by Jay-Z
But I can’t say I’ve ever given much of a fuck about people who hear a curse word and start foaming at the mouth. The Fox News dummies. They wouldn’t know art if it fell on them.
BILL O’REILLY YOU’RE ONLY RILING ME UP
“99 Problems” is almost a deliberate provocation to simpleminded listeners. If that sounds crazy, you have to understand: Being misunderstood is almost a badge of honor in rap. Growing up as a black kid from the projects, you can spend your whole life being misunderstood, followed around department stores, looked at funny, accused of crimes you didn’t commit, accused of motivations you don’t have, dehumanized—until you realize, one day, it’s not about you. It’s about perceptions people had long before you even walked onto the scene. The joke’s on them because they’re really just fighting phantoms of their own creation. Once you realize that, things get interesting. It’s like when we were kids. You’d start bopping hard and throw on the ice grill when you step into Macy’s and laugh to yourself when the security guards got nervous and started shadowing you. You might have a knot of cash in your pocket, but you boost something anyway, just for the sport of it. Fuck ’em. Sometimes the mask is to hide and sometimes it’s to play at being something you’re not so you can watch the reactions of people who believe the mask is real. Because that’s when they reveal themselves. So many people can’t see that every great rapper is not just a documentarian, but a trickster—that every great rapper has a little bit of Chuck and a little bit of Flav in them—but that’s not our problem, it’s their failure: the failure, or unwillingness, to treat rap like art, instead of acting like it’s just a bunch of niggas reading out of their diaries. Art elevates and refines and transforms experience. And sometimes it just fucks with you for the fun of it.
This is another place where the art of rap and the art of the hustler meet. Poets and hustlers play with language, because for them simple clarity can mean failure. They bend language, improvise, and invent new ways of speaking the truth. When I was a kid in New York and the five Mafia families were always on the front page of the newspaper, the most intriguing character wasn’t John Gotti, it was Vinnie Gigante. I’d see him in the New York Post under a headline like THE ODDFATHER, always in his robe, caught on camera mumbling to himself as he wandered around the Village. His crazy act kept him out of the pen for decades. He took it all the way, but every hustler knows the value of a feint. It keeps you one step ahead of whoever’s listening in, which is also a great thing about hip-hop art. And it makes it all the more gratifying to the listener when they finally catch up. Turning something as common as language into a puzzle makes the familiar feel strange; it makes the language we take for granted feel fresh and exciting again, like an old friend who just revealed a long-held secret. Just that easily your world is flipped, or at least shaken up a little. That’s why the MCs who really play with language—I’m talking about cryptic MCs like Ghostface who invent slang on the spot—can be the most exciting for people who listen closely enough, because they snatch the ground out from under you, and make the most familiar shit open up until it feels like you’re seeing it for the first time.
RIDDLE ME THAT
So, “99 Problems” is a good song to use to talk about the difference between the art of rap and the artlessness of some of its critics. It’s a song that takes real events and reimagines them. It’s a narrative with a purposefully ambiguous ending. And the hook itself—99 problems but a bitch ain’t one—is a joke, bait for lazy critics. At no point in the song am I talking about a girl. The chorus really makes that clear if you bother listening: the obvious point of the chorus is that I wasn’t talking about women. It almost makes my head hurt to think that people could hear that and twist its meaning the full 180 degrees. But even as I was recording it, I knew someone, somewhere would say, “Aha, there he goes talking about them hoes and bitches again!” And, strangely, this struck me as being deeply funny. I couldn’t wait to release it as a single. My only mistake was that I accidentally explained the joke in an early interview and that defused it for some listeners.
The phrase has become one of my most often repeated lyrics, because it works on all those levels, in its literal meaning, its ironic meaning, and in its sonic power (the actual sound of the words but a bitch ain’t one is like someone spitting out a punch). And the joke of it is still potent: during the presidential primaries in 2008, some Hillary Clinton supporters even claimed that Barack Obama was playing the song at his rallies, which would’ve been hilarious if it was true. It’s hard to beat the entertainment value of people who deliberately misunderstand the world, people dying to be insulted, running around looking for a bullet to get in front of.
