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Back in the mid-late 2000s, when Lil Wayne used to refer to himself as the “greatest rapper alive,” music flowed forth from him like a geyser. Each year brought several dozen new songs, a sign of an artist obsessed with sound, and also with his own freedom to create.
In so doing, he marked the beginning of the second wave of the modern mixtape era, in which artists began to wrest control of the pacing of their output from the hands of record labels, who preferred neat album cycles. Eventually, these samizdat drops — be they in the form of DatPiff downloads or SoundCloud links — took on the qualities of official releases. Whole generations of rappers began defining the pace and terms of their ascent outside traditional albums. From Drake to Lil B, self-released, nonalbum music became an essential career engine, and the norm.
Late last week, two rappers looking for ways to balance celebrity with freedom released new projects. For Kendrick Lamar — possible inheritor of Lil Wayne’s “greatest rapper alive” mantle — there was “untitled unmastered.” (TDE/Aftermath/Interscope), a collection of demos collected over the past three years, the era in which he went from connoisseur’s pick to mainstream star. And for Lil Wayne, there was “Collegrove” (Def Jam), the new album by 2 Chainz, on which he makes several appearances.
Such explosions were once the norm for Lil Wayne, who at 33 is already an elder, and one who hasn’t developed a viable late-career approach. He’s been largely silent the last few years, locked in a very public battle of wills with Baby, the head of his label, Cash Money Records. When he has released music, it’s been ill-advised and coolly received. His rhymes, once the most inventive in the genre, have been badly desiccated.
But what’s this on “Blue C-Note,” one of the better tracks on “Collegrove” — a sign of life from a fading star?
Dreadlock Rasta, hair like pasta
I don’t see what’s your problem, I need an eye doctor
Flying to them dollars, ducking fly swatters
Shoot him in the head, leave his mind boggled
Here are all the hallmarks of old Wayne: concise construction, tricky assonance, oddball imagery, black humor. And there are a handful of moments like this on “Collegrove,” almost enough to balance out the tired ones (“What Happened,” “Section”). His best verses here are his most spirited rapping in at least two years.
Consider the context, though. “Collegrove” isn’t even a full collaborative album, but a 2 Chainz album on which he plays sidekick. (There it is in the credits: “Lil Wayne appears courtesy of Cash Money Records Inc.”) 2 Chainz is an ornery rapper, occasionally stumbling into vivid word clouds. Every time he heads in an unexpected direction here, Lil Wayne seems eager to step up to the challenge. Even his throwaway lines — “Asinine/ I get blow like dandelions” — have the eyebrow-arching zing of his prime.
Maybe some time away from the spotlight has calmed him. Maybe the seeming d�tente in his relationship with Baby has freed him. Or maybe appearing on someone else’s album, rather than his own, has allowed him to be loose once more.
In so doing, he marked the beginning of the second wave of the modern mixtape era, in which artists began to wrest control of the pacing of their output from the hands of record labels, who preferred neat album cycles. Eventually, these samizdat drops — be they in the form of DatPiff downloads or SoundCloud links — took on the qualities of official releases. Whole generations of rappers began defining the pace and terms of their ascent outside traditional albums. From Drake to Lil B, self-released, nonalbum music became an essential career engine, and the norm.
Late last week, two rappers looking for ways to balance celebrity with freedom released new projects. For Kendrick Lamar — possible inheritor of Lil Wayne’s “greatest rapper alive” mantle — there was “untitled unmastered.” (TDE/Aftermath/Interscope), a collection of demos collected over the past three years, the era in which he went from connoisseur’s pick to mainstream star. And for Lil Wayne, there was “Collegrove” (Def Jam), the new album by 2 Chainz, on which he makes several appearances.
Such explosions were once the norm for Lil Wayne, who at 33 is already an elder, and one who hasn’t developed a viable late-career approach. He’s been largely silent the last few years, locked in a very public battle of wills with Baby, the head of his label, Cash Money Records. When he has released music, it’s been ill-advised and coolly received. His rhymes, once the most inventive in the genre, have been badly desiccated.
But what’s this on “Blue C-Note,” one of the better tracks on “Collegrove” — a sign of life from a fading star?
Dreadlock Rasta, hair like pasta
I don’t see what’s your problem, I need an eye doctor
Flying to them dollars, ducking fly swatters
Shoot him in the head, leave his mind boggled
Here are all the hallmarks of old Wayne: concise construction, tricky assonance, oddball imagery, black humor. And there are a handful of moments like this on “Collegrove,” almost enough to balance out the tired ones (“What Happened,” “Section”). His best verses here are his most spirited rapping in at least two years.
Consider the context, though. “Collegrove” isn’t even a full collaborative album, but a 2 Chainz album on which he plays sidekick. (There it is in the credits: “Lil Wayne appears courtesy of Cash Money Records Inc.”) 2 Chainz is an ornery rapper, occasionally stumbling into vivid word clouds. Every time he heads in an unexpected direction here, Lil Wayne seems eager to step up to the challenge. Even his throwaway lines — “Asinine/ I get blow like dandelions” — have the eyebrow-arching zing of his prime.
Maybe some time away from the spotlight has calmed him. Maybe the seeming d�tente in his relationship with Baby has freed him. Or maybe appearing on someone else’s album, rather than his own, has allowed him to be loose once more.
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