4:44

4:44 is captivating because it both upholds that version of himself and buckles beneath its weight.

Already one of the greatest rappers in history, this is the kind of late career artistic push that will cement Jay-Z’s place on rap’s Mount Rushmore. This is Jay-Z walking onto the stage alone, standing contritely in front of the world, and speaking from the heart, revealing himself in order to heal.

It’s reality music, and while obviously tailored around the life and times of Shawn Carter, offers so many narratives that the common man can relate to in astounding measures.

Whether he's taking himself to task, tossing shots in every direction (see: ‘Bam’), or simply reminiscing as on the glorious glide of ‘Marcy Me’, he sounds perfectly at home. ... 4:44 presents a renewed Jay-Z.

As remarkably immediate as it is, though, 4:44 feels durable in a manner that few tweets do; it’s a collection of songs--sly but moving, both intricate and lucid--that we’ll be coming back to for years.

There are several JAY-Z albums that are superior in terms of musical creativity, but never has the man behind the Roc chain been more prolific in thought. It’s catharsis on steroids, walking the tightrope between FYI and TMI.

He surveys ideas on wealth and success with a confidence that makes even his most clumsy boasts about not going ham on the ’Gram seem sophisticated. Rap’s biggest winner coolly sustains his biggest losses.

4:44 is a breathtaking cycle about a man wrestling with his moral failings in real time, not always winning, trying to live his Mondays closer to what he preaches Sunday as he prepares for 50.

4:44 is just about the safest way Jay-Z could have re-asserted his dominance: smarter raps over soulful beats over a very concise runtime.

A mere 36 minutes in length, it’s an all-killer no-filler triumph.

While this project falls short of his more seminal offerings, 4:44 is among JAY-Z’s more meaningful bodies of work to date and showcases another dimension of the greatest rapper alive.

There's not a wasted moment on this rare Jay-Z album that's too taut and focused for crossover singles or distractions from its central thesis. He takes 4:44 seriously but doesn't forget to have fun along on the way.

While 4:44 may not be his greatest album, it is a much valued deviation from the norm, a surprising feat considering his kaleidoscopic catalog

4:44 nonetheless is an unglamorous set well suited for solitary and reflective late-night listening. There are no radio play bids. Jay-Z has been in this mode at various points, but never in such concentrated, enlightened form, whether the subject is his mistakes as a husband, the struggles of his long-closeted lesbian mother, the effects of enduring systemic racism, or the assertion of his supremacy.

His occasional lack of vocal grace is the reason why 4:44 is so mesmerizing.

He’s evolved from dazzling taunts to ruminations that are sometimes snappy and sometimes lumpy. When snappy, though, they’re exhilarating.

4:44 is a refreshing, full-circle moment for hip-hop lovers--and a true pleasure to hear.

A far more thoughtful album than the glossy and disconnected Magna Carta Holy Grail, it’s a 36-minute confessional that attempts to bring JAY-Z’s narrative full circle.

It is a short, sharp album, produced entirely by Kanye West’s former mentor No ID.

These heartfelt, confessional apologies are delivered via Jay’s most concise, straightforward album in years. 10 tracks and 36 minutes long, this is a filler-free return to form after 2013’s patchy and bloated ‘Magna Carta Holy Grail’.

Even if the Beyoncé-Jay Z marital saga falls short of being a feminist revelation, there are plenty of instances where Jay Z pushes mainstream hip-hop narratives forward: For instance, he sweetly celebrates his mother, an out lesbian, on “Smile.” And while other rappers boast about fast money, he discusses the importance of investing in order to create lasting wealth for generations to come.

Lyrically, Jay-Z still has his gift for wordplay and flow. For what he does not display in terms of technical emceeing ability on this album, he makes up for it by dropping clever gems filled with knowledge.

4:44 offers renewed hope for fans who, since Kingdom Come, have felt increasingly disenfranchised by Jay-Z’s loss of touch with his roots and apparent marginalisation of his rap career.

A few tracks stand apart: "Story Of OJ" and "Mercy Me" both impress for verve and venom if not his every chain of thought. Otherwise it's all so dry that after a couple of listens it feels more like spoken word. [Sep 2017, p.62]

It's 10 tracks are produced by veteran Chicagoan No ID, who provides a consistently soulful feel for the rapper's reflection on family, fatherhood and fidelity. [Sep 2017, p.110]

4:44 is intimate, refined and mature--fascinating partly despite its flaws and partly because of them.

What is on offer for the rap fans who simply don’t care about Jay-Z’s personal life? Truthfully, not much. It’s a likable headphone album for the backpack-rap crowd, deliberately avoiding the sort of club anthem that might spoil the vibe.