But if you get caught up in the hook of the song, you miss something. Because between the incendiary choruses—on top of the guitar and cowbell Rick Rubin came up with—is a not-quite-true story. The story—like the language used to tell it—has multiple angles. It’s a story about the anxiety of hustling, the way little moments can suddenly turn into life-or-death situations. It’s about being stopped by cops with a trunk full of coke, but also about the larger presumption of guilt from the cradle that leads you to having the crack in your trunk in the first place. But forget the sermon: This isn’t a song written from a soapbox, it’s written from the front seat of a Maxima speeding down the highway with a trunk full of trouble.
99 PROBLEMS (VERSE 2)
The year is ’941 and in my trunk2 is raw / in my rearview mirror is the motherfucking law / I got two choices y’all, pull over the car or / bounce on the double put the pedal to the floor / Now I ain’t trying to see no highway chase with jake3 / Plus I got a few dollars I can fight the case / So I … pull over to the side of the road / And I heard “Son do you know why I’m stopping you for?” / “Cause I’m young and I’m black and my hat’s real low?4 / Do I look like a mind reader sir, I don’t know / Am I under arrest or should I guess some mo?” / “Well you was doing fifty-five in a fifty-four5 / License and registration and step out of the car / Are you carrying a weapon on you, I know a lot of you are”6 / “I ain’t stepping out of shit all my papers legit” / “Do you mind if I look round the car a little bit?” / “Well my glove compartment is locked, so is the trunk and the back / And I know my rights so you go’n need a warrant for that” / “Aren’t you sharp as a tack, some type of lawyer or something7 / Or somebody important or something?” / “Nah I ain’t pass the bar but I know a little bit / Enough that you won’t illegally search my shit” / “We’ll see how smart you are when the K-9’s come” / “I got 99 problems but a bitch8 ain’t one” / Hit me
IGNORANT SHIT / FEATURING BEANIE SIGEL
Yessir! / Just the sound of his voice is a hit! / Y’all niggas got me really confused out there / I make “Big Pimpin” or “Give It 2 Me,” one of those … / Y’all hail me as the greatest writer1 of the 21st century / I make some thought-provoking shit / Y’all question whether he falling off / I’ma really confuse y’all on this one / Follow … / When them tops come down, chicks’ tops come down / Like when them shots come out make cops come around2 / When the blocks come out I can wake up a small town / Finish off the block3 then I make my mall rounds / When them stares get exchanged then the 5th come out / The tough guy disappears then the bitch come out / “That’s him”—I’m usually what they whisper about / Either what chick he with, or his chip amount / Cause I been doing this since CHiPs was out4 / Watchin Erik Estrada baggin up at the Ramada5 / Table full of powder, AC broke / ’Bout to take another shower on my 25th hour6 / Spike Lees7 everywhere, game or the flight / You might see me anywhere, day in the life / Only thing changed the tail number on the flight / I can touch down and take off the same night / I’m so bossy / Bitch get off me / Trick get off me / You can’t get shit off me / I’m so flossy / No sixes on Sprees8 / laid back, Maybachs / Don’t even talk to me! / [first verse] This is that ignorant shit you like / Nigga, fuck, shit, ass, bitch, trick, plus ice9 / C’mon, I got that ignorant shit you love / Nigga, fuck, shit, mar
icon, puta, and drugs10 / C’mon, I got that ignorant shit you need / Nigga, fuck, shit, ass, bitch, trick, plus weed / I’m only trying to give you what you want / Nigga, fuck, shit, ass, bitch, you like it don’t front / They’re all actors11 / Looking at themselves in the mirror backwards / Can’t even face themselves,12 don’t fear no rappers / They’re all weirdos, DeNiros in practice / So don’t believe everything your earlobe captures / It’s mostly backwards / Unless it happens to be as accurate as me / And everything said in song you happen to see / Then actually believe half of what you see / None of what you hear even if it’s spat by me13 / And with that said, I will kill niggas dead / Cut niggas short, give you wheels for legs / I’m a K-I-double-L-E-R / See y’all in hell / Shoot niggas straight through the E.R.14 / Whoa—this ain’t BR, no / It’s SC, CEO, the next Lyor? / No, the next leader of the whole free world / And the first thing I’ma do is free Sigel, go! [third verse]I missed the part where it stopped being about Imus / What do my lyrics got to do with this SHIT?15 Scarface the movie did more than Scarface