Album Review: Rick Ross - God Forgives, I Don’t

Ho hum. Aside from the blip of 2009's excellent Deeper Than Rap, Ricky Rozay releases tend to buzz away like gentle, inoffensive white noise. Big on budget (and beard, and belly, also bragging) but low on charisma, Ross has strained to achieve the same critical impact of some of his peers. Ross has consistently been a grade below excellence, a step below the best. The same is true here.

Lead single, 911, is case in point. First, it is more than five minutes long. That's a lot to ask of a middling bit of car porn. More importantly, it is boring. It grinds along slowly. A hook that should sound immense instead feels flabby. Also, a brag about one type of car not wholly embraced by sportscar enthusiasts, the Porsche 911, seems a little pointless when elsewhere in his catalogue he has bragged about garages full of more impressive automobiles. 3 Kings is awkward. Dr Dre appears, spitting a ghost-written verse he sounds like he first read minutes before entering the booth, but still carrying with him the reputation of being one of the most impressive producers there's ever been. Jay-Z, another king, lazily reels off a freestyle and still manages to be compelling and commanding. Ross, standing with (arguably) the best on the boards and (arguably) the best on the mic seems like the punchline of a joke. Similarly, on Sixteen Ross is thoroughly outclassed by a masterful Andre 3000 spouting a mini-essay.

Most disappointing is the absence of a big banger for us to hang onto, or a gritty track about the drug game. Even though he lacks charisma Ross has generally had the ability to pull off menace. Not here. He sounds distracted. And tired. And dwarfed by the giants that surround him.