What do you feel when you go back to Fayetteville?

Comfort and pride. I realized recently I’d never asked myself that question. When I’m home, I’m either stopping through to visit or I’m doing something for the [Dreamville] Foundation. I might get an extra day to see friends and family but then it’s off to the next thing. I’ve never been there long enough to feel comfortable and think, “This is home”—not until I was home doing a cover shoot for the album. I noticed I felt comfortable. Usually if there’s a camera rolling I’m anxious; it doesn’t feel natural to have a camera on me.

How has the city changed since you left?

People I grew up with tell me it’s getting worse. I don’t know if that has to do with the economy or if the education is getting worse. On the flipside, Fayetteville has some heroes now—even if they’re rappers or athletes. We never even had that [when I was growing up]. You couldn’t go to Raleigh, Charlotte, or Atlanta and be proud of where you were from. The pride before was about coming from somewhere that had a reputation of being a hard place to make it. Now there’s a pride about accomplishment, whether it’s me, or Eric Maynor, who made it to the NBA, or Eric Curry, who was the No. 3 draft pick in the NFL Draft. It sucks that these things have to come from sports and entertainment, but it’s something for kids to look up to and say, “Somebody from here did something.” I don’t want to inspire kids to rap. I want to let them know that anything they want to do is possible. I come from here and did some shit that was impossible, so if you want to be an astronaut, lawyer, doctor, writer, journalist, or whatever, I want to inspire you to do that.

Coming from that, how does it feel that big companies are looking to work with you now?

It’s flattering that they would take notice, but it is fucking weird. I didn’t grow up wearing that shit and [fashion] is still a new thing for me. Years ago, we had conversations as a team, like, “Are we going to start a clothing label? Do we want to turn it into some exclusive shit and charge niggas this, that, and third?” That never felt right. I always liked accessibility. I loved the fact that I could attain Sean John, I could attain Rocawear, I could afford a $25 T-shirt. It might take my whole check to get those pieces but it was attainable. That was a struggle when we were considering a line: Do you want to separate yourself from who you are and the people who are where you just were?

“I was unhappy when amazing things were happening that I should have been grateful for.”

It’s not exciting to receive business offers?

I’m not excited by business. I want to make music. I want to perform. Louis Vuitton—or whoever the fuck—could come to me right now and say, “We want to do a major deal with you,” and I’d be like, “Thank you. That’s flattering. And yeah, fine, let’s do it.” But there’s no excitement. Excitement is the anticipation of knowing people are about to hear my music. That other shit is an honor and I appreciate it because it [shows that] the work has spread so far that it’s making it on these brands’ radar. But it’s not exciting.

But it seems you’re at a place, business-wise, that makes sense for you.

Things have the opportunity to be great. I’m laying the foundation right now. Am I a great businessman yet? No.

Do you want to be a great businessman?

I want to be a great artist first, and as good of a businessman as I can be without taking away from my art form. I’ve been through worrying about a hit and it forcing me to make [a certain] type of song because I got all this pressure. Business is only satisfying in the security of it and the fact that the better I am at business, the better I am at providing for my family. Business moves don’t bring me happiness. The things the business moves provide bring me happiness. Seeing Cozz about to drop his first project and remembering what that was like. Seeing Bas go on tour….

Is that what made you want to start the label?

I always wanted to be fucking Berry Gordy. I wanted to have a production platform. But now I realize that, even if I never produce a record for someone who’s signed to me, the real pleasure of having a label is watching somebody start from ground zero and get to level one, two, and three. These dudes are trying to get to 100. It’s mad rewarding for me to see.

This album feels like a turning point for you.

That’s exactly what it is. It’s crazy that I chose to record it in Hollywood because it’s such a “fuck Hollywood” album. Being out there maybe contributed to [me thinking], “I’m bugging. There’s some shit that’s way more important than how many albums I sell and if I’m the best.”

What led to that realization?

I was unhappy when amazing things were happening, [career successes] that I should have been grateful for and super happy for. I didn’t feel I was getting the type of recognition I always wanted and that I felt you had to get to be considered at a certain level. Last year, I started to realize that means nothing. It’s all unattainable. You have no control over what somebody else feels about you, but you have 100 percent control over how you feel about yourself and how you feel about the people around you and how you handle life. I became happier and started to deal with shit more, not run from the feelings, not have the anxiety, like, “Complex ain’t fucking with me? Man, fuck these niggas. They missed the whole shit. They didn’t even tell niggas about The Warm Up and Friday Night Lights. They’re going to sleep on Born Sinner. Y’all didn’t see I sold more than Kanye?!”

That gave you anxiety?

Not all the time, but it was a source of anxiety at a time when I should have been like, “Damn, I’m blessed. I have so much positive shit going on. I’ve got family and friends that love me. I have the opportunity to make music and have a career that I love.” That shit is so minor.

That’s interesting because you, unlike a lot of your peers, don’t talk about the hate and the jokes about you being boring. It seems like it rolls off your back.

I’m an introverted person, especially with problems. I feel like I can deal with shit on my own and I don’t need to express it. I put up a great front because I don’t want to show [that something bothers me], which is why I respect Wale. I’ve always loved that he says it and he says it right away, like, “Yo, I don’t feel this. Them niggas ain’t showing me no respect.” In a way, that’s therapeutic. To keep it in and suppress it makes it worse. That kind of expressiveness is not prevalent in my music, but you’ll find lines. That shit affected me so much that I had to write a line about it. I can tell you five or six lines where it was addressed. That’s the danger of giving a fuck about what people say in an age where you can see what people say so easily. It’s about getting over that, like, “Man, I don’t give a fuck. I love me. I love this shit I just made. If you like it, fucking great. It you don’t like it, cool. I hope you find some other shit you like.” On my best day that’s how I feel.

At your Dollar and a Dream show in NYC, fans were lined up down the street, sharing umbrellas in the rain. That must make you feel good.

Now that’s a fucking honor. That’s a real reward to know that some shit I made in my room alone on some excitement shit, some therapy shit, just capturing a moment and being in tune with magic and the universe and my soul, traveled so far and impacted somebody so much that they would do that. I’m fucking super grateful for that.