During the making of Pink Friday: Roman Reloaded, Nicki Minaj had some sort of epiphany. The moment occurred while she was recording an evil moonwalk of a rap song called "Come on a Cone"-- after verbally shitting on any and all competition for two minutes, she peaks with, "If you weren't so ugly, I'd put my dick in your face." And then something special happens. She pauses the track and starts to sing "dick in your face" all melismatic, like she's vying to stay alive on "American Idol". She's skewering tired pop-star singing styles, hip-hop masculinity, and maybe even herself, because while her major-label debut turned out to be a star-making success, it often traded in Nicki's trademark, potentially-game-changing eccentricities for something smoother, blander, and more radio-ready. Reminiscing on the "dick in your face" breakthrough in a Complex interview, she recently said, "That's when it was like [makes soda-can spritz noise]-- explosion, Roman Reloaded is here!"
And that sound-effected bit of self-promotion proves to be true on the album. Well, on some of the album, at least. Those who buy this thing based on the delirious bubblegum hit "Super Bass" or the CD's kindergarten-art-class via Maxim cover will likely be quite vexed by an extended opening salvo of minimalist, futurist hip-hop that recalls nothing less than Clipse's devilish opus Hell Hath No Fury. This streak includes two brilliantly off-kilter songs from "Niggas in Paris" producer Hit-Boy, the livewire "Cone" along with "I Am Your Leader", featuring verses from rap-cred stampers Rick Ross and Cam'ron. There's the effortless, pinging schoolyard taunt "Beez in the Trap", and the hyped "HOV Lane", which ends up pretty vicious considering its beat vaguely recalls the "Inspector Gadget" theme song. And the instrumental for "Roman Reloaded" employs safety-clicks and bullet booms for percussion as Nicki flips the sellout claims on their head: "Nicki pop?!/ Only thing that's pop is my endorsement op." On all of these songs, Nicki is dartboard focused-- she's rapping harder here than on almost anything from Pink Friday; the verses are akin to those on her breakout mixtape, Beam Me Up Scotty, or the myriad song-stealing guest shots she worked to leverage her big break in the first place. Listen to this album's first seven tracks, and it would be completely understandable to think that Nicki was using her first-class pop status to infiltrate and innovate with the playful abandon of prime-era Missy Elliott or Busta Rhymes.
But the next 12 tracks (15 on the deluxe version) by and large find Nicki doing exactly what she just said she wouldn't: going pop. Which, to be clear, is a perfectly fine (and admirably ambitious) idea-- in theory. Talking to Complex about her perfectionist streak, she said, "I'm doing it to prove to... myself that I don't have to settle for less because I'm a female rapper or because I'm black." And what was so great about "Super Bass" was how it married Nicki's inherent weirdness (see: flinging pink goop at muscle-bound dudes in the song's video) with a hook that reached everyone from Taylor Swift to little girls who have no idea who the eff Slick Rick is.
That kind of complementary appeal is missing in these new songs, which range from brittle Euro-trance to milquetoast R&B to washed-out balladry. Take lead single "Starships", produced by RedOne, whose bass-first style played a large role in making Lady Gaga the world's preeminent pop star on songs including "Bad Romance" and "Just Dance". The track throttles, its sky-aimed maximalism clearly designed to overtake the radio via pure volume. It seems to be born out of a creatively hobbled beer company's marketing team (an idea supported by the grossly pandering mention of "Bud Light" in the song's first few lines) rather than Nicki's gloriously odd brain. "Starships", along with the four club-ready tracks that come in its wake, do something that should be difficult; in her quest to avoid becoming just another female rapper, she inadvertently settles for being just another pop star. And the harsh truth is that she needs work in that department.
Just look at her recent "American Idol" performance of "Starships". Sure, she doesn't even attempt to sing most of the song live-- though, usually such blatant and high-profile lip-synchs are coupled with intense dance moves, or something to make up for the lack of in-the-moment vocals. But while Nicki's simplistic dancing has been endearing in other venues, it's less so when she's trying to sell a stupidly massive dance tune. So, on "Idol", she was essentially relegated to playing hype-woman to her own song. While she'd never be able to get away with her "Idol"-satirizing "dick in your face" theatrics on the show (though I'd love to see Seacrest's reaction to that), playing to both sides of the aisle sends a terminally mixed message.
Which brings up another inconvenient reality: Nicki's singing voice is a limited instrument, especially when contrasted with her limitless rapping. It can be shrill when it's not oddly blank or sounding like Rihanna ("Beautiful Sinner") or Ke$ha ("Young Forever"). But it's not hopeless; on the anguished "Fire Burns", Nicki embeds a palpable emotion into the song. She meets the track smolder for smolder, and her delivery on lines like, "You piece of shit, you broke me down/ Thought you said you, would hold me down," is more powerful than a thousand puddle-rumbling bass kicks. More common, though, is "Right By My Side", where Nicki flatly pines for a guy-- then again, her lackluster performance is somewhat understandable considering her duet partner is perennial asshole Chris Brown.
Nicki is well aware of the potential criticisms of her pop turns. On the confessional 2009 mixtape track "Can Anybody Hear Me", she recalls a disappointing label run-in: "When it rains it pours for real, Def Jam said I'm no Lauryn Hill: 'Can't rap and sing on the same CD, the public won't get it they got ADD.'" And on a defensive (and funny) 20-minute interview that closes out the deluxe Roman Reloaded, she takes on hip-hop diehards by recounting the unfortunate fate of many a 1990s female rapper: "These other bitches that only did rap and now they live in low-income housing-- is that winning? Just so that a nigga in the street can give me a fucking dap? Get the fuck outta here." Clearly, she's branching out to avoid that sad story. But, at the same time, this album's shortcomings are not the fault of a label or an attention-deprived audience or close-minded rap fans. Making a strong artistic and commercial statement that's true to (yet also more than) hip-hop is not easy in this climate, but it's definitely possible, a fact Nicki's friend Drake proved with last year's Take Care. But much of Roman Reloaded sweats with a too-big-to-fail desperation. "I'm a brand, bitch, I'm a brand," she raps. She's not wrong.
