Released on 9/11, the album showed how hustle wasn't just a young-man's game
Roc-A-Fella, Def Jam
Last week the New York Times' Michiko Kakutani made waves with an essay in which she declared that, ten years on, "9/11 has not provoked a seismic change in the arts." It's hard to know whether she's right—accusing something, anything, of "not provoking a seismic change in the arts" seems strange—and hard to know how much to care. September 11 and its aftermath certainly gave writers something to write about and singers something to sing about, but the best songs aren't always about what they claim to be about, and art that sets out to respond to a specific event is often handcuffed by literalness. Much of the most memorable art surrounding 9/11 wasn't occasioned by the tragedy but rather coincidentally attended it: the Strokes' "New York City Cops," pulled from Is This It on the eve of release, or Bob Dylan's "High Water (for Charley Patton)," the homage to Patton's 1929 flood blues "High Water Everywhere" that appeared on Dylan's Love and Theft, released on 9/11 itself.
Decadence is restyled as subversive resistance, the hustle of crack cocaine as the hustle of the global superstar: The game is the game is the game.
Jay-Z's The Blueprint also came out on September 11, 2001, an incidental bit of trivia that will be obligatorily mentioned for as long as the album is discussed, which will be a very long time indeed. Jay-Z's influence on hip-hop is massive and varied, but his greatest achievement is his longevity: Many rappers before had stuck around, and aged gracefully—KRS-One, LL Cool J, the Beastie Boys—but Jay-Z has been at the top of the genre for nearly all of his 15-year career, the longest sustained reign that rap has ever known. The Blueprint was when the consensus around him solidified, a moment that now seems so preordained that it's easy to forget how it actually happened.
The life and times of Shawn Carter, vol. 1: He'd emerged in 1996 with a masterpiece debut, Reasonable Doubt, a frantic cyclone of storytelling delivered in a nervous, nasal voice and a flow that was unrelenting and slightly awkward, like that of a man who'd found himself trapped in a conversation he wasn't sure he wanted to continue. It was a quirky, arresting style that seemed an acquired taste, which made it all the more surprising when Jay-Z crossed into mainstream stardom with unexpected speed. In My Lifetime, Vol. 1, released in 1997, went platinum, and 1998'sVol. 2… Hard Knock Life, buoyed by its impossibly great titular single, sold 5 million copies.
By the turn of the millennium, Jay-Z had become the most powerful rapper in the world by almost any measure, but musical returns were diminishing. Each new release felt flimsier than the last, thinned by filler and guest appearances, and singles sounded increasingly detached and calculated. October 2000 saw the release The Dynasty: Roc La Familia, a showcase for protégés Beanie Sigel and Memphis Bleek, who appeared on 11 of the album's 16 tracks. It shot to No. 1, but the fact that it was released under Jay-Z's name felt cynical. Jay-Z was starting to seem boring, but he was also just starting to seem bored.
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Then, in summer of 2001, a new single dropped. Produced by a young Chicagoan named Kanye West and based around a chopped-and-diced sample of the Jackson 5's "I Want You Back," "Izzo (H.O.V.A)" was an urgent explosion of ideas: nimble, ferocious and deadly serious, a song so good and so sudden that you might still remember the first time you heard it. A new album, The Blueprint, was slated for the fall. Pitched explicitly as a comeback, the title alone raised eyebrows, and there was a feeling in the air that stakes were about to rise.