A Few Words on J-Hova, Hip Hop, Bunk Beds and your Grandma’s Armoire

by Brad MacDonald

So recently there was a BALLZ article in which the rapper T.I. was praised as superior to Shawn Carter, aka Jay-Z, aka J-Hova, aka The Sinatra of his day, old blue eyes he did it his way, aka Jigga-man, aka Jay, aka Brad MacDonald’s friend and confidante (we’re like the golden girls. I’m Blanche. He’s definitely Rose.) Anyway, while I have decided not to talk about T.I. because I am only interested in important rappers who are over five feet tall, I will instead celebrate my love for Jay-Z. This stance represents a more positive situation than if I were to get into some kind of battle with the writer of that previous piece. When you know that you’re right then what’s the point of arguing? Also, as a newcomer to BALLZ, I don’t want to entirely piss off the one in charge (I heard she killed a guy over a plate of undercooked poutine. Plus I do actually like T.I. as well and I am suddenly filled with remorse about making fun of his height, especially considering that I, myself, am only 6’5). And so, without further ado…..

When I first heard Jay-Z, and I mean really heard him rather than simply overhearing him in the background, I immediately had a hallucinatory vision. I suddenly saw eight dolphins with gold encrusted amulets tied around their necks swimming through the air whilst being ridden by tiny, angelic cherubs who each had the heads of Jay-Z from different eras in his career. The Reasonable Doubt cherub was my favorite; he was just so young and hungry. Hungry for breast milk. Often when I walk the streets of Montreal while listening to Jay-Z, I feel like I’m weightless and omnipotent. Sometimes Jay-Z infuses me with such feelings of confidence and strength, that I try to pick cars up over my head, especially moving cars that hold entire families that are about to go on wonderful vacations that will bring them closer than ever before. In these moments, when I fail to raise their vehicle over my head and subsequently scare their children, I usually feel a bit embarrassed but, in the words of the mighty J-hova, “I might break but I don’t fold.”

What I find particularly amazing about Jay-Z is that, not only do I believe him when he tells me that his flow is unstoppable, his story is unfathomable, and his swagger is impregnable (just try to impregnate his swagger!), but I also feel the Jigga-man’s confidence flow through me. This may sound odd but I’m really not kidding. As such, his braggadocios style makes me stand a little taller, speak more assertively and I also randomly push anonymous people on the sidewalk more often.

One of the prime times in which I listen to J-Hova is when I’m exercising. During these sessions, I don’t feel like a man sitting on a stationary exercise bike (as opposed to the exercise bikes you can take out on the street), who is wearing a red headband, nylon shorts, and an old t-shirt that says “Farmer’s Dairy Milk: The Best of Nova Scotia.” No fucking way. Instead, I am taken away on the wings of rap poesy; I’m on a yacht or in a droptop or maybe I’m just having a sleepover with Jay-Z: We’re both in bunk beds (I’d give him the top bunk) and we’re talking about what girls we “like like” and what our all-time favourite role playing video games are (I choose Final Fantasy 3 and Hova goes with Lufia 2: Rise of the Sinistrals because of its influential combat system and wide selection of magic spells, especially those harnessing the power of wind).

In my own experience with rap music, I find that when most other rappers brag, they annoy me. Kanye West is immensely talented however, when he says, “With my ego, I can stand there in a speedo and still be looked at like a fucking hero,” I find myself thinking, “Really? Really Kanye?” That just sounds silly to me; so silly in fact that I don’t believe you. Yet, I can feel the immense pressure of Kanye trying to convince me to believe him which creates an awkward standoff in which we’re both uncomfortable as if, figuratively speaking, we’ve gone speedo shopping together and he’s asking me if his looks good when really we’re both highly aware that it makes his “stuff” look weird and the tightness of the fabric is chaffing his thighs.

