![]() And when he explores the moral ambiguity of his business, it isn’t for pity or forgiveness, but to externalize a reality he knows doesn’t make sense (“Regrets”). He can twist words for sport (“22 Two’s”) and flex like a battle rapper (the Biggie-featuring “Brooklyn’s Finest”). ![]() The vision is big-wealth, mobility, autonomy-but the budget is small and the attitude scrappy. “We hustle out of a sense of hopelessness,” he says on the intro to “Can I Live.” “Sort of a desperation/Through that desperation, we become addicted/Sort of like the fiends we accustomed to servin’.” He may be rich-or at least on his way-but with beats so spare and a delivery so quietly intense, you could mistake him for starving. If you envy him, it’s not for what he has, but for how methodically he came by it. If you admire him, it isn’t for his friendliness but his discipline. The hitch, such as it is, may have been persona: Where Nas represented writerly introspection and Biggie raw charisma, Jay was somewhere in between: a born hustler who touted the high life but seemed too preoccupied to enjoy it. ![]() In retrospect, it's hard to understand why: His skills are obvious, and the subject matter, while familiar-the perils and spoils of the drug trade-is rendered with a density that makes it feel new. JAY-Z’s 1996 debut wasn’t an instant classic.
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