Jay-Z Albums, Ranked
We close out Jay-Z week by taking a closer look at his entire solo discography.
Earlier in Jay-Z Week at POW: A ranking of his 99 greatest songs and essays on Reasonable Doubt and The Blueprint.
13. Kingdom Come [2006]
In 2002, desperate to claw back some respectability after “Ether” and his own mother’s criticism of “Supa Ugly,” Jay tried to contrast himself with a morally dubious Nas by citing his donations to the victims of the Columbine school shooting and the September 11 attacks. It sounds, predictably, defensive. Four years later, after a boxer-brief retirement and stint as Def Jam’s president—and, crucially, Hurricane Katrina—he felt differently about philanthropy. “Sure, I ponied up a mil’, but I didn’t give my time/So in reality, I didn’t give a dime/Or a damn. I just put my monies in the hands/Of the same people that left my people stranded/Nothing but a bandit, left them folks abandoned.” There are bright spots on the front side of Kingdom Come: the reframing, on “Do U Wanna Ride,” of his fly talk as vicarious escape for incarcerated friends; Just Blaze flipping the other part of “Super Freak” on the title track; the entirety of “The Prelude.” But that missive on “Minority Report” aside, the second half of Kingdom Come is the worst stretch of Jay’s long career, an easy pick for the bottom of this list. Who knew that when he rapped, on The Black Album, about coming back “like Jordan, wearing the 4-5,” he meant it so literally. —PAUL THOMPSON
12. The Blueprint 3 [2009]
I like Blueprint 3 because Jay-Z clearly had no fucking idea what he was supposed to be doing. Last time he was out of moves, he “retired.” He expected a warm reception with his comeback, but Kingdom Come was a smug stinker that everyone hated. American Gangster was good but you can only make that once. Besides, Gucci Mane was the meta, and nobody was checking for his old, Jeezy-loving ass in Zone 6. Hov was in quite a pickle!
The result is an inconsistent mess. The foundation is tepid Graduation-era Kanye shit, bolstered by some entirely-too-clean Timbaland joints that were probably cut in the “Promiscuous Girl” era. After 15 years of being too cool to even write his rhymes down, BP3 finds Jay-Z legitimately flustered, bumbling around on “What We Talkin’ About,” shaking his fist at the kids on “D.O.A.,” unconvincingly proclaiming he is “Forever Young.” “Run This Town” might be the worst song Rihanna has ever participated in, only salvaged by Kanye’s shots at the humble Toyota RAV4.
And yet. The highs on BP3 are as good as anything post-millenial Jigga ever did. “On To The Next One” and “D.O.A.” are both kind of silly, but also find him effectively channeling his frustration over top tier production from Swizz and No I.D. respectively. “Empire State of Mind” is a victim of its own success, a generational anthem that both of your parents know. “So Ambitious” and “Real As It Gets” are fun. “Venus V. Mars” just should have come out five years earlier.
I think BP3 looks better in retrospect because it’s not Magna Carta Holy Grail. The worst thing you can do when you are losing your edge is pretend you still have it, and to then force it on every new Samsung customer. Instead, Hov throws a bunch of stuff at the wall and sees what sticks. Unsurprisingly, some of it does. Is it good? Sort of. Don’t like it? Buy his old albums. —ANDREW FRIEDMAN
11. Magna Carta… Holy Grail [2013]
About halfway through “Picasso Baby,” you can hear Jay-Z stop thinking nouveau riche and start thinking first-generational wealth. MCHG was an unwitting dichotomy from the moment it debuted, when Jay allotted a million free copies to anyone with a Samsung smartphone. Ostentatious flexes about the Louvre and Caesar unfold over some of the most understated production of Timbaland’s career: the hefty buzz of “FuckwithmeyouknowIgotit,” the stilted kick staircase on “Tom Ford.” Tracks that should soundtrack a winner’s parade—the star-saturated “BBC,” the Beyoncé duet and “our relationship is fine” screed “Part II”—are delivered on the defensive. It tracks that Jay, a rapper who emerged from hardscrabble Brooklyn upbringing hardened and gleaming like onyx, would chafe a little entering the Black billionaire class; it also tracks that his new allegiance to the haves alienated some fans who had grown fond of a certain level of scrap.
