If you came up as a rap fan in the 1990s, it's hard to come to grips with the fact that the Illmatic/Doggystyle/Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) ideal has become outmoded. Rappers rarely start with a fully-formed classic right off the bat. And sometimes, a guy who was underrated, underappreciated, or even considered a joke earlier in their career actually generates so much momentum that they eventually become undeniable.
Still, even the most patient and forgiving listener would've had trouble imagining that Rick Ross would ever be taken seriously. His first two Def Jam albums sold well, but his bumbling performances on the mic did little to combat the view of him as merely Jay-Z's get-rich-quick scheme, someone to piggyback on the commercial momentum of dudes from the South rapping about hustling. And when 50 Cent "outed" him as a former corrections officer, it could've been a career-killing PR disaster. But instead of filling his 2009 album Deeper Than Rap with a compendium of explanations and mea culpas, Ross did the exact opposite, exaggerating the most outrageous and ostentatious aspects of his music and persona to summer-blockbuster proportions. He threw the burden of believability out so fast that you could just sit back and cheer as shit blew up.
Ross knows his lane and stays in it on Teflon Don. If this album initially lacks the wallop of Deeper Than Rap, it's only because there's no longer the shock value in realizing that Rick Ross is making one of the better rap records of the year. But Teflon Don also lacks the concessions to sensitive thuggery that bogged down Deeper, and it's also remarkably lean at just 11 tracks. Ross defiantly announces on opener "I'm Not A Star", "If I die today remember me like John Lennon/ Buried in Louis I'm talkin' all brown linen/ Make all of my bitches tattoo my logo on they titty/ Put a statue of a nigga in the middle of the city," and things really don't get any more modest from there.
Ross' greatest gift is the ability to conjure a fully-formed Planet Boss, a refuge from the dwindling fortunes of gansta rap and the general economic downturn, where rappers can and do film videos with as many speedboats as possible. It's obviously a place where A-list rappers are in their comfort zone to do whatever the hell they want. Here, Jay-Z can refute possible ties to the Illuminati, Kanye is at his most aw-shucks disarming since 2007, and the third iteration of "Maybach Music" features none other than Erykah Badu on the hook. The only times Teflon stumbles is when interlopers can't figure the lay of the land. Diddy would've catered more to the spirit of this record if he went in character as Sergio Roma instead of hyping up the overamped, ill-fitting rock moves of "No. 1", and while Drake proved every bit as capable of having rappers meet him on his own terms, his redux of "The Resistance" on "Aston Martin Music" is the awkward sound of two worlds colliding.
While Teflon Don is fun to talk about conceptually, it would be a shame if Ross' growth as an artist went overlooked. Just because Ross and his producers rarely work in nuance doesn't mean they're not craftsmen. It's fitting that his franchise is called "Maybach Music": J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League, No I.D., and Kanye West create beats that really do sound like they're fantastically out of reach to anyone but the financial elite, and you can hear every dollar that went into the record. There are still plenty of villainous synth vamps that cater to Ross' halting, self-satisfied delivery. But the real fun is hearing Teflon at its most indulgent. Just listen to how the Disney strings modulate to a new key to herald the arrival of Ross on "Maybach Music III", the way a Bobby Seale speech adds high drama on "Tears of Joy", or how "Live Fast, Die Young" takes a Kid Dynamite sample back from "Nuthin' But a G Thang" for six minutes of bottle-popping. Even the drum rolls on "MC Hammer" suspiciously conjure an ATM dispensing cash.
Ross won't ever be confused for a Scribble Jam participant, but compare his incongruously meek rapping on 2006 single "Push It" to anything on Teflon Don, and you hear someone who's come into his own. Lyrics that might look clumsy on paper turn into grand pronouncements through pure self-belief. And like a great action hero, Ross never lets cleverness get in the way of saying something memorable. Understandably, money is about the only tie Planet Boss has to reality, and nearly every interaction can be broken down as a financial transaction. He uses luxury autos as a pricing scale for his donations to Haiti, his fatalism is manifested in having his jewelry go uninsured, he reps Emmett Till and Rolexes in the span of two lines, and the only way he can express his grief over his dead father is by turning down "All the Money in the World".
So, yeah-- the tide's pretty much turned for Ross, but if Deeper Than Rap didn't change your mind, I'm not sure Teflon Don will either. At this point, you can find a piece bemoaning the likes of Lil Wayne, Cam'ron, or Gucci Mane becoming critical favorites and fill in Ross' name, since it's a common theme that hip-hop heads would rather miss out on new royalty than admit they might've been wrong about a rapper. And yet, those who are stuck on New York in the late 90s as might actually be most likely to appreciate Teflon Don. It's every bit the throwback, embracing an aura of dominance in a landscape where vulnerability has become a rapper's greatest asset. But more importantly, Ross has proven to be among the last of dying breed. His studio albums feel like events that demand the ears and opinions of rap fans.
