The Best Bawse That We've Heard Thus Far

(A preemptive postscript. Prescript? Check out FD for a shorter consideration of another important hip-hop matter: Miami Thrice on wax!)

If you wouldn't mind, it would be nice if you would take a moment out of your day to thank Rick Ross for making "Tears of Joy." Rarely does an artist provide us with such an obvious inflection point from which we can praise his strengths, mock his weaknesses, marvel at his audacity, and trace a career arc that improbably keeps rising.



What Rick Ross has done for himself is rather amazing. Combining a distinctive, scratchy voice with a signature aesthetic, a willingness to pander, and a public demeanor that refuses embarrassment, he has crawled across critical broken glass, hot coals, and a bed of nails to arrive on the other side either, depending upon your perspective, unscathed or commanding some modicum of respect for now comfortably bearing the scars of struggle. One, the other, both, or something similar, Ricky Rozay has turned himself into a rap presence that even the most resolute haters of the oldest establishments must acknowledge with a benign smile, if not something far warmer, like receptive ears or even honest appreciation.

Consider how far he has come: Rick Ross sucked when he arrived in 2006. Just straight up awful. Out of a contextual void emerged a fat guy with a bald head, goofy beard, massive chains, and an encyclopedic knowledge of every crime and drug reference a person could make. For years already, the most mainstream rap music had given up on holding back brazen fake thugs and comically stylized gangsters, and Rawse appeared to take the proliferation of this archetype as a personal challenge. No one would top his extravagant embrace of everything dumb, opulent, basic, and hackneyed.

Port of Miami reflected this foolhardy mission. It started with an obvious Scarface homage; it transitioned into a single that contained "rhymes" like "I'm into distribution/I'm like Atlantic/I got the motherfuckers flying 'cross the At-lantic/I know Pablo (Pablo)/Noriega (Noriega)/The real Noriega/He owe me a hundred favors"; and it went on to suffer from cheap hip-hop populism, offering lame rhymes and discount-level production meant to capture as broad an audience as possible. Ross's first joint was the sort of disposable music that the Roots, Wesley Snipes, and Denzel Washington famously warned us about at the beginning of Things Fall Apart.

Ross endured, though. The popularity of "Hustlin'" and the juice of Def Jam earned him a platinum plaque. Despite struggling at times to deliver even basic couplets, Rozay could flow, his voice left an impression, and like most novelty acts, he was made for a guest verse. He started spitting those. He also started running with a bad crowd sometimes. The Bawse suffered the misfortune of sharing geography with DJ Khaled, so he wound up on a number of those handicap records. But the most notable development following Port of Miami was that Rawse began to flex his greatest gift: the man can pick beats like you wouldn't believe.

Trilla, Rick's second album, was not exactly a lyrical odyssey, but it was an important pivot point, all the same. (Particularly in a post-lyrical hip-hop context that usually emphasizes mood, style, and personality before it concerns itself with what's actually being said and how. No shots.) Far from another jumbled hodge podge of half-baked production derivatives, Trilla offered a fuller, more stylistically consistent sound. Quite bluntly, the production on Ross's sophomore LP transformed Rozay and saved his career. Booming synthesizers that kept the tinny southern stereotypes at arm's length and lush soul beats converted a grating, tacky microphone persona dedicated to South Florida kingpin fantasies into an amusing entertainer whose simple rhymes were merely a conduit for an impossibly catchy imagination. In particular, the five-song flourish from "This Me" through "Luxury Tax" was a wonderful production showcase; it gave Ross his true voice along with the context for it to be engaging drama, not just mindless fiction.

Another Rawse hallmark began to foment on Trilla. Thanks to a richer, dignified soundscape, Ricky's impossible grandiosity started to transition from annoying contrivance to hilarious delusion. Much as Cam'ron had earned a certain begrudged acceptance (or outright devotion in some circles) for his insanely audacious rhymes and unyielding devotion to the outrageous, Ross, too, took a weakness and plugged it into a redemptive formula.

