Rhymefest vanquished Eminem in a battle and won a Grammy with Kanye West, yet he's as anonymous as your garbageman. He's been married (and divorced) to a regular girl and has a young son to raise. He's mopped floors, cleaned highways, and punched the mixtape clock for nearly a decade-- all of which presumably make him a regular guy amongst so many millionaires. Yet he's also toured the globe, signed to Clive Davis' label, and shaded his eyes with Vuitton glass. Hardly garbage. The world is filled with regular guys, though-- median-earners, and single-parents who split their checks between baby food and Bape hoods-- so why does ‘Fest settle for common? He's a good salesman. He's laying on the Willy Loman, but he's closer to Arthur Miller, the author of a story about the almost in all of us, which, in these times of rappers getting over, puts Rhymefest in a middle-class seemingly all his own.
Of course, it's bullshit. Rhymefest is no more working class than Ethel Kennedy at this point, but he's managed to find his voice as the frustrated everyman amongst gangsters ("blue collar" is a mindstate, you see), the snarky asshole who complains ceaselessly but somehow maintains a soft spot by being insightful, humble, and, most importantly, funny. He's schlubby, speaks in a grumbling baritone routinely punctuated with a rising whine or sweeping lisp, and often sounds like Andy Rooney covering "Vapors"-- all of which makes him the most compelling rapper currently spinning a working-class-hero persona. The key in rap is not simply the construction of persona, the ability to sculpt a monument to insecurity, but to have some semblance of personality and charisma, to be somebody, even if that somebody is objectionable. Otherwise, you're just some pompous asshole with a microphone. Kanye's perfected this to the point where he can show up to a party wearing a Yves St. Laurent shirt unbuttoned to his pubes and white satin dinner gloves, Pamela Anderson in tow, and nobody blinks.
Rhymefest is probably the guy who told him it was a great idea, if only for his own enjoyment. He's part of the very life he criticizes, his punchlines funnier because they're packed with the details that make truth irrelevant. Lines like, "Asking Kanye for money just to pay my gas bill/ He asked me for it back/ Nigga, what's up on your math skills?/ Nothin' plus zip equals zero/ Can you relate? That nigga ain't been broke since ‘H to tha Izzo,'" would be intolerable if Rhymefest were not the capable prankster that he is, telling stories that may or may not be based in truth, but close enough to make us wonder. And Rhymefest treats the world as if it were some tripping friend, George Bush no different from some silly dude in the club. Only twice does ‘Fest get solemn, on late additions "Bullet", a refix of Citizen Cope's "Bullet and a Target" (á la Lil' Wayne's "Shooter") and "Sister", a not-so-surprisingly touching tribute to the struggles of young women. These are his moments to prove he can act serious, too, and he shows well for himself, although his earnestness is better when cloaked in humor.
Rhymefest's oversized personality also infects the big name producers on his album. Being buds with Kanye and signed to super-connected Mark Ronson's boutique label put ‘Fest in the boardroom with producers like Just Blaze, Cool & Dre, Chicago legend No ID, and Kanye himself, and each takes the opportunity to try on more casual attire. Nearly every song sounds like it was pulled from the producers' secret pop stash, beats that were too corny for Jay-Z, too poppy for Rick Ross. And then there's Mark Ronson.
For those who've had little success deriding Danger Mouse as a vicious crossover, Ronson's your huckleberry. He samples The Foundations' "Build Me Up, Buttercup" and the Strokes' "Someday", the former's chorus mauled by the late Ol' Dirty Bastard. Ronson regularly strides a very fine line between shameless pop and novelty, depending on your threshold, but here only the "Buttercup"-ing "Build Me Up" doesn't work. But it's this willingness to be frivolous that distinguishes Blue Collar and why it exceeds most anti-whatever records and competes with the most strident street albums. It's something different, done well.
