Jay-Z is bigger than this. He doesn't leak singles to the street; he launches them on Budweiser commercials during the World Series. He doesn't blog on Myspace; he flogs for Hewlett-Packard. He doesn't beg for time at MTV; he owns the billboards above it. To most of the world, he's not just a rapper, he is the rapper. When he calls himself the "Mike Jordan of recordin'," he's not talking about being the greatest player the game has ever known, he's talking about being the game itself.
But, like athletes, we expect rappers to disappear when they turn 30. We have no use for them as they become older and more comfortable with themselves-- even if their minds are as sharp as ever. We don't want to see them smiling on the cover of Life or hear about their hopes for the future. In hip-hop, there is no future. Everything is now because, presumably, it could all end brutally tomorrow. Jay's two biggest rivals are dead, and we canonized them partly because they were murdered in their mid-20s, most likely because of each other. Jay-Z didn't die young, though. He dubbed himself Jay-Hova and lived beyond any of our imaginations, and now he's left to figure out what the biggest rapper in the world is supposed to do when he gets old.
The early consensus on Kingdom Come is that it's one of Jay-Z's worst albums. He's still more charismatic and intelligent than nearly any other rapper, but for every vintage run like the one on "Trouble" ("Y'all viewing y'all's version of the Lord God/ MC, little nigga, applaud, or/ Forever burn in the fire that I spit at y'all/ I rebuke you little nigga/ The meek shall perish/ I'll roof you, little nigga/ I'm a project terrorist"), there are dozens of uninspired stretches and a few horribly misguided rants like "30 Something", on which Jay unleashes his new catchphrase "30's the new 20," and boasts of leaving rap as if he were ashamed of his past. His nose in the air, he spits the most ridiculous fiscal rap this side of Bloomberg, saying in the chorus, "now I got black cards, good credit and such, baby boy, I'm all grown up."
He's grown up, alright. With the energy Jay brings to most of these tracks, you'd think 30 was the new 60. His patented whispery change-up is used more than ever before, and often makes him sound like Dr. Moreau-era Marlon Brando when all we needed was a little Apocalypse Now. We didn't expect the young, brash Jigga, but we never thought Jay would be flashing AARP brochures in our faces and dropping Gwyneth Paltrow's name in a rap song. Twice he addresses his recent heavily publicized boycott of Cristal champagne which even he acknowledges is unimportant. But that's Kingdom Come: Jay boringly rapping about boring stuff and being totally comfortable with it
The production doesn't help, either. Jay-Z's name on an album used to be a guarantee of at least a few certified anthems, but Kingdom Come is mostly certified anesthesia. Just Blaze's flip of the Allman Brothers' "Whipping Post" on "Oh My God" is a pretty good example of his new stadium rap sound, and his "Kingdom Come" take on Rick James is pretty clever. But the latter has been sitting on the internet for a long time which means Jay-Z now gets Just sorta Blaze instead full-on Blaze. The Neptunes' contribution on "Anything" has been accurately compared to the The Legend of Zelda theme, and Swizz Beats' "Dig a Hole" might be the worst beat to ever appear on a Jay-Z record. It's never a good sign when Chris Martin of Coldplay makes the best track on your record, but that may be the case with Kingdom Come. It is the first album in Jay-Z's career that doesn't sound like he got first choice from his producers, and one has to wonder where the much-talked-about Timbaland songs went (FutureSex/LoveSound, perhaps?).
Still, despite the rampant mediocrity, there's an interesting theme of spirituality and Jay's own messianic tendencies running through this album, hence the title. When Jay-Hova has an identity crisis, the proportions are biblical. He believes he's hip-hop's savior, and Kingdom Come, at times, sounds like his Passion Play. From "The Prelude"'s genesis story to the title track's sermon on the mount to the Kanye West-produced synth-hymn "Do U Wanna Ride?"-- on which Hov introduces his "beach" meme-- the narrative arc of the album loosely resembles that of the Bible's Gospels, ending with Jay's ascension on "Beach Chair". The Beach Chair, of course, is not a beach chair; it is a metaphor for the hip-hop afterlife where all is happiness and one can wriggle his bare toes in the sand if one is not afraid to remove one's sneakers. (Jay was emasculated last summer by former Rocafella artist Cam'Ron for wearing sandals on the beach; Jay responds on "Dig a Hole" with, "It's like the disciples dissin' Jesus, becoming his rivals.")
It's on the final song, the Chris Martin production, that Jay's insecurities about getting old-- or worse, irrelevant-- are most naked. Over Martin's surprisingly decent-- if unsurprisingly epic, rock-ish beat-- Jay muses, "If the prophecy's correct, then the child should have to pay/ For the sins of the father/ So I bartered my tomorrow's against my yesterdays…/ I'm both saint and sinner…/ I'm on permanent vacay/ Life is but a beach chair/ This song's like a Hallmark card until you reach here." Instead of just making a song about how nice it is to be able to sit on the beach, Jay defensively blows a ridiculous image up into a meditation on life. It's strange to the point of discomfort at first, but it becomes oddly compelling.
But we don't want oddities and bizarre narrative arcs from a Jay-Z album. We want unadulterated bangers and innovative hustler imagery, and we want the Jay that's invincible and funny and venomous. And that's probably the Jay that Jay wants too, but that's not who he is anymore. He thinks he's going to save hip-hop and New York City with his triumphant return, and maybe he might. But it won't be because he shouldered their burdens; it'll be because he shrugged and someone else carried the weight. If he wants to remain relevant, it's likely with songs like "Minority Report", on which he speaks honestly about his response to Hurricane Katrina, saying, "Sure I ponied up a mil/ But I didn't give my time/ So, in reality, I didn't give a dime/ Or a damn/ I just put my money in the hands/ Of the same people who left my people stranded." It's the only song on Kingdom Come that offers any real insight into the unique position Jay-Z is in, and possibly the only one that anyone will care to remember.