the rapper to me / Still that ain’t the blame for all the shit that’s happened to me16 / Are you saying what I’m spittin / Is worse than these celebutantes showin they kitten, you kidding? / Let’s stop the bullshittin / Till we all without sin, let’s quit the pulpitting / Scarface the movie did more than Scarface the rapper to me / Still that ain’t the blame for all the shit that’s happened to me / Let’s stop the bullshittin / Till we all without sin, let’s quit the pulpitting, c’mon! / This is that ignorant shit you like / Nigga, fuck, shit, ass, bitch, trick, plus ice / C’mon, I got that ignorant shit you love / Nigga, fuck, shit, maricon, puta, and drugs / C’mon, I got that ignorant shit you need / Nigga, fuck, shit, ass, bitch, trick plus weed / I’m only trying to give you what you want / Nigga, fuck, shit, ass, bitch, you like it don’t front
I met Bono years ago, in the cigar room of a bar in London with Quincy Jones and Bobby Shriver. I’d spent most of the night quizzing Quincy about Thriller, the greatest album ever made. Quincy graciously answered all of my detailed questions, questions he’s probably asked four times a week, and then gave me a history lesson about his days as a jazz musician, telling stories about touring Europe in the fifties and sixties with Dizzy, Miles, and Ray Charles.
Bono was beaming and laughing the whole time. I liked him right away. I knew who he was, of course, as a musician and philanthropist and human rights activist. I knew U2’s hits like everyone else on the planet, but I was completely unprepared for what a genuine, humble, and open person he is. Bono’s got such a pure soul and positive energy—his eyes almost literally light up and dance when he’s excited. He’s one of those people who always seem hungry—for new information and experiences, and then impatiently generous to share the things he’s consumed.
After Quincy talked for more than an hour, Bono pulled out a song U2 had recorded earlier in the day. I was traveling with one of those boomboxes that are built into backpacks, the ones skateboarders use, and at three in the morning in that cigar room Bono played his new song for us on that box, eager to hear what we thought—including me, even though he’d never met me before. Later, when he heard me tell Quincy I was going to meet some friends in the morning and head to the south of France for the first time, he offered to fly me to Nice in his plane. I didn’t tell him just how many friends I was traveling with—which was a lot, too many for his plane—but I really didn’t want to impose anyway.
We became friends after that night. Years later, we both became investors in a restaurant in New York, the Spotted Pig in Greenwich Village. One night I ran into him there and he told me he’d read an interview I’d done somewhere. The writer had asked me about the U2 record that was about to be released and I said something about the kind of pressure a group like that must be under just to meet their own standard. Bono told me that my quote had really gotten to him. In fact, he said it got him a little anxious. He decided to go back to the studio even though the album was already done and keep reworking it till he thought it was as good as it could possibly be.
I really wasn’t trying to make him nervous with that quote—and I was surprised to find out that at this point in his career he still got anxious about his work. What I thought I was doing was expressing sympathy. Here he is, Bono, star, master musician, world diplomat, philanthropist, all of that. It was only right that I met him and Quincy Jones on the same night—they’re both already in the pantheon.
I tried to explain all of that to him and we ended up trading stories about the pressure we felt, even at this point in our lives. I explained how I’ve always believed there’s a real difference between rock and hip-hop in terms of how the artists relate to each other. In hip-hop, top artists have the same pressure a rock star like Bono has—the pressure to meet expectations and stay on top. But in hip-hop there’s an added degree of difficulty: While you’re trying to stay on top by making great music, there are dozens of rappers who don’t just compete with you by putting out their own music, but they’re trying to pull you down at the same time. It’s like trying to win a race with every runner behind you trying to tackle you. It’s really not personal—at least it shouldn’t be—it’s just the nature of rap. Hip-hop is a perfect mix between poetry and boxing. Of course, most artists are competitive, but hip-hop is the only art that I know that’s built on direct confrontation.