Still, within the echoey estate of MCHG lie some of Jay’s more interesting mid-career musings. “Jay Z Blue,” a conflicted ode to fatherhood, fears nature and nurture (“Apologies to Blue Ivy, my daughter/If it was up to me, you would be with me, sort of like daddy dearest”); “Heaven,” through a clever retrofitting of R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion,” takes the ethos of “Mo’ Money Mo’ Problems” to biblical proportions. If Jay really is a prophet walking among us, isn’t that just more pressure to watch his back? Underneath the glassy, expensive mastering, there’s some valuable reflection on a hinge point in Jay’s career that set the tone for the actual victory laps to come. —HATTIE LINDERT
10. 4:44 [2017]
I don’t understand people who scoff at the way Jay-Z’s politics play out in his writing. On 4:44, his belief in generational wealth is downright pathological. How is that not interesting? A child’s voice asking “Daddy, what’s a will?” A billionaire still kicking himself over missed real estate investments from 20 years ago. “What’s better than one billionaire?” treated as if it’s a rhetorical question only he can answer. You imagine that 4:44 is divided, in Jay’s mind, into two lines of thought: money and legacy on one hand, the infidelity addressed in its title track on the other. The reality is far more fascinating—the whole world an analyst’s couch, the promises to only confide in one’s wife and to set up trust funds both Hail Mary attempts to keep a family together. —PAUL THOMPSON
9. The Blueprint 2: The Gift & The Curse [2002]
Let me tell you something that’s all feeling, no data. When The Blueprint came out, I was basically only into West Coast production and rock music. If it didn’t sound like DJ Quik or Battlecat or Green Day or the Red Hot Chili Peppers, I wasn’t jacking it, son. So I missed how good Blueprint was. But my ex-wife, my baby mom, was the biggest Jay-Z fan in the world, and was always cutting off my vibes to play that. When the Blueprint 2 came out, I think that’s when Jay got a little more California and a little more Philly. When I heard “The Bounce,” I lost my mind.
It made me go back and listen to The Blueprint; by that time I was already battle rapping, and so I had a real respect for and understanding of how hard it was to make a song. The architecture of The Blueprint is incredible. It’s probably the most structurally sound rap album to exist, and I look at Jay as probably the most structurally sound popular rapper to exist, and I know I’m right about that because he’s still standing to this day. Blueprint 2 was getting into the more curvy, cursive version of Jay. The structural soundness of Blueprint—that’s the Humvee on spinners of rap albums—it gave him the freedom to really play. I’m a video game-ass, joking-ass motherfucker, and I love when rappers get to play.
As for “The Bounce”: That’s a b-boy song. It’s the jam song without being a pop song. A b-boy song is something you can put on where motherfuckers will break dance, motherfuckers will Harlem Shake, motherfuckers will Crip walk. They’ll do whatever their version of a boogie is in a circle. At that time, a dance song was usually something very corny, and very sex-driven. I feel like hip-hop, while there can be ass-shaking and whatnot, is b-boy shit: it’s a room rocking where gender becomes kind of neutral. Alright, but can you do these steps? Even the flow: Jay’s talking this shit. It reminds me of a lot of shit that was coming out of Philly—Peedi Crack, playful shit. Songs like that you can play forever. If you know how to Harlem Shake or Crip walk, you can put that shit on in Africa. You can put it on in Polynesia. If there’s a tribal dance that fits that BPM, it’ll bring it out. The room gon’ rock. It don’t really matter what he say, as long as he say it with some bass in his chest. —ALL CITY JIMMY
8. American Gangster [2007]
By 2007, Jay-Z had traded his name for new initials: “S.C., CEO.” In his final year as president of Def Jam, he assumed an imperial presence in America: interviews with Charlie Rose, write-ups in the Wall Street Journal, recognition by the United Nations.
“My man Jay-Z has been a wonderful partner to the UN, and a champion of those in need around the world,” said secretary-general Ban Ki Moon.
Maybe that explains American Gangster’s “concept,” the return to familiar territory, but from a distance; the need to see these songs through the eyes of his father, uncle, and Frank Lucas rather than his own. Ostensibly, American Gangster is a hustler’s story—you could even consider it a self-titled work—but by the time Jay got around to telling it, he’d already gone legit. Previously, he’d lived it to tell us the tale; instead, American Gangster occupies an uncanny valley, an excellent album that looks and feels like his work, but somehow lacks his signature.
While it’s thought of as, arguably, Jay’s best “post-retirement” LP, it’s more accurate to lump it together with the rest of his solo albums after and including The Blueprint—a lengthy period of hits followed by misses that, relative to his ‘90s run, saw him soften his rougher edges and trademark his delivery to become more business than man. The album was his tenth to debut at No. 1, tying him with Elvis Presley—another brand name, like Pepsi. —GUS TURNER
7. The Dynasty: Roc La Familia [2000]
On The Blueprint, Jay-Z walks into the canon alone. He creates beautiful, lonely, Freudian work. Heavy is the head that wears the Yankees hat, etc.
Now The Dynasty: Roc La Familia? The album right before it? The album that people forget was an official Jay-Z album because the singles and album tracks are so idiosyncratic? That’s the classic before the Classic.
On The Dynasty, Jay gets by with a little help from his friends. He’s got Pharrell on “I Just Wanna Love U (Give It 2 Me),” a midnight pool party with a