Stories of decadent materialism, drug dealing, sexual conquests, and of course amassing unprecedented wealth, is the lane Ross is most comfortable in and occupies effortlessly. League, newcomer Lex Luger, NO I.D., and DJ Clark Kent, all of whom provided a lush, cinematic score to Ross’ larger-than-life tales. The album boasted an A-list production team featuring Kanye West, Florida veterans J.U.S.T.I.C.E.
Since making his debut in 2006, Ross had built his career on choosing top-shelf production that was tailor-made for his exuberant style. There’s an impressive number of guest appearances on the record, but Ross holds his own, never letting anyone steal his show. As goes one to-the-point line on Port of Miami 2’s “Gold Roses,” “I know it seem odd/But money amazin’.With three studio albums under his hefty-sized belt, Ross had proven he could deliver impeccably produced albums, but it was on Teflon Don, where he finally found his footing as an emcee. Even as he made room to reflect on mortality (2019’s “I Still Pray”), race (2015’s “We Gon Make It”), and politics (2017’s “Santorini Greece”), you always knew where his heart was. Ross worked steadily throughout the 2010s, easing into a more reflective version of his persona-in 2018, he’d ended up on life support after collapsing in his home-without sacrificing any of his outsized grandeur. By 2009, he’d started the Maybach Music Group, following the rapper-to-boardroom path paved by artists like JAY-Z and Birdman by 2010’s Teflon Don, his skills as had caught up to his vision. In 2008, his brief past as a corrections officer-18 months, starting at age 19-surfaced, loading new coals on the ever-ongoing conversation about biography and authenticity in rap. But it’s good TV nevertheless.īorn William Roberts in 1976, Ross started rapping in his early twenties, with “Hustlin’”-then self-released-sparking a bidding war that landed him on Def Jam. “Am I really just a narcissist/’Cause I wake up to a bowl of lobster bisque?” he asked on 2011’s “I Love My Bi***es.” Maybe. Even as he toned down the supervillainy, Ross remained larger than life, luxury incarnate. Few artists were as perceptive in capturing the genre’s turn toward new-money excess, the move from the streets-in Ross’ case, Carol City, Florida-to the exurbs, to cars that outprice helicopters and houses the size of airplane terminals. When Rick Ross’ “Hustlin’” came out in early 2006, it almost seemed like a joke: How could you make something so gonzo and still keep a straight face? This wasn’t rap as lyricism or verbal documentary, it was rap as pro wrestling, summer blockbuster.
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