Earnestness Dies With J. Cole
As J. Cole walks into the sunset after THE FALL OFF, does unflappable sincerity in rap music go out with him?
There’s a small, dying consortium of rappers that still view hip-hop as a religious ideology as much as an art form. Technical craftsmanship, competitiveness, speaking out for his community, paying respect to OG’s, and authenticity act as core gospels to these folks. They have convoluted ideas of what it means to be the best rapper alive, a conservative streak in their production choices, vocal performances, and, at times, their politics or morals. There’s a conviction amongst them that anyone who pushes the borders out from those core ideals is destroying a culture already on life support. They also live so deep up their own anuses that they believe any one savior of an MC, a virtuosic radio show freestyle, or a rap battle can save the culture they hold dear. Once upon a time, they were called backpackers, years earlier just MCs and fans, but today you can call them just really fucking corny, if you notice at all.
Generations of grey bearded uncs and “born in the wrong generation” rap super fans still chasing the first high of Mecca & The Soul Brother, Resurrection, or Below The Heavens anointed J. Cole 15 years ago off the back of 2 immaculate mixtapes and a Jay-Z co-sign. Anyone who hopped on the bandwagon doubled down on that loyalty and appreciation of his old school hip-hop ethics. Of what would become the “Big 3” of Blog Era darlings turned decade definingjuggernauts, Cole was the guy to them. Drake’s R&B sensibilities countered their inner Heltah Skeltah, while Kendrick’stheatrical concept records were executed at such a clip that he felt alien, anointed, above reality from the jump.
Through 7 studio solo albums, fluctuating interest in fame and his peers, record scratching misses, and tear jerking highs, a basketball sabbatical to Rwanda, and the foundation of a label that fed his fans during his hermetic periods, Cole was their guy. He was an everyman trying to just smash the cute girl in the club, get money working regular jobs, who found solace and community through Lyricist Lounge tapes and hating every one hit wonder of the moment. What his life became was one they always felt was a choice or two away for themselves. “If only I’d finished school…” or “Man, if I copped that MPC younger like I always wanted….” or “If only I didn’t get locked up doing….” Cole was a proxy, an embodiment of the dream they’d given up or had snatched away for more immediate responsibilities.
After years of build up The Fall Off, Cole’s long brewing double disc retirement album came out last Friday. Cole’s journey, and thereby everyone bought into its journey was set to come to a climactic close. Instead, we got something kinda ass (🔗🔗). It’s one part extended investigation of his own journey as the poet laureate for his hometown of Fayetteville, North Carolina from different age specific POV’s, and a second part karaoke session of whatever a college kid in the early 00’s would consider the greatest hip-hop songs ever made (“I Used To Love H.E.R.,” “Set It Off,” “What’s Your Fantasy,” “SpottieOttieDopalicious,” to name a few).
Even in the abstract it sounds tricky to pull off, but still a deep well to pull from that could be an impressive send off from a rap nerd turned global superstar. Feels like the perfect formula to craft that trademark classic that’s mostly alluded Cole’s entire career, right? (4 Your Eyez Only defenders rise!) “He’s too talented to fuck this up!” “He’s learned from the OG’s who went out sad and riding high, he’s a student!” “It’s been years, he has to have something special, right?” Though in practice he fucks it up, acting far too indebted to the sensibilities of those still stock pilling sneakers in plastic containers to match their fitted hats without learning from their sacred texts.
The variance of Life After Death isn’t there, the infectious charisma of All Eyez On Me is nowhere to be found, not even a budget blowing swing like Wu-Tang Forever made the mood board. Instead, imagine Streets Disciple if done by Joel Ortiz. Every song that interpolates an iconic beat, flow, concept, or phrase from a Hall Of Fame rap entity serves as a reminder that Cole is inferior creatively to guys zooted off embalming fluid working off shoestring budgets 30 years ago. There are moments of raw connectivity (verses on “The Let Out” and “Quik Stop”), but amongst 101 minutes of music, a few great verses ain’t enough. He failed, but that was expected outside the cult of the faithful.
There are understandable critiques of Cole musically that rarely get addressed in detail. Read the critics of J. Cole from the last 15 years online and in professional spaces and you’ll almost exclusively learn about the writers personal disdain for what Cole represents rather than the music itself; the self-serious righteousness underlining his foundation and how it relates to old school backpack rap as a whole, stan culture, the corporatization of rap music dressed in fan activation, his own morality and understanding of social issues, etc.
