I am a latter-day convert to Weezyism. Having abandoned most of hip-hop and much of other music for several years, it was only relatively recently that I began taking an interest in some of last decade's luminaries. When it came to my students, Lil Wayne was a universal favorite. They might have been temporarily distracted by the latest dance craze from Soulja Boy, but, at the end of the day, Weezy was it. The last man standing after others had been laid low by jail (T.I.), corporate stewardship (Jay-Z), revelation of artistic mediocrity (50 Cent), Auto-Tune/public humiliation (Kanye West) and drug-fueled, self-imposed exile (Eminem). Of course, nominating yourself "Best Rapper Alive" under such circumstances is akin to declaring yourself a team's biggest fan in an empty stadium after the game. Simply put, Lil Wayne was wearing a crown that nobody else seemed to want. That is not to say he doesn't deserve it. Only that we'll never truly know. How would the great Satchel Paige have fared against an integrated major leagues in his prime? The possibilities are enough to make your head spin. But, more troubling than Lil Wayne's assertion of supremacy is his paranoid style, an unfortunate extension of the hyperbolic narcissism that has come to dominate American rap. Finding it lonely (and unchallenging) at the top, much of his lyrical content is devoted to tussling with imaginary foes. "They" say Lil Wayne's a bad influence. "They" say he's addicted to cough syrup. "They" say he's lost a step. OK, but who are "they"? Pundits? Politicians? Journalists? Internet commenters? Maybe. Whoever they are, they aren't anyone who could feasibly exert a negative influence on his career. In fact, in the case of the pundits and journalists, one could argue that the publicity they generate, however negative, is invaluable. Teenagers like nothing better than music that pisses their parents off. As far as everyone else, who doesn't love an underdog story (see: New York Mets, The) even when the odds against which the underdog struggles are either unequal to the task or altogether nonexistent (see: New York Mets, payroll of). So for Lil Wayne's ego to be as big as it is, he needs to inflate these strawmen accordingly. And thus you get a long, nearly incoherent diatribe against Al Sharpton on the Tha Carter III's closer, "Don't Get It." By railing against every perceived slight, however insignificant, what is meant to be a show of strength reveals only raw nerves and a glass jaw. Eminem, too, is especially guilty of this hypersensitivity. It is duplicitous to say "I don't give a fuck" in one breath and then take on all comers in the next. To construe every critique to be an ad hominem attack, to treat all resistance as an existential threat - even figuratively - is, at best, overly compensatory. At worst, it's indicative of delusion too deep to fathom. The hardscrabble, something-from-nothing, ashy-to-classy story arc permeates hip hop so thoroughly that rap stars continue to push the line long after they've made it. They're so emotionally invested in their own Horatio Alger rags-to-riches narrative that losing success is a prospect tantamount to having never achieved it in the first place. Ironically, Weezy would have a surfeit of genuine obstacles to overcome without these bogeymen; it's just that the largest of these is himself. Consider his prolificacy. Lil Wayne's mixtapes and guest spots are legion. To the casual observer, it would seem that he is either recording tracks or else he's asleep. This type of output might have been necessary in helping him to hone his skills (we're talking about practice!) or to vault his celebrity into the stratosphere. But, at this point, it serves only to decentralize his artistic control, dilute his best ideas over too many songs, and further divide his already hopelessly splintered attention. Lil Wayne has always had more talent than taste, but imagine how good he could be if he refused to commit sub-par performances to tape? His verse on last year's Distant Relatives was easily the weakest moment on the album, an appearance that underscored how substantive was the vision of Nas & Damian Marley and what happens to Lil Wayne when he's spread too thin. As far as one-liners are concerned, he is rap's Henny Youngman. And, on that basis, he may indeed be the "Best Rapper Alive," the Usain Bolt of hip-hop. But true legacies require marathon runners and when it comes to endurance, "Weezy" is a perfectly appropriate nickname. The longer the format, the more conspicuous his flaws become. Pick any song on this album and you will most likely hear a line that makes you laugh and a line that impresses you. But, taken together, it's really just a compendium of brilliant non-sequiturs, full of sound and fury, spouted by a weed-addled savant so hooked on phonics he can't see the raps for the rhymes. Grade: C+
