A couple summers ago, it was revealed that the McDonald’s jingle—that heavenly melody and profoundly warm declaration (“I’m lovin’ it”)—was written by Pusha-T, one of the hardest rappers in the game, one who is to cocaine slinging what Henry Miller was to brazen screwing. And the Internet, understandably, lost its collective mind. But I’m here to tell you, if you spend a June evening in a Tribeca photo studio with Pusha-T, that fact ceases to be strange. Actually, what becomes strange is that Pusha-T is one of the hardest rappers in the game at all.

When Pusha, whose birth name is Terrence Thornton, speaks, his eyes open wide and his thin, signature braids sometimes bob. His inflection is playful, sincere, sweet even. At 41, he’s a well-worn veteran of both the streets and hip-hop, and yet there’s something youthful and innocent about him. It’s there when he tells GQ that, no matter how many times TSA confiscates his Aveeno face wash, he’ll always buy more, because it’s “essential.” Or when he describes the simple joy that can be found in a black Uniqlo t-shirt.

But then, no one in the room has dared question Pusha’s street bona fides, or mention his fiancee. Do those things, and, as Drake just learned, he’s liable to clear his throat (Yuchhh) and wield a series of verses like razor-sharp machetes (“Surgical summer with it—snip, snip, snip” seems like more than a lyric; it’s an ethos).

When we talk, on the heels of him figuratively putting Jimmy back in a wheelchair, Pusha is a bit nostalgic. Nostalgic for the days when nimble ruthlessness was met with pure admiration. When bars mattered more. When there was no social media to take issue with the insensitivity of, say, asking how long a fellow rapper’s sick best friend has to live. That it seems to be over—both the battle and an era—produces a resigned sigh. But Pusha has no plans to call it quits. Rather, he’s hell-bent on becoming the model for aging gracefully in hip-hop. And don’t be fooled by his affable demeanor; Pusha-T is not to be reckoned with.

GQ: I keep hearing Daytona blasting out of car windows as I walk around the city. I realized that this is the first album of yours that hasn't been released in fall or winter. So I was wondering if it was meant to be summer music.

Pusha-T: There was no intention of it being summer music. I definitely was trying to make car music. I call it "pull-up-and-park music." Pull up at the store, pull up on the corner, park, blast the shit, roll the windows down, everybody circling around the car. That's what it was meant for.

Daytona was the first in a series of five G.O.O.D. Music albums coming out, week after week after week. I keep thinking about a baseball lineup, where each artist plays a different role. Do you guys think about it in those terms at all?

Ye said that to me the other day. He actually said, "We all play our role so well, and that's how a team wins." He said, "I believe that everybody's going to execute, which is going to make the whole squad win."

Was there intention behind the order of who went when?

Ye definitely wanted my album to go first. Production-wise, he said he felt like my album set the tone, and it was scary enough that people would know from that that this was going to be our run.

As the president of G.O.O.D. Music, I imagine you're constantly on the lookout for what's next. How has that role impacted your own music?

It hasn't. I feel like my music is something I'm certain no one else in the game does. Lyrically, I don't think there's anyone in the game who articulates the way that I do. I feel like when me and Ye are together, rhymes on top of production, you're getting the highest quality of street music that you can get. So when I hear new stuff, I like it, I admire it, I see the potential in it. But it never makes me want to do it. Because I just feel like what I do is what I do.