There just really aren't any ways to calibrate the lifestyle that Ross catalogs with such zeal. It goes beyond the fact that he calls his own songs Maybach Music, though that's a fairly presumptuous, and funny, premise. String together a few Rawse songs and the Push-It-to-the-Limit montage from Scarface that Rozay has internalized begins to look like b-roll footage from news stories about the recession. As captured on verse (after verse), Ricky's weeks are filled with shirtless sex parties on yachts paid for by relentless drug trafficking; flouting the law while speeding around in the most expensive cars possible; swapping out the traditional badges of luxury for clothing and jewelry most people (including Ricky) can't even pronounce; and turning out models who are biding their time by fighting over who will get to be the subject of the Bawse's degradations first. Rozay leaves us no choice: we either scoff and move on, or we laugh and suspend disbelief. His unbeatable production and the safety of such innocent vicarious indulgence tends to encourage the latter.



Last year's Deeper Than Rap was the next step in Rozay's evolution. After Trilla, he took an L while beefing with 50 and being exposed as a rehabilitated corrections officer. He was the butt of joke after joke, and no one reading this site needs to be told how swiftly a career built on drug-trade fantasies can be destroyed by having the reputation for being a man of the system. How could hip-hop abide that kind of reverence and lawfulness? Befitting his physique, though, the potential embarrassment and career homicide just bounced off the Bawse. Much like he didn't ever seem to care about being lyrical, making sense, or being believed, Rick Ross just kind of plowed through the barriers. He played up the mafia angle on Deeper, shifting his profile from the pastels and simplicity of a weekly crime procedural to a dark, brooding gangster movie. Michael Mann probably should have been the record's executive producer. The new Ross seemed comfortable to parry whatever insults were thrust in his direction while focusing on being the sort of mob boss who looks beyond critics as they fall away.

Deeper Than Rap was just that. Sort of. It's not a topically or thematically deep album, but unlike Trilla, which was sturdier but still light, Deeper felt heavier. It was a cohesive soundtrack meant to score an epic starring Rawse, one set at night, out of the sun, and comfortable with dirt. Despite a furious three-song finish which left the lasting impression that Ross had arrived as a rapper who could do more than write limericks and pay the J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League, Deeper's highlight comes at the very beginning. "Mafia Music," which opened the album, was the best Ross song ever made. The tone--set by the track's pounding heartbeat, menacing instrumentation, measured tempo, and defiant rhymes--was perfect for the rapper Rawse had become. "Mafia Music," through its mood, not its title, also cemented the new profile as a don on wax. As was the case on Trilla, the method acting which never allowed Ross to break character created a fantasy realm into which it was fun for an audience to step.

Rappers rarely reinvent themselves successfully. Nor do we commonly allow for their improvement. They are delivered prepackaged, the clothes, the sounds, the interviews, the endorsements carefully plotted by them and their people. Alternately, they might bubble up from the underground, rough around the edges and free of manipulation. Yet, no matter the route to fame, once a rapper arrives, he usually stays as he was first perceived. Rick Ross is something of an exception, then.

He has changed. In degree, not kind, but he has changed. The man arrived hustlin' and he has yet to eschew that larger gimmick, but Port of Miami is miles away from Deeper Than Rap or his newest joint, Teflon Don. He's a better rapper now, and that's part of how he has earned our patience. I don't expect him to battle Rakim, or Blu, or even Drake--backhanded compliment!--anytime soon, but at his clumsiest, now, he is markedly better and more credible. Rawse won't be tussling too tough with Lil' Wayne, either, but only Dwayne comes to mind when considering other rappers who arrived as relative jokes and then grew into something far better. To be fair, Rawse may have been born on second, if not third. He started on Def Jam and has never wanted for resources. The second song put out in his name was the "Hustlin'" remix that featured Jay-Z and Jeezy. (I am sure it's still getting spins in the Pitchfork offices.)

All the same, he has seized upon the good fortune to establish himself as an entertaining MC, and that's no small effort. I was chuckling about this with a fellow old head--though perhaps one more open-minded--at the Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival last weekend. Ian agreed that for as much fun as it used to be to front on Ricky Rozay, the dude's won us over, even if only in a relative way. Those beats!



