J. Cole Wants to Be Great, But First He Needs to Be Good

I’m listening to 4 Your Eyez Only, rapper J. Cole’s latest LP, and actually enjoying it. Cole’s production has improved a lot since his debut, Cole World, which contains beats that are even cornier than its cringe-inducing title, if you can imagine that. His flow — reminiscent of the genre’s mid-90s pioneers — evokes memories of other, better albums. It’s smooth, it’s digestible, and — from the title to the general ebb and flow of this latest release — you get the idea that Cole really wants to be mentioned in the same breath as his idols.

The funny thing is, his fans do. When 2014 Forest Hills Drive dropped a couple of years ago, I remember how loudly No Role Modelz echoed throughout the hallways of my high school in between every single class. The freestyle cyphers that took place outside everyday at 2:56 PM devolved into “Who Can Spit Cole Bars the Best?” contests. Facebook became a hunting ground for anyone who even mentioned another rapper, and every other status was a Cole bar that I’d heard and read a hundred different times that day.

But let’s get one thing straight. And this is something that I say as a fan. Despite the beats, despite the flow, despite the general likability of the man himself, there is one damning truth that outweighs any and all caveats you might want to attach. J. Cole is not a great rapper. It’s that simple. I’m not saying this in a subjective, “I think” kind of way. I’m talking objectively, if we really dissect the artist and the work he produces.

Beyond an almost unhealthy preoccupation with fart and poop related lyrics, we really need to discuss why J. Cole is one of the decade’s most celebrated rappers, what this says about hip-hop fans, and why it needs to stop. But first, let’s talk a little bit more about my first point. To all the Cole stans who are reading this, if you haven’t already abandoned this article or disregarded my opinion entirely, you’re probably pretty close. And honestly, I don’t blame you.

We live in a culture of an us v. them, win/lose binary. Everything is either the best or the worst, great or terrible. Hyperbole reigns. We’ve forgotten how to argue in median terms, and I think that’s a big part of the reason why Cole is so celebrated in the first place. Fans of classic hip-hop have been searching for the slightest inclination that somebody, anybody, will take some time to preserve the legacy of that celebrated music through his or her own art.

The genre as a whole is in a very transitionary period. You’ve got radical experimentalists like Young Thug rapping alongside established tycoons like Kanye West, whose unanimous likability feels like a relic of a long lost era. Some are genuinely perplexed by Lil Yachty’s popularity while others are propping him up as the leader of hip-hop’s next generation. As fans of what is ultimately a common goal, a set of similar themes, we’ve never been more divided. Somehow, election politics have seeped into our collective consciousness and forced us all to forget how to coexist.

J. Cole resides in that glorious middle ground. Not bad enough to hate, not good enough to discuss. His writing leaves something to be desired but, at first glance, there’s nothing inherently wrong with him. He’s essentially the perfect background music: it isn’t distractingly bad or anything, but it’s not going to interrupt your conversations and inspire the question, “Hey, who is this?”

He’s the McDonald’s of rap. There’s something for everyone; the Barnum effect, as one writer put it. So because Cole’s music is, generally speaking, good enough, it must be great. It’s the product of some logical fallacy that, if everyone can at least tolerate it, then it must be the best. I don’t know, there must be a word for it. I didn’t go to college.

As a result of this phenomenon, I’m willing to bet that a lot of hip-hop fans aren’t too keen on much of what’s been circulating in the underground these last few years. The ever-growing list of sub-genres in hip-hop continue to distinguish themselves as very different entities. The trio of east, west, and south are no longer quite as applicable because within each of those regions — and the handful of others that have been in and out of the spotlight for the last two decades — there’s been even more branching out in every direction, to the point that “hip-hop” as a definite label is really not too relevant anymore.

What’s a Biggie fan to do in a cultural climate that no longer produces the kind of straightforward, hard-hitting, lyrically-based rap music that defined much of the last generation? What feels right when everybody else wants to make music that’s supposed to be wrong? On some level, I can sympathize, but I swear if I hear someone say “I only like classic hip-hop” one more time I’m going to lose my fucking mind.

With all this in mind, J. Cole’s appeal makes sense. He functions as a comfortable reminder of what was, and what could once again be. All confusing wordplay aside, when you listen to the guy’s music, you know what you’re going to get. His predictability and altogether unchallenging compositions are simultaneously what people love and hate about him. He’s an artist who lives and breathes his influences without daring to challenge them or tread ground they’ve left untouched.

At least, he was. Until False Prophets dropped a week ago, Cole’s detractors really had no reason to give him too much attention. He did his thing, and anyone who wasn’t interested in it, for the most part, left it alone. But after taking shots at Kanye West, the man who — in more ways than one — has paved the road upon which Cole and his contemporaries walk, the naysayers finally had something to complain about.

And that’s where we are now. Whether or not you like the song — personally, I think if you’re going to go around annoying people in Queens for the sake of a video, at least do it for a song that isn’t both whiny as all hell and obnoxiously vague while disparaging your peers — Cole knew exactly what he was doing and decided to contribute to this increasingly unnecessary divide in the hip-hop community. And for what? Publicity? Recognition? Validation?

There’s a startling lack of self-awareness in False Prophets that points to bigger issues than Cole seems to realize. By validating his fan base, accepting the role of rap’s new pioneer, and criticizing others who have been doing it longer and better than he has, Cole is personifying the behavior from which he wants to distance himself. Somehow, by beating everyone to the punch, Cole seems to believe that he’s exempt from becoming what he resents in those around him.

And could the timing have been any worse? Rappers like Kanye and Kid Cudi are using their own personal issues as a means to create a space for others in a similar position to come forward in an accepting environment. If Cole thinks that kicking people while they’re down and dubbing others “false prophets” are the proper courses of action, it’s time he take a good look in the mirror.

People are going to like what they like. They’re going to be who they are. As people and as artists, there are always reasons to improve, expand, and take risks. But instead of encouraging a regressive school of thought with an outdated diss track that does a lot of complaining and not enough problem solving, Cole should really focus on tightening up the screws in his own work before going after people who make ballsier, more significant music than he does. Success is a staircase that ascends as high as anyone is willing to go. But, for some reason, J. Cole is looking for an elevator.