In contrast, not only would Jay-Z never wear a speedo (though if he did, he would wear a black one “for a year straight” to compliment his “Versace shades”) but he would never need to. He’s got nothing to prove – he can dress in dark, fashionable clothes and relax – he’s assured, confident and likable. No one would be like, “Sure he had more number ones than Elvis, second only to the Beatles, but I’ve never seen him in a speedo which gives me the impression that he would fail to look like a ‘fucking hero’ in one of them.” My guess is that if someone did ever say that, it would be Kanye himself on “Big Brother 2.0” from the Post-Doctoral album which would drop sometime in 2014. The point is that when Jay-Z says, “God MC, me, J-hova,” he’s not trying to impress me or convince me – he believes it and that’s enough for him; in turn, rather than feeling uneasy, I’m inspired by his confidence and his ability to “pack heat like an oven door.” Jay-Z’s swagger makes me feel good.

One aspect of Jay-Z’s abilities that no one talks about is that, along with his virtuoso capabilities as a lyricist and rapper, he’s a brilliant songwriter. This is a particularly contentious statement given that he raps over beats created by producers and often relies on the hooks of R&B singers. However, like a director choosing takes, actors, editors, and soundtracks, Jay-Z’s taste influences all those who collaborate with him. Ultimately he has to choose which beats he can most effectively perform over and which hooks sound the best. Here’s some evidence of this from the film Fade to Black:

While his process isn’t flawless (Kingdom Come and the Blueprint 2 and 3 have many disappointing moments), his consistency in putting together a finished product that sounds amazing is unrivalled by all contemporary rappers and, quite possibly, all rappers that have come before him. Unlike an admittedly gifted rapper like Nas, who has been criticized for choosing amateurish producers and beats that don’t suit his voice, Jay-Z’s career dope percentage in choosing dope beats is high (88% – this statistic, and the very existence of a “dope percentage,” may be entirely made up). Jay’s success is a result of his never losing sight of the vital union between his skills as a rapper and his talents as a composer. There’s a reason that at least one Jay-Z song can usually be found on everyone’s ipod and that’s because his songwriting chops appeal even to those who aren’t rap fans. Jay-Z is the first to tell us that “his raps don’t have melodies,” but they do have hooks. Hooks upon Hooks. Rufios and Captain Hooks. And I’m not just talking about the standard hooks that often come when he’s finished his verses, though those are usually stellar. I’m talking about how undeniably catching Jay-Z’s raps are as he switches from flow to flow with smooth transitions and effortless bravado.

One of the main knocks on Jay-Z has been that he is not an artist but a businessman or “a business, man” who has sold one-dimensional tales of the street and branded himself so as to appeal to the masses. The problem with this type of criticism is that it undermines the aesthetic qualities of image-making. When, in the world of “indie” rock, Jack White unveils a new version of the White Stripes, either through photographs, onstage fashion, or fabricated stories, music fans generally embrace this as a part of the band’s intrigue and mystery, a creative venture that only heightens the impact that this group has upon its public. When Jay-Z engages in his own image and myth-making by saying something like “I sell ice in the winter / I sell fire in hell / I’m a hustler baby, I’ll sell water to a well,” it’s often met with those who are quick to decry Jay-Z’s craft as a complete commodification and a disingenuous exercise in self-promotion, as if there isn’t artistry in presenting yourself as a man of commerce who rose from “the bottom, the bottom, to the top of the pops.” Much of this tension is based upon hip hop’s adherence to authenticity and “realness” in that there is an assumption that Jay-Z isn’t enhancing his personal narrative in creative ways but is merely bragging about the facts of his life, facts which apparently do not need to be shaped in any artistic manner before they are laid down upon a track.

This isn’t to say that Jay-Z doesn’t rap about his life, but when he does so, his manner of expressing himself is the key to understanding his identity as an artist. In Adam Bradley’s Book of Rhymes: The Poetics of Hip Hop, Bradley emphasizes that rappers such as Jay-Z rely on the visceral experience that their rhymes evoke rather than simply lyrical meaning as an end in itself. To say that Jay-Z just raps about money, drugs, and his greatness is to say that the Beatles just sang about love. The content and its artistic meaning is to be found in his expression and delivery of those subjects, techniques which can only be understood while they are experienced. Or, as Bradley states, “To focus solely on rap’s perceived ends, whether beneficial or toxic, is to misunderstand the central role of its expressive means . . . [rapper’s] words are inextricably bound up in the way that MCs deliver them: through rhythm, rhyme, imagery, tone of voice” (90). So, basically, Jay-Z could just be saying, “I make a lot of money / I once sold crack / I have a beautiful girlfriend / I am a great rapper / Brad MacDonald is my best friend and I enjoy going on sleepovers with him” and NOBODY would listen. (Except me. I would still listen Jay-Z. Because we’re best friends. Lufia 2 is a solid Super Nintendo game for sure big guy). There’s a reason why his lyrics are so entertaining, enjoyable and stimulating and it’s predicated solely upon his creative gifts.

