Reasonable Doubt; Vol. 3 … Life & Times of S. Carter; The Blueprint

Che Guevara has had an interesting decade. Since his image became part of Rage Against the Machine’s logo twenty-five years after his death, popular music has given the Argentine communist more exposure among impressionable youths than his armed struggle ever did. And Rage was just the beginning. At the June 20, 2002, New York party in honor of Andre Harrell’s latest protégé Thicke, Jay-Z sported a white T emblazoned with Che’s visage—perhaps a case of game recognizing game, but that night it could’ve been either a tribute or a diss. A diamond-encrusted Roc-a-Fella pendant hung around Jay-Z’s neck, and as he moved among a bevy of models, it banged against Guevara’s forehead with every step.

The image is audacious but unsurprising. Jay-Z dominates hip-hop, and he’s even smacking Latin America’s most famous revolutionary upside the head with his philosophy: Can’t knock the hustle. Would Che roll over in his grave if he knew that one of capitalism’s most devout spokespeople was accessorizing his image with bling that probably cost children in Sierra Leone a few limbs? Probably. But he might also be captivated by Jay’s ability to make superficiality seductive. Either way, Che would have to listen up. Jay-Z has ghetto blocks hanging on his every word, the types of impoverished communities that Guevara and pal Fidel Castro tried to liberate through revolution in Cuba.

There’s been much debate about Shawn Carter’s street career, the personal mythology that has added kilos of weight to Jay-Z-the-rapper’s sordid tales. But regardless of Carter’s actual criminal exploits, Jay-Z raps like a kingpin: he’s articulate, ruthless, in control. While most young MCs are hungry, on his debut, 1996’s Reasonable Doubt, Jay sounds sated. From Grey Poupon to Dom Perignon, his trademark top-tier tastes are already in evidence here. The (do) rags to riches story that rappers tell after they go platinum was his before he sold his first record. On “Dead Presidents II” he claims, “I dabbled in crazy weight/Without rap, I was crazy straight/Partner. I’m still spending money from eighty-eight.”

Both an apologia for his lifestyle and a defiant defense of it, Doubt is interesting because it isn’t a blind celebration of criminality—it’s an unflinching, intelligent one. His unapologetic manifesto, “Can’t Knock the Hustle,” glamorizes its topic, but also alludes to the deeper roots of gangstas’ middle-finger mentality: “All us blacks got is sports and entertainment, until we even/Thievin’, as long as I’m breathin’/Can’t knock the way a nigga eatin’— fuck you even.” Is it society’s fault that Jay-Z’s a hustler? This question resurfaces throughout his career, often invoked as a convenient excuse for his behavior, but sometimes presented with such perceptive socioeconomic analysis that one wishes he’d rap to George W. on his native Marcy Projects’ behalf. He certainly knows what’s going on there. Whether he cares or not is much less clear.

Jay’s not bad meaning bad, he’s bad meaning good. Or at least bad meaning morally conflicted. Doubt’s “Regrets” documents one of the riveting moments of ambivalence that make his persona intriguing, ending with a poignant dedication to a deceased friend: “I think I’m touched / This whole verse I been talkin’ to your spirit, a little too much.” The pregnant pause—more than just a comma—between the word “spirit” and “a little too much” betrays a rare waver.

Doubt’s solemn musical tone matches the gravity of Jay-Z’s words. DJ Premier’s melancholy “D’Evils” uses a minor-key piano sample to underscore Jay’s nefarious tales. Songs that could easily become brash bragfests, like “Can I Live,” are tempered by both Jay-Z’s low-key flow and their somber musical tone; in this case, producer DJ Irv (now known as Irv Gotti) uses horns and subtle strings to frame Jay’s bittersweet tale of money and mayhem. The second version of the same track lacks that restraint, as Jay’s unrepentant boasting is matched by an equally exultant piano-tickled beat by K-Rob.

