J. Cole is the kind of rapper who worries aloud, and frequently, if he's getting too deep for his own songs. A St. John's University magna cum laude graduate raised in poverty by a single mother, Cole distinguished himself in his early career as much through effort as talent. Over a string of fiercely earnest, frequently impressive mixtapes, he rapped in writerly thickets in which the semicolons and embedded clauses were audible, and he produced all his own tracks. He became a leading light of the conscious-rap crowd, who, always eager for a viable mainstream entrant in rap's ongoing culture wars, fervently embraced him. And then, perhaps inevitably, Jay-Z swooped down and signed him.
The resulting major-label debut, Cole World: The Sideline Story, which finally saw release this week, is shaping up to be an actual Big Moment for Cole: Despite a tepid radio presence, it is projected to sell nearly 250,000 copies. Those are startling first-week numbers for a new rapper these days, and they assure that J. Cole will get at least a partial promenade through the spotlight. People appear to care deeply about this guy. But it's difficult to imagine why from the evidence of this studiously bland and compromise-riddled record, which seems to be searching for the meeting point of every conceivable middle.
About half the album bears Cole's production signature: a glimmering update on 1990s jazz-rap, spiked with live-sounding boom-bap drums. As a rap aesthetic, it's about as rigidly conservative as they come. But Cole is admirably committed to it, and he fleshes it out with surprising musical detail-- backup vocals, comping jazz guitars, lots and lots of grand piano. The songs that stick to this template feel warm, pleasant, and Cole-ish. The rest of Cole World is a 2011-era pop-rap project with a varying success rate: the madcap, syncopated single "Can't Get Enough" feels like a lost transmission from 2002-era rap radio, and it succeeds only insofar as it compels you to imagine how much better an '03-era T.I., or even N.O.R.E., would have finessed the beat than does Cole, who deflates the track's bounce.
It doesn't help that Cole brings the least-flavorful bars of his career to his debut, aiming, most likely, for something more universal than his diaristic mixtapes. The few glints we get of his personal life are intriguing: "Lost Ones" is a slippery and well-conceived, two-sided argument between Cole and his baby mother over whether they will keep the child. "Breakdown" affectingly recounts his late-in-life reunion with his father. But otherwise he seems to be playing by implied, major-label debut rules: keep it simple, slow it down, don't lose anyone. The result is like glutinous paste that results from mashing together Drake, Kanye, and Big K.R.I.T. and straining out what makes them interesting.
Jay himself, the benefactor figure, pops up twice, and both times his presence subtly undermines the marquee star. On his guest verse for "Mr. Nice Watch," he flexes his double -time flow and coolly blows Cole out of the water. He's heard again on the intro to "Rise and Shine," musing in a sampled snippet from his 2000 concert film Backstage on his ideal signee: rapping over his breakfast cereal, gunning for Jay's own spot. "I'mma find him, though, and sign him; I don't want no problems," he says and there is a startlingly predatory ring to his laugh. J. Cole certainly posed no threat to Jay-Z's crown; he's too humble and lacks charisma. But maybe the next up-and-coming rapper to successfully forge and remain in his own lane is the one who refuses Jay's help.
