Where to start? For his eighth album, Jay-Z decided to up the stakes. 'The Black Album' is to be his last, and he's chosen an unparalleled array of producers and beat-makers to help him sign off with a flourish.
This claim has to be treated with some scepticism. Indeed, rumours of 'The Black Album''s follow-up are already rife. And for all of Jay's talk of being bored with hip hop, 'The Black Album' is the work of a master of the rapper's art, a lyrical craftsman who leaves all comers - and those last words are by no means typed lightly - in his wake. You can't imagine someone this much in command walking away. Not just yet.
'The Black Album' is, by any conventional standards, an imperious record, one convinced by, and almost smugly aware of, its own excellence (so is its maker: "I'm like Che Guevara with bling on - I'm complex," he raps at one particularly memorable point). It easily stands comparison not just to the stars Jay-Z has been forced to compete with since 1996, but to the all-time greats of hip hop history. Throughout, Jay doles out portions of his life story, switching dazzlingly from a verse where he tries to make peace with his late father, through finely wrought narratives of his dealing days and on to grandiose endorsements of his Herculean rap achievements.
Each track could yield a whole review in itself; this is almost uniformly an album of highlights ('Change Clothes' and 'Justify My Thug', are the two minor exceptions and even they're distinguished by incredible lyrics). One example - '99 Problems', ostensibly a cover of one of Ice-T's lesser tracks, is produced by Rick Rubin. It's the first beat he's made for a mainstream rapper since Run DMC's 'Tougher Than Leather' album. Rubin grinds out a rock riff over a deliciously compiled conga loop and the drums from Billy Squier's 'The Big Beat' to create a track that literally fizzes, a 21st century update of a pre-'golden age' sound. Deservedly, for so singular, distinctive and yet traditional a beat, Jay delivers an astounding set of lyrics, dismissing the rap media in verse one and possibly referencing his fracas with Lance 'Un' Rivera in the third. Between them is a dazzling stanza in which he recalls an illegal stop-and-search from 1994 in disarming detail. Old school, new school: same lessons.
It should go without saying, but even set against Carter's own catalogue, the writing here is amazing. You can only marvel at the fact that these dense, intricate raps are never actually written down. Hearing passages like the one in 'Moment Of Clarity' where he "comes out" as a frustrated conscious emcee makes that feeling even more acute. Blink aurally and you'll miss it amid the rush of sibilant syllables: "Truthfully, I wanna rhyme like Common Sense/But I did five mil - I ain't been rhymin' like Common since/When your cents got that much in common/And you been hustlin' since your inception/F*ck perception - go with what makes sense..." Writing of similarly unnerving brilliance is ladled across acres of great beats throughout the duration of this LP.
So, if Carter really is quitting rap, he leaves behind a catalogue unparalleled in the genre's history in terms of its depth, quality and consistency. And he seems to have saved something near his best 'til last.
by Angus Batey