considered one of my favorite artists in the game.  But after giving Born Sinner the once-over (well actually I have listened to it all the way through about ten times now), I feel that I am now equipped to answer that question.

Let me start by addressing a feat of J. Cole’s that has really impressed me.  It is no secret that geography plays a massive role in defining any artist, as both their life experiences and their sound directly emanate from the places they call home.  Most artists can draw on a rich geographical history to stake out a spot in that tradition.  Certainly every rap fan is familiar with the resumes of the West Coast, East Coast, Dirty South, and even the Midwest rappers. 

However, before J. Cole’s rise to stardom, it is a rather good guess that very few people had even heard of Fayetteville, North Carolina, the town that he heralds from.  But after giving J. Cole sufficient play time, one can’t help but associate him with his town (for he says it about as many times as Wale says his own name).  J. Cole knows that he doesn’t fit into the any of the aforementioned locations.  This could be a source of frustration for many aspiring young rappers.  But J. Cole turns negative into positive, using his geographic isolation to draw upon all histories and become an amalgam of the greats.  In his song “I Really Mean It (not off Born Sinner)” J. Cole begins with the line, “They say I’m the down south Nas, the east coast Pac, the Carolina Andre, the Fayattenam Kanye.”  Ever a student (he graduated magna cum laude from St. John’s University a few years back), J. Cole has made a collage of the greats, adapting their strengths and making them his own.

But what defines J. Cole?  What makes him distinct from the others?  Why will we remember him fifteen years after he retires?

Well, let’s turn to Born Sinner to answer that question.

This is a concept album.  It has an overarching and cogent narrative that helps define who J. Cole is at this moment.  The story starts with “Villuminati,” a track that sets the pace for the rest of the album.  We first get a feel for J. Cole’s bravado, as he asserts that sometimes he “brags like Hov.”  That statement is repeated more than several times, amid a background of the “Born sinner, the opposite of a winner” line from Biggie’s “Juicy” and becomes an augury for the egotism to come.  In the past, the themes of J. Cole’s mix tapes and albums have often oscillated between altruism or otherwise profound messages, and a more sinister, bragadocious look on the life of a rap star, replete with fast money, fast cars, and fast women.  Here, the tone is set for an album that highlights that his past errors are not isolated incidents that try a person in his or her new environment.  The lust for these forbidden fruits is rather a part of J. Cole’s nature, and this theme is portentous of his proclivity for the unoriginal sin that he illuminates throughout the album.

In the next track, “LAnd of the Snakes,” the “Carolina Andre” samples Outkast’s “The Art of Storytelling Pt. 1” to recount how his life has significantly altered from his humble beginnings in North Carolina through his journey to and navigation through fame, and ultimately into the vices and frivolity of a Los Angeles, the Land of the Snakes.  This album is teeming with biblical references, and as anyone who has ever watched Entourage knows, Vegas is not the only metropolis deserving of the moniker Sin City.  His retinue in the LAnd abets and enhances his immorality, and Cole seems to embrace this fact with open arms.

“Power Trip,” the album’s lead single, beguiled me upon first listen before I had heard the album in full.  As a YouTube video, the song seems to be a better than average radio hit with above par word play.  Yet, its lyrics seemed to be the trite “I’ve been through a lot of women, but I really like you” that is a cliché mainstay of the airwaves today.  But in the context of the album, J. Cole is asserting his untrustworthiness over Miguel’s repeated question, “Would you believe me if I said I’m in love?”  Here, J. Cole is aware of his overt polygamy, and while temporarily entranced by a single member of the opposite sex, is fully cognizant of the crush’s mortality.

“C.R.E.A.M. (Cash Rules Everything Around Me),” one of the most ubiquitous adlibs in the hip hop world, has found its way into the lyrics of rap songs since the Wu-Tang Clan brought the acronym to the fore two decades ago.  But whereas Wu-Tang asserted that while cash may rule everything around them, it doesn’t rule them, on “Mo’ Money,” J. Cole responds that it isn’t so easy not to kowtow to the dollar.  While Cole doesn’t necessarily glorify the power of money, his own deference to its power pushes forth the theme of the lusts and gluttonies that have become all too natural to him.

Towards the middle of the album, J. Cole reaches the apex of his transparent moral turpitude and egocentrism on “Trouble.”  His self-described “god flow” has landed him fame, stardom, and money, causing women to flock to him.  The only reservations he maintains throughout his sexual escapades are that these  women may grow attached to him and he will have to exert effort in a relationship and spend money and time with them.  We see him finally grow self-conscious of his amoral excursions when he entertains the idea that his actions may lead to trouble. 

After J. Cole has become ostensibly inured to sin, the narrative begins its descent back into the hangover of paranoia, self consciousness, repentance, and ultimately redemption.  On “Runaway,” J. Cole appears to want to retreat from his quotidian bacchanalia.  The cadence of the song is tempered.  The hook, which repeats the line “Runaway, runaway, runaway, runaway, I’m holding on desperately” is dreamlike.  Cole’s assertion that there are no happy endings to life, only pure beginnings followed by “sinning and fake repentance” leads us to wonder if his upcoming apologies are authentic or self-serving.  He grows blatantly self-conscious of his misguided path, questioning if even the murderers, whores, and people having wild affairs while on tour (himself) can receive salvation, as his preacher says.  Cole reintroduces us to the world of sin that he has been thrust into and then pines to runaway from.  He is beginning to get his conscience back.

