As a solo artist, Pusha-T has a home in popular rap, but that doesn't mean he also isn't out of place. After an infamously torturous decade or so in the industry, Pusha now resides comfortably at G.O.O.D. Music, the imprint run by Kanye West that most notably houses guys like Common, Kid Cudi, and Big Sean. Pusha is the only guy remotely resembling a street rapper at the label, and though it's hard to figure out exactly what role he plays in the context of the label or even the genre writ large, it's a marriage that probably makes more sense than not. The days of Pusha, Drug Kingpin are long gone and have been for a while.
Maybe the rapper that Pusha most resembles now is Rick Ross. Though Pusha's cocaine-dealing past is bona fide (or close enough that no one bothers to question it), his identity as a drug dealer is now merely an imagined idea, a cachet that he rides but one that's far back in the rearview. The act of selling drugs, and the burdens and spoils that come with it, rarely enters his music anymore, and when it does, it rings as hollow as Ross' claims that you can call him up right now on his iPhone and score some dope. But of course it doesn't really matter if Pusha and Ross slip into personas either old or imagined, because a lack of proper reality or authenticity in rap has never dragged down music that was good in the first place. Where the Pusha of old was a witty and smart street hawk, the Pusha of the last five years or so has mirrored Kanye's and Ross' obsessions with luxury. If anything, it's in his ability to bridge the gap between those two rappers that Pusha finds his identity; he is as comfortable rapping about a yacht that a drug dealer might own as he is rapping about a scarf that a fashion designer might own.
But as Pusha has inched his way into the elite of rap, his music (including the material he recorded with his brother as Clipse after their 2006 album Hell Hath No Fury) has become exponentially less vital. He raps about luxury because he's a rich and famous rapper, and that's what rich and famous rappers do, and while there's nothing inherently wrong with that move, it's decidedly dulled the impact of his writing. Pusha has always carried himself with the bravado and ego of a star, and that was galvanizing when in his early years he played the role of a dealer-turned-rapper. But as a regular rapper who pops bottles in penthouses with a bunch of other rappers, that egotism has become commonplace, if not off-putting.
Yet here's the funny thing about Fear of God II, his first commercially released solo album: It proffers that, well, maybe none of that even matters. Pusha's rapping still noticeably pales in comparison to his peak years, and it would be hard to argue that there is any justification for the album's existence beyond Pusha needing to do something-- yet the stakes are so low that the sheer listenability of the album can sneak up on you. Its quality is mostly a testament to Pusha's connections and his ear for beats, but the rapping is sufficiently competent enough that the album never drags, which is less of a backhanded compliment than it might read.
It doesn't seem like much thought was put into sequencing (French Montana shows up on two straight tracks) or thematic cohesion ("Feeling Myself", the album's one slick R&B song, is followed up by the metallic jitter of the HHNF throwback "Raid"), but that strangely only intensifies the strength of the album, which is that Pusha collected seven or eight great tracks and then mostly got the hell out of the way. The process of releasing a rap album through a major label is so arduous now that albums often arrive in stores pushing 20 total songs with almost the same number of guests. Fear of God II's brevity is both refreshing and crucial to its success, and it likely speaks to Pusha's self-confidence that he felt comfortable clipping the tracklist at 12.
This is ruthlessly professional rap music, and though that might seem like the baseline for releasing a major-label rap album, 2011 has been an awful year so far big-box releases. Pusha may be a fish out of water performing on a weepy Kanye ballad or being in a crew with John Legend, but releasing a major-label album with consistent rapping, great beats, a rational guest list, and a sane running time qualifies as a minor miracle right now.
