Only two albums in and the Lupe Fiasco apologists are
already
stepping up. With the release of The Cool, newly minted
die-hard fans are leaning over critics’ shoulders and clearing off a
throne for the 25-year-old MC, brushing aside obvious shortcomings to
make way for more obvious assets. Tellingly, Lupe himself is the most
vocal apologist of all: “Lord please have sympathy/and forgive my cool
young history/
as the coolest nigga,” he rhymes on “The
Coolest.”
Since 2006’s stunning debut, Food & Liquor, Lupe’s
trademark has been his intellectual self-awareness. He goes fully meta
on The Cool and leaves his first-person perspective behind
almost entirely. “The Coolest” is one of several songs that flesh out
the album’s loose concept—a personification of the Game and the
Streets as characters in a fantasy romance/struggle, pursuing the
elusive, pervasive cred of the title.
It’s vast and abstract, touching on all the trend spotting, myth
busting, wealth hoarding, and confidence building that The
Cool implies. Thematically, musically, the album flouts hiphop
conventions, impressive for such a young artist with major-label
backing. This insistent and natural creativity—a third-generation
sense of hiphop’s history and potential—is what Lupe’s backers
point to. His detractors point to the same strong-headedness: When he
shrugged off the importance of A Tribe Called Quest this past fall, he
invited scorn from one part of the hiphop community, while other fans
admired his defiance.
Lupe has stated plainly that after his next album, LupEND,
he’ll retire. (Believe that when you see it.) With only one more
statement to make before the supposed curtain call, The Cool asks a lot of faith from listeners, standing as the crucial second act
of the grand performance piece known as Lupe Fiasco. It’s a risky move
for the young, still-unproven artist born Wasalu Muhammad Jaco, one who
would feel contrived if The Cool weren’t one of the most
nuanced, intelligent, infectious records of 2007.
Even radio-ready insta-classic “Superstar” leans toward the
profound. Lupe—with Buckley-esque singer Matthew Santos on the
anthemic chorus—addresses everyman listeners and their everyday
aspirations as much as his own certified stardom: “If you are what you
say you are/a superstar/then have no fear.” That
universalism—unachievable for
ego-inflated MCs—comes
naturally to Lupe. The song is flawless.
Along with Lupe’s primary collaborator, fellow Chicago MC Gemstones,
Santos shows up all over The Cool. “Streets on Fire” bumps
over a classic drum break and turntable scratches and is laden with
strings; the spiritual minimalism of “Fighters” courses over a keyboard
run and Lupe’s deeply personal flow. Santos’s chorus is especially
potent:
When the fighters are all around/All the lovers are
underground/No one will save you anymore/So what’s happening, what you
rapping about?/Little boy/Is it cars? Is it girls? Is it money? The
world?
Santos steps into his 15 minutes with grace. The fauxhawked warbler
has gone from Chicago coffee-shop gigs to national attention as Lupe’s
white-boy soul-singing accessory. He’s part of a trend toward
soft-edged indieness launched by Jay-Z and Chris Martin, perpetuated by
Kanye and Adam Levine of Maroon 5. It’s okay to hate on the crossover,
but it’s useless to hate on the result. This is the new hiphop, and
soft is the new hard, mass-appeal the new underground. Santos fits into
the role like a foot into a $400 sneaker.
Other tracks outside the concept storyline are just as cerebral as
those within it—Lupe as child soldier (“Little Weapon”) and Lupe
as cheeseburger (“Gotta Eat”). Thanks to understated metaphor, not to
mention innovative production by Fall Out Boy’s Patrick Stump on the
former and longtime Lupe cohort Soundtrakk on the latter, both are far
better than they should be. There’s plenty of instrumental
adornment—heavy strings, acoustic guitar, Arabic ululations, and
Gothic chants. While not as glossy as Kanye’s recent output, the
production is exceedingly musical, melodic—pop hiphop for sure.
Again, you can rue the mass appeal, but there’s no use in disparaging
the songs themselves. Pop doesn’t get any smarter, and smart doesn’t
get any catchier.
Yes, Lupe self-aggrandizes (“Paris, Tokyo,” “Go Baby”), but he
remains earnest and likable, the lucky kid rather than the
self-absorbed star. Yes, he settles for several forgettable choruses
(“Go Go Gadget Flow,” “Dumb It Down”), but these come between
wicked-smart, tongue-twisting verses in songs that buck hiphop formula
in content and construction. Chalk up another Lupe apologist; all of us
join the throng willingly. Lupe is on his way to achieving all his
promise—changing the face of hiphop. The standards he’s measured
against are higher than the rest. 