The latest entry into the A1/FBG catalogue is "U.O.E.N.O.," produced by Childish Major, a song where the pair, along with Rick Ross, revel in their more subdued swag attributes over Major's sleepy synth twangs.ĭownload: Rocko f. Rocko and Future have a track record of street hits longer than some actual duos and it's great to see that Future's recent success hasn't stopped that. I'll leave the stream up so you can judge for yourself. The song, though, is a leak from Rocko's upcoming Gift of Gab 2, which hopefully, doesn't contain any more allusions to rape.
These lines, for me, ruin what was otherwise an exciting piece of music from two of my favorite rappers (Rocko and Future). I missed this completely the initial handful of times I listened to “U.O.E.N.O.” before posting. As goes one to-the-point line on Port of Miami 2’s “Gold Roses,” “I know it seem odd/But money amazin’.Update : Per commenter Thom J, I revisited "U.O.E.N.O." to discover Rick Ross delivering the deplorable couplet, Put molly all in her champagne, she ain't even know it/I took her home and I enjoyed that, she ain't even know it. 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. The intro to this new Rick Ross is sounding seriously Albert Ayler with the ghost sax. 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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