In Bradley’s excellent book, he cites the following lines in “Blue Magic” from American Gangster as emphasizing Jay-Z’s control of the English language and his command as a lyricist:

Blame Reagan for making me into a monster

Blame Oliver North and Iran-contra

I ran contraband that they sponsored

Before this rhyming stuff we was in concert

Bradley perceptively notes that beyond “making a fairly complicated point” about the effect of the Iran-contra scandal on the American psyche, these lines of wordplay “testif[y] to Jay-Z’s lyrical ingenuity” (111). However, Bradley himself admits that, while simply reading these lines may allow us to better appreciate Jay-Z’s lyrics, their effect is nothing in comparison to the feeling evoked by Jay’s brash delivery of his poetics. Listening to these lines the way Jay-Z delivers them completes an overwhelming evocation of his skills and confidence as a rapper. You can hear them here at 2:18 in the following clip:

This song, “Blue Magic” isn’t his best – the beat is kind of boring, the hook is crap and the video is pretty stupid but I think it still gives the desired effect of showcasing Jay-Z’s utter assuredness on the microphone coupled with his poetic inventiveness. His meaning is inseparable from his expression – words and delivery come together over the beat to create something special.

Of course in championing Jay-Z, I realize that there is no defending the misogyny of his lyrics. This is an objectionable aspect of his music which I find very troubling and there obviously isn’t anything to say for him in this regard. Though in “real life” he and Beyonce seem “Crazy in Love” this obviously does not make up for his disrespectful verses, especially when the skill involved in creating a song like “Big Pimpin’” can easily mask the ugliness of its words. Jay-Z himself has argued that the women he insults in his songs are not meant to stand for all women and he has arguably toned down his vitriol towards such females since the beginning of his career, but this certainly doesn’t absolve him of the crime of glamorizing inhumane “machismo”. Given this controversy, it’s surprising that Oprah of all people had him on her show and seemed to genuinely enjoy his company. However, regardless of her willingness to invite him onto her program, Oprah has long been publicly against the unsettling tone of misogyny in hip hop which has proved to be an all-too resilient facet of this genre of music.

And yes, Jay-Z also once shot his little brother in the arm for stealing jewellery that J-hova probably acquired by selling crack, but he had to find a way to make ends meet and, plus, I’m pretty sure that his brother had it coming. Furthermore, and concordantly, it takes a lot of skill to shoot a young child with a gun. It’s such a small target, am I right?! Hahhahahah. Join my laughter. Hahahahahha. Wow, you laughed a lot longer than I did. That was too long. I was just kidding. That was a young child I was talking about. You’re sick.

Just kidding, we’re cool. Ok, ok, most importantly, if you’ve made it this far then you’re in for a treat. In order to feel really good about being alive, put this song on:

or this one:

Now get into your favourite pajama pants that your Mom bought you for Christmas and/or Easter, or whatever holidays you may recognize, and, as this beat is pumping, start punching and kicking the air or whatever kind of chaotic behaviour you may enjoy. Punch your roommate in the face. Shoot your brother in the arm on account of him jacking your jewels. Kick your sofa or futon as hard as you can. Better yet, let’s raise the stakes: try kicking your most prized and priceless armoire (“a large wardrobe or movable cupboard, with doors and shelves”) that you inherited from your grandma, as hard as you fucking can. Fuck yeah, I love kicking armoires while listening to Jay-Z. Kick that armoire like a habit. Then put your diamonds in the air. Ok, I’m out. “Maybe you’ll love me when I fade to black”