There are plenty of them on Teflon Don, which takes the best production instincts demonstrated on Trilla, mixes them with the latest iteration of Rozay memorialized on Deeper, and serves up something that is a little more daring and assured than its predecessors. To wit, "Free Mason" is a true musical composition, with John Legend killing it while blending so well with Ricky and Jay; "Live Fast, Die Young" has an exaggerated sample and complicated filler that might have overwhelmed Rozay earlier; the sequence of "MC Hammer" and "B.M.F." is something that would make the Heatmakerz die of envy, with the simultaneously sudden but seamless transition among my favorite hip-hop moments of the year. Of, course, improvement is incremental and measured against what came before. This Rawse has that golden ear and a sharper tongue, but there are a lot of moments on Teflon that betray a rapper still not fully comfortable with what he's supposed to do best.

That's why you, me, we--we all must give thanks for "Tears of Joy." It has a lush soul beat and a subtly energetic tempo, the sort that is best for the Bawse. Further, the sparse melody and drum pattern is commodious, allowing Rozay to spread out, lounge around, and...

...uh...

...pontificate? Luxuriate through the mouth? Project stories onto still photos flashing before his eyes?

I have no idea what is happening here. The rapping on this song is the functional equivalent of someone speaking slowly in a desperate and transparent attempt to grab more gravitas than he might normally wield. It's awesome. There is pained reflection, pseudo social consciousness, the inescapable Rawse misogyny, some genuinely pointed emotion, and a blending of common expressions and general stupidity that make for the best malapropisms. "Ain't life a bitch/But you gotta keep 'em wet/Keys open doors, so I gotta keep a set/Everybody know that I'm a lotta people threat/Biggie Smalls in the flesh/Livin' life after my death." Just gorgeous. And just so Rawse.

I hope he keeps growing.



Intro
Smokin' a fat spliff in a brand new Benz
No I.D. on the track
Let the story begin

Verse One
Lookin' in the mirror but I don't see much
Still runnin' the streets, so i don't sleep much
Watchin' the snakes so they don't creep up
But the way I'm gettin' this money
N***as can't keep up
You n***as can't keep up

N***as got beef but it can't be much
I'm still walkin' through the crowds like I can't be touched
Top back, all black, Gretzky puck
Ice skate a little later, might let me fuck
She might let me fuck

Last night I cried tears of joy
What did I do to deserve this
Vacheron on my wrist
A year ago I didn't even know the bitches exist

Quarter milli for the motherfucker
No insurance on the motherfucker
Ain't life a bitch
But you gotta keep 'em wet
Keys open doors, so I gotta keep a set
Everybody know that I'm a lotta people threat
Biggie Smalls in the flesh
Livin' life after my death

Yesterdy I read my horoscope
Tell me lord, will I be poor and broke
Tell me lord, will I be dealin' dope
I wanna take my mama to the Poconos

But only lord knows

Verse Two
Last night I cried tears of joy
What did I do to deserve this
Young, rich motherfucker still uneducated
But dammit, a n***a made it
God damn, a n***a made it

Crib bigger than a church
Lord know I'm blessed
Five different lawyers
Lord know I'm stressed
A punch in the face'll get ya $300k
Ask Vlad
Now he back to making minimum wage
Another victim of my criminal ways
I wanna walk in the image Christ
But that bitch Vivica nice
And I'm still swimmin' in ice
I'm just livin' my life

I'm just livin' my life

Lease a Lamborghini for your pussy rate
Life is just a pussy race
Snatch a bitch, take her back to ya place
Next morning I can tell you how the pussy tastes
I got expensive taste

Verse three
Last night I cried tears of joy
What did we do to deserve this

Not to dwell on the past
But to keep it real, I got to represent for Emmett Till
All the dead souls in the field
Lookin' at my Roley, it's about that time
White man had a problem with mine
And we supposed to be shy
The revolution's televised

Bobbies still on the rise