Send "Rick Ross " Ringtones to your Cell 
| Pitchfork |
 With both Rick Ross and star producer du jour Lex Luger at the top of the rap game, it's easy to forget how much of the former's career is now owed to the latter. Ross was a successful artist before he ever hooked up with Luger, but his stunning transition from begrudgingly accepted popular rapper to one of the genre's most respected artists can basically be traced directly back to Luger's beat for "B.M.F. (Blowin' Money Fast)", the song that will go down as the indelible single of Ross' career. The beat was so titanic that Ross-- who had gone to great pains to protect the self-constructed image of himself as an opulent drug kingpin-- shouted a chorus where he imagined himself as genuine, real-life drug kingpins Big Meech and Larry Hoover. In one fell swoop, Ross tore down his carefully assembled existence while simultaneously building up the one that paved the way for the career surge he's riding, which has culminated in Rich Forever, the new mixtape that now stands as his artistic pinnacle."B.M.F." is genius for many reasons, but there is one crucial aspect of the song that makes Rich Forever tick: It was the first time that Ross ever really got mean. It's almost incredible to consider, but despite his stature and physical presence, "B.M.F." was the first intimidating Ross track since his debut single "Hustlin'", the first since then that pumped a dangerous amount of adrenaline into your veins. In the four years between those songs, Ross kept everything but wealth and women at a distance. He chose cinematic, orchestral beats that colored that image perfectly, and while it was no doubt an effective strategy, songs like "Maybach Music 2" are the equivalent of a living room in a mansion where you'd be afraid to touch any of the furniture. "B.M.F." was Rick Ross as Dave Chappelle as Rick James yelling "fuck yo' couch," except the couch was actually his own. It was exactly what his career needed....full text |
| Nytimes |
| How did Nas leap from confused elder statesman back to sage corner-boy chronicler? All it took was Rick Ross, hip-hop’s great fantasist. The song is “Triple Beam Dreams,” from Mr. Ross’s mixtape “Rich Forever,” which was released online Friday to great fanfare. Nas’s verse is intense, a detailed story of a young drug dealer who doesn’t have the heart for the work: I remember watching “Scarface” the first time: Look at that big house, that Porsche paid for by crime. How could I sell this poison to my peoples? In my mind They dumb and destroy themselves is how I rationalize. He sounds pitiable, which is to say electric. This is not only Nas at his best, but also the vintage version of Nas that made him a hero in the first place. Give Mr. Ross credit: he hears the best in other rappers, and sometimes pilfers it for himself. He’s become an omnivore, his own repertory growing with his success, which isn’t always how things work. With clusters of meaty verses and throbbing, moody production, “Rich Forever” is almost on par with his last two solo albums, “Deeper Than Rap” and “Teflon Don” (Maybach Music/Slip-N-Slide/Def Jam), both great. In just a few years he’s become a real bear of a rapper. Powerful, indignant, protective: that’s how a bear feels, and that’s how Mr. Ross sounds, as if nothing could possibly derail him, and everyone who walks with him will be safe. That’s reflected in the quality of the guest appearances on “Rich Forever,” which is high, almost to the point of tilting the scales in favor of the guests over the host. Rap cameos have been reduced to cheap commodity over the years, but these feel alive. Not only is a Ross mixtape an event, but there’s also something about Mr. Ross that allows these artists to be their best selves, or better than that. Or reminds them that they too can make it up as they go along....full text |
| Polaroidsofandroids. |
| To quote the late, great John "Bloody" Legend on this mixtape's title track — "we're gonna to be rich foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr". What a lovely concept. Also a timely one, given the fact we've recently flown in to some hectic economic turbulence, where people routinely became billionaires overnight and then blow it all on red (or a red-headed bird with a huge personality) quicker than Jonny Greenbags can say "sub optimis prime special effects budget blowout". Unlimited money, "like we even look at the fucking price tag", buying first-hand books, tipping 15% for a vending machine soda and not stealing your Dad's clothes when he's interstate on business. For some people Good Living is a description associated with their existence, not just a pull-out section in the weekend newspaper which tells you about restaurants you'll now never be able to get a booking at. Unless you're Mr Richard Ross. He probably never has to worry about restaurant bookings. Or anything else really. The self-portrait oil-on-canvas he's consistently photocopied throughout his career is of an untouchable Don-like figure. And not only comparable to the underground horticulturist Don Burke, but also a larger-than-life Mafioso figure, a self-made world where the ice bucket is always full, Lil Cease takes your calls and you have no idea what an ounce of marijuana actually looks like because it's literally been centuries since you've had to carry any. The reality of this portrayal is hardly relevant. Concern over believability in hip-hop is like paying just twenty clams for a lap dance and then complaining about the cleanliness of the ladyboy's clam. Maybe Rick lives with his Mum, salary sacrifices 90% of his wage, re-investing it into secure, low-risk term deposits. Maybe he's a prison guard. Maybe he used to shove his baton up Tupac's Shakur. Maybe he's Vanilla Ice, remodeled into a heavy gangsta by the same PR machine that arranged for Lance Bass to be shot into space. It hardly matters. It's only important that the picture painted is believable. And it is. I believe Rick Ross has owned a helicopter for so long it's starting to look a little bit shabby. I believe that he has eight females lodged on his penis at any given time. (Not that he could be sure of the exact number, given that his unimaginable wealth has led to a substantial Money Gut, meaning he hasn't caught a visual of Lil' Rick since The Thatcher Years). And I believe that Ross where's my house around his neck. Because he spits every word with such conviction. And he's a fairly big fella....full text |
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