Reasonable Doubt was written when Shawn-Carter-the-hustler had barely been laid to rest. Recorded in the wake of the huge commercial success of 1998’s Vol. 2 … Hard Knock Life, 1999’s cold-blooded Vol. 3 … Life and Times of S. Carter showcases Jay-Z at his most menacing. The gangsta may have retired, but for Jay, the drug-related metaphors will last forever. Acutely aware of the jealousy he’s attracting, on “Come and Get Me” he snarls, “It’s only fair that I warn you, rap’s my new hustle/I’m treatin’ it like the corner” On Vol. 3 he seems bent on confirming what the December 1, 1999, stabbing of Lance “Un” Rivera (which occurred four weeks prior to Vol. 3’s release; Jay initially maintained his innocence regarding the incident before pleading guilty almost two years later) suggested: that his Billboard-bullying mobster persona represents a clear and present danger. On the bonus track “Jigga My Nigga” he raps, “I don’t give a fuck if I sold one or one million/But I think you should/’Cause if I only sold one, then out comes the hood/All black in the club, the outcome ain’t good.”

But though he spends much of Vol. 3 intimidating potential victims and haters, Jay also illuminates the emotional life of a gangster. “There’s Been a Murder,” a vignette in which Jay-Z gets murdered by Shawn-Carter-the-hustler, is a dynamic duet. As Carter he raps: “I held roundtable meetings so we could go on and discuss/not only money but all the emotions goin’ through us/Why we don’t cry when niggas die, that’s how the street raised him/Look in the air, say a prayer hopin’ God forgave him/Cop liquor, twist it, tap it twice, pour it to the pavement.” Jay-Z humanizes the hustler, revealing the shiver behind the swagger.

Vol. 3 is rich with captivating stories and intermittently great production, notably Timbaland’s sparsely brilliant contributions, “It’s Hot” and “Come and Get Me.” But fame has begun to mess with the usually clear-minded rapper’s head. On “Dope Man,” a song in which Jay-Z goes on trial for selling drugs (a metaphor for his music), he calls himself “The soul of Mumia in this modern-day time.” I don’t think so. Vol. 3 is also marred by collaborations with the likes of Mariah Carey.

After years of walking the line between pop and pap, in 2001 Jay-Z released The Blueprint, an unfettered portrait of the hustler in his prime consistent enough to be called Reasonable Doubt’s sequel. Jay-Z’s life may be filled with private jets, personal chefs, and high-thread-count linens, but don’t let anyone accuse him of getting soft in the lap of luxury. The beats are hard, the rhymes are harder, and it’s still all about cold hard cash. On the song “U Don’t Know” he raps, “Could make 40 off a brick but one rhyme could beat that.”

The Blueprint finds the rapper on top of the world and here, he takes the time to enjoy the scenery. Jay-Z skewers his inferiors with laid-back brutality (on “Takeover”), offers love to friends and family (on the title track). And after years of likeable and not-so-likeable lechery (with lines like “The only time you love ’em is when your dick’s hard” from Doubt’s “Cashmere Thoughts”), Jay-Z allows himself a rare moment of romantic vulnerability on “Song Cry.” It’s difficult to tell whether he’s just throwing his female fans a bone (pun intended) after years of casual misogyny or if this is a genuine moment of introspection from the self-professed groupie connoisseur. Either way, it’s earned him love from the ladies.

Jay-Z is convincing. When he raps “I’m representin’ for the seat where Rosa Parks sat/Where Malcolm X was shot, where Martin Luther was popped” on Blueprint’s “The Ruler’s Back,” you almost believe him. When he rocks his Guevara shirt and a do-rag, squint and you see a revolutionary. But open your eyes to the platinum chain around his neck: Jay-Z is a hustler. It may be that he recognizes the sex-appeal-by-association of guerrilla garb. Or perhaps in the process of polishing his game till it gleams, it’s begun to blind him. Asked why he wore Che’s likeness on Unplugged, Jay-Z responded that he considers himself a revolutionary like Guevara because he’s a self-made black millionaire in a racist society. But he misses the point that for Che, one more millionaire is no reason to celebrate. Guevara abandoned a cushy career in medicine to pursue his lifelong goal, the creation of an egalitarian society uncorrupted by decadence or deprivation, whereas Jay corrupted his community by selling street medication. Later, Che left the relative comfort of celebrity in communist Cuba to stir up revolution throughout Latin America, while Jay ditched dope-dealing for the relative comfort of Big Pimpin’ rap. Che died trying to change the world. Jay lives large in the new world order. But even if you can knock Jay-Z’s logic, you can’t knock the hustle.