“She Knows” is a chilling take on the paranoia inherent in infidelity.  The song begins with “Damned if I do, Damned if I don’t,” asserting the double edged sword of passing up the most aesthetically pleasing women that throw themselves his way in favor of remaining faithful to his current significant other has its own obvious pitfalls.  The title works on two levels, one in the guessing game of the fact that his significant other knows of his affairs.  But simultaneously, the snaky woman might have knowledge of his relationship, yet presses him to err anyway.  We see the tension that has plagued humanity since Adam and Eve bit the apple, effectively naturalizing our task to overcome the urge to sin. 

The continued rejection of sinful celebrity life is instantiated in “Rich Niggaz.”  Cole immediately rejects how wealth changes people for the worse, taking umbrage with those who garishly flaunt the wealth that once remained out of his reach.  Soon after, he takes a trip down memory lane to the time before he too was altered by his waxing bank account.   He ultimately concludes that while he appreciates the fact that he has made it in the exclusive rap industry, he fears that he will become a replica of the very people he is lamenting, a mirror of himself on the earlier part of the album.  He rejects numbness to morality and refuses to sell his soul.  It is also noteworthy that J. Cole’s flow on this song is just about as good as it has ever been.  He fits an incredible number of rhymes into a diminutive bar count, offering a complex rhyme scheme on par with any hip hop heavyweight.

On “Forbidden Fruit,” Cole retells the story of Adam and Eve, insinuating that after original sin, they were forced to raise themselves in a precarious world.  Likewise, Cole has had to do the same as his “only father was time.”  Not only has Cole helped to raise himself (he did have a mother), but he now places himself on Kanye West’s status in the rap world, speeding up his album release date to compete with Kanye for sales.  While the album is laden with Adam and Eve references, this song is especially overt. 

The idyllic tone on “Chaining Day” exemplifies J. Cole’s yearning for simpler days and for a less convoluted, lustful life.  He begins the song with “Look at me, pathetic nigga, this chain that I bought, You mix greed, pain, and fame, this the heinous result, Let these words be the colors, I’m just painting my heart, I’m knee-deep in the game and it ain’t what I thought.”  He delves into his addiction for the purchase of whips and chains.  His infatuation with all things shiny is so extreme that he installed diamonds in the hair of his Jesus piece.  These whips and chains are his new form of slavery, a life that he agonizingly proclaims that he chose for himself.

I will not spend too much time on “Ain’t That Some Shit,” because apart from its awesome flow, I don’t seem to think that it fits in with the cohesion of the album as a whole, though it would make a great bonus track.

In the late 90’s, the super trio of T-Boz, Left Eye, and Chilli, aka TLC, released their heartfelt song “Unpretty,” a ballad about a relationship in which the man does not recognize the inner nor outer beauty of his girlfriend, always seeking to alter and enhance her physical features.  J. Cole calls upon TLC to sing the chorus to his redemption anthem “Crooked Smile.”  Accepting women for who they are has been a common theme of J. Cole’s throughout his career, yet this theme had remained conspicuously absent on Born Sinner, as Cole’s sins did not leave him much room to address such lofty subjects.  But this song marks the official retreat from his life of sin.  This song is a statement that we are each born differently on the inside and out, and the only thing we can do with our natural abilities is to refine them and make the best of them.  We are neither born sinners nor as righteous people.  We are born as human beings who have the choice to do right or wrong, and on this journey, J. Cole is no longer capitulating to the wrong.

If I may be frank, “Let Nas Down” is my favorite track on this album.  On it, J. Cole recounts the pain he felt after Nas scoffed at “Work Out,” J. Cole’s most poppy and radio friendly song to date.  What I find particularly interesting in this song is that J. Cole can be seen as a proxy for Jay-Z, highlighting the fact that Jay wouldn’t put out Cole’s first album without a single like “Work Out.”  Inevitably, this song disappointed Nas.  The Jay-Z/ Nas rivalry is one of the most notorious feuds in the history of hip hop, and J. Cole has found himself pitted in the middle of the two rap greats.  J. Cole’s conclusion is that he will not put such songs out anymore, but not before he quips at Nas, “I mean you made ‘You owe me dog, I thought that you could relate.”  This line demonstrates the brazenness that J. Cole has taken on, placing himself on an equal playing field as rap’s most vaunted legends.

“Born Sinner,” the eponymous conclusion of J. Cole’s sophomore album, is an apt finale for this heartfelt rollercoaster ride.  Amid an emotional chorus acknowledging that we are born with sin but can choose an alternative road, Cole again recalls his earlier, more innocuous days and reflects on the perpetual strains of stardom.

So who is J. Cole?

Jermaine Cole is a mulatto rapper who has graduated from a prestigious university with honors.  He journeys into the rap world from an almost unheard of city and has become the protégé of this world’s biggest magnate.  But we knew all that already.  What we didn’t know were the day-to-day struggles that Cole is pressed with, that he often succumbs to, and that he sometimes overcomes. 

With Born Sinner, J. Cole has outlined not only the essential struggles inherent in making it in the hip hop industry, but the daily tensions that we all face when supplanted in a new environment.  I commend J. Cole for the cohesion of this album.  He has made it a long way.  His immense talent has never been questioned.  But with this album, the wunderkind has clearly graduated.  He has molded that talent into a tangible piece of art that will not be forgotten.  It also should be pointed out that J. Cole fully or partially produced every song on Born Sinner.  I give this album two thumbs up and more.  My only question is, in fifteen years, will the next big thing in rap music be despondent over the fact that “he let Cole down?”  Quite possibly.