I used to say that Rick Ross was the worst rapper of all time. I never said that I didn't like Rick Ross, nor that he didn't deserve to be famous. All I said was that he was a terrible rapper. I said he suffered from the same problem as someone like Dr. Dre — one of my favorite rappers — who just sounds like he's trying too hard.
Every time I hear Rick "Ricky Rosé" Ross rap, I hear a fat man in a little coat. And that isn't a dig at Ross's weight. Chris Farley put on David Spade's tiny little coat in "Tommy Boy" (1995) because he had something to do and he was going to do it no matter what: He had to save his father's auto parts company, and to do that he had to cheer David Spade up. And to do that he did what was necessary — or what he thought was necessary — he put on a tiny little coat and danced around.
Rick Ross is wearing that tiny little coat.
Miami−based rapper Rick Ross (né William Leonard Roberts II) has had an interesting career — going from an unknown to a self−made superstar in a few short years, during which time a tumultuous beef with 50 Cent revealed him to be a former corrections officer, a revelation that somehow didn't even scathe him. But over the summer, Ross released his fourth solo album in as many years, "Teflon Don" (2010), an album that is absolute fire.
If you listen to "Teflon Don" closely, it's clear that Ross still wants it really, really badly, but it also sounds like maybe he deserves it.
This moment in commercial hip−hop is fascinating. Hip−hop has existed for 37 years, give or take a few (many credit DJ Cool Herc's famous Aug. 11, 1973, rec−room party at 1520 Sedgwick Ave. in the Bronx as the birthplace of hip−hop), and it's only now that rappers can admit to being performers.
Hip−hop has long been seen as a response to life in the inner city, an outlet to express the pain and suffering and whatnot, and up until now, you either had to be a gangster, or you had to pretend to be one to make it big in the rap game: Tupac and Biggie were really gangsters, 50 Cent has been shot nine times, Gucci Mane has most likely shot some people, as has Lil Wayne, and the members of N.W.A. had to pretend to not be college students to be taken seriously. But now Rick Ross, a former corrections officer, can write a song called "Rich off Cocaine" (2009) and everybody loves it because — hey! — it's a good song.
When Jay−Z raps about selling crack, it seems genuine, and if it turned out that his mysterious, often−referenced years spent in Virginia were spent crab fishing instead of slinging dope, people would probably be pretty upset; they might even feel betrayed.
The only money that Ross ever handled that resulted from the sale of cocaine was in his paycheck as a corrections officer dealing with convicted drug dealers. He is, however, allowed to rap the line, "I know Pablo, Noriega/The real Noriega/He owes me a hundred favors" on "Hustlin" (2006) because he is a performer. He isn't even the real Rick Ross: The real Rick Ross is "Freeway" Ricky Ross, a former drug kingpin currently suing the rapper for his use of the name.
Which is simultaneously ridiculous and hilarious.
I still don't think that Rick Ross has the skill of, say, Jay−Z or Lil Wayne or even Gucci Mane, but he can certainly wear the little coat with the best of them.
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