TAKE YOUR LAST TWO DEEP BREATHS AND PASS THE MIC
There are rap groups, of course, but one thing you’ll hardly ever find in hip-hop is rappers harmonizing on the mic. The rule is one person on the mic at a time. And you have to earn the right to get on the mic. No one just passes you a mic because you happen to be standing there. In the earliest days of hip-hop, MCs had to prove themselves to DJs before they could rock a party. The competition grew from there—after a while it wasn’t just about who could rock the party or the park or the rec center, it was about who could rep the hood, the borough, the city. Then when people started getting record deals, the battles exploded again, but now they were over national dominance and sales.
Sales battles are a hip-hop phenomenon that you just don’t see played out in the same explicit, public way in other genres of music. Rappers can be like gambling addicts who see a potential bet everywhere they look. Everywhere we look, we see competition. A couple years back, when I was still running Def Jam, 50 Cent challenged Kanye West to a battle over who would get the biggest first-week sales numbers. This was when 50’s Curtis album and Kanye’s Graduation were scheduled to come out the same day. The whole thing was fun and useful marketing—and ’Ye won by close to three hundred thousand units—but it was also kind of strange to watch people, regular fans, get so caught up in this battle over numbers. Only in hip-hop.
I’m not complaining. I love the competition—even the sales battles. Before the Kanye situation, I had my own relatively low-key battle with 50 Cent. When I was about to release The Black Album we had to push up the release date to get the jump on bootleggers, which put us into the same initial sales week as Beg For Mercy, the first album from 50’s crew, G-Unit. 50, in his showman style, got on the radio and announced that he was putting money on Beg For Mercy outselling The Black Album. This was the same year that 50’s first album, Get Rich or Die Trying, had an incredible run, including huge first-week numbers. Kevin Liles at Def Jam called me asking if I wanted to push the date back a couple of weeks to give 50’s album—and some other high-profile releases that week—a chance to breathe. I love Kevin; he’s one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet. But I told him to put my shit out as planned.
The Black Album debuted at number one, Beg For Mercy was third, and the soundtrack to Resurrection, the Tupac documentary, was the number two album on the charts. There was something beautiful about Pac being my closest competition on the charts that week. Aside from the heartbreak of losing two great MCs—and one great friend—I’ve always felt robbed of my chance to compete with Tupac and Biggie, in the best sense, and not just over first-week sales numbers. Competiti
on pushes you to become your best self, and in the end it tells you where you stand. Jordan said the same thing about Larry Bird and Magic. He’d spent this whole career at North Carolina waiting to have the chance to play with them, and by the time Jordan and the Bulls were really coming into their own, Bird and Magic both retired.
But there’s a risk in this kind of indirect, nonmusical “battling”: the spectacle of competition can overshadow the substance of the work. That’s when the boxing analogy breaks down and the more accurate comparison becomes professional wrestling, an arena where the showmanship is more important than actual skill or authentic competition. I’m not a professional wrestler. Rappers who use beef as a marketing plan might get some quick press, but they’re missing the point. Battles were always meant to test skill in the truest tradition of the culture. Just like boxing takes the most primal type of competition and transforms it into a sport, battling in hip-hop took the very real competitive energies on the street—the kind of thing that could end in some real life-and-death shit—and transformed them into art. That competitive spirit that we learned growing up in the streets was never just for play and theater. It was real. That desire to compete—and to win—was the engine of everything we did. And we learned how to compete the hard way.
KNOCKED A NIGGA OFF HIS FEET, BUT I CRAWLED BACK
When I was sixteen years old, my friend Hill and I set up shop in Trenton, hustling, literally, on a dead-end street. There were a couple of areas close by where other hustlers were working: in front of the grocery store, in front of a club on the main strip, out in the park. So we competed on price because we were getting our supply at lower numbers.