But make no mistake, Mos Def is hardly hugs and kisses throughout an entire album. These songs remind us that hip-hop’s machismo can be trumped by a sensitive heart and a strong mind. Tracks like “Priority”, “Roses”, and “History” (featuring a wonderful guest spot by Talib Kweli) showcase the rapper’s flow and musical sensibilities but, more importantly, his heart. Some of the brightest spots on the album are probably the most tender. But for those willing to stick through the trials, or better yet those who appreciated these tracks from the first listen, will find a great deal to enjoy in the album’s production and Mos Def’s interesting experiments with rhythms and lyrics. In particular, the second half of “Auditorium”, featuring a love-it-or-hate-it verse by Slick Rick, could weed out listeners who aren’t patient enough to wait and see where the rest of this album is going. The very opening of The Ecstatic comes off like a challenge, the dialogue sample and the music itself basically acting on Mos Def’s behalf, telling the listener, “If you’re not ready for something different, grit your teeth or get out.” The first three tracks of the album may be a slog to those who are unprepared or unaccustomed to Def’s independent style, featuring repeated verses and unusual musical choices, from Middle Eastern wails to xylophones. Now, after a three-year stretch away from the recording studio, Def has released his fourth album, and, like a large but unpolished diamond, it isn’t perfect, but it is truly something to behold. And for every 50 Cent, there is a Mos Def, the rapper-turned-actor who is actually great at both without being pretentious, big-headed, or crude. For every Asher Roth, there is an Atmosphere. These days, for every Ne-Yo, there is a P.O.S. These cycles and their impact have continued for decades now, and to those not paying attention, it would seem as if nothing in hip-hop has really changed.īut the rampant mediocrity and the frustration that mediocrity has caused has, over time, allowed for the greater sifting of the bad from the truly good, those who’ve rejected the notion that hip-hop’s evolution has stalled and is relegated only to what can be heard on Top 40 radio stations and commercials for new ringtones, who’ve taken up the mantle of artists like Public Enemy and De La Soul and decided that enough is enough. These ventures almost never turn out well, and eventually these artists retreat into the comfort of their musical sphere. This leads to rappers who branch into other mediums, like the screen or the printed page. The better a rapper is at emulating their idols, the more money they make, the higher their profile becomes, the more ingrained their name is on the popular consciousness. Worse yet, the music is locked in an incessant, almost fearful grip on the coattails of past and more successful rappers, which leads to mediocrity begetting further mediocrity.
It is the eternal struggle of hip-hop music, the great lamentation of critics and fans alike, that the genre is so often heavily loaded with almost stereotypical hedonism, greed, homophobia, and sexism that it becomes a parody of itself.
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