In Alphonse Pierre’s single review for “What If?”, the old style handwringing rears up again, challenging Cole’s defining trait as a rapper and character in the rap universe: earnestness. On “What If? Cole pushes out a well executed take on one off Golden Era concept tracks, the ones that work like bottle episodes in a long running TV series. Standing alone from the greater project at hand, a story unfurls with a strict set of rules, creating a different beat of ideas than expected. Instead of his usual chest beating or poems of domesticity, Cole imagines an alternate reality where two of his heroes, Biggie and 2Pac, were more emotionally mature individuals able to peace up their differences. It also works as a cover for his thoughts on the Kendrick v. Drake fiasco. The same one that allowed the now infamous “7 Minute Drill” and Dreamville stage apology to exist, tarnishing what little goodwill he had left amongst non-Cole Stans and rattling the faithful.
Alphonse is one of the best working music writers regardless of having a taste that runs lateral to high schoolers (not a dig, rap is always activated best by people who can’t rent a car). Across his reviews, there’s a reverence for the accidental greatness rather than the execution of a multi-leveled caper. “What If?” and The Fall Off conceptually are another one of those situations in which his disinterest in anything concertedly arranged comes alive, dubbing “What If?” a new subgenre, Podcast Rap.
“The general idea being that you don’t have to listen to these songs more than once, but they’ll give a roundtable of dinguses something to chew on for a week,” he writes. The detestation he exudes later in the piece by playing out a scenario in which the Joe Budden Podcast reacts to the song puts in perspective why, in past reviews, he’s torn up a song like Kendrick’s “Reincarnated.” Rappers sweating out storyboarded ideas act as heels to the impulsive and sparky underground joints Alphonse and the broader online community adores. The creative core of rap music is lying dormant in any rapper, waiting to be activated by the perfect drug dosage, impromptu spirit channeling, and irreplaceable vibes within a bedroom closet turned studio, showing the true wonder rap allows. What pops up in his pieces or song lists from the blogs looking to capture a cool everyone else will be on in 3 years, is the occasional life altering Soundcloud link. The other 95% of the time, we get unlistenable swings toward uncharted territory that remained untapped for a reason, regional street rap with one cool line in it ready to get mined into a TikTok trend, or the drugs taking over a guy’s jaw with such might words are strangled into the whines of a dying chihuahua.
His taste and what lies outside of it is reflective of most online rap discourse. Streaming has already devalued albums, spiking the value of random niche one off’s from artists whose names could be swapped out with randomized numbers and letters. There is no connection to artists, just the song within this month’s playlist. However it is presented or represents doesn’t matter as long as the short boost of new tickles you. Any greater project or arc being built is irrelevant, and being too conscious of shaping that arc plays you off as a try hard.
What few stars are popping from their respective niches rely on nonchalance, social apathy, disinterest in for striving for anything greater than a check, shirking off the title of “rapper” for “artist” in hopes of ducking the bonus expectations associated with hip-hop culture. Think Carti, Sexyy Redd, Toliver, Tecca, Gunna, Latto. Even future stars like xaviersobased, Nettspend, and any number of the UK invaders are hellbent on extending their reign from online youth icons to real deal stars without creasing their $2500 leather boots. What’s the need for all that groveling to be known? Who are they trying to please? There’s no gatekeepers to get your money, no need to beg to be signed to a label, putting on a good live show is even optional. The last generation busted every door down so future ones would never have to.
After finding peace within his post-Born Sinner hermetic period, Cole put out coming-of-age tales with rural North Carolina as the foreground. He wants you to know how hard being famous from his home can be on his psyche and day-to-day quest for domesticity. He wants to understand the youth. Sorta?. He wants more than anything to be perceived as a guy who cares; about the craft, about people, and about his own mark on the world. Openly stating how much you want anything to a crowd interested exclusively in fleeting wonder is an ick-inducing humiliation ritual that will only attract those who value the old days of starving to be heard (and paid).
It is representative of a growing societal spin away from the earnestness Cole’s entire persona is built around. It’s not just rap; it’s acting, in basketball with the Darryn Peterson situation at Kansas, it’s the constantly expanded scammer economies of politically right wing content creation, it’s gambling, it’s cryptocurrency, etc. It’s the natural endpoint to a capitalist society that doesn’t value humanity, but rather human labor in relation to shareholder profit.
The music hasn’t always been great, but what Cole represents is one of the last mainstream entities that is born out of, chugs along because of, and bears on its chest an earnest want for something. It’s something I wonder if we’ll ever see on a major scale again. A palpable hunger, the aura of a forever student looking for an “atta boy” as he keeps a legacy of masters alive, someone who gives a fuck about something bigger than themselves to a cringeworthy degree.
Our biggest mistake may have been seeing it as cringe in the first place, rather than the most human thing any artist could offer.
What are your thoughts on J. Cole? Overrated, over hated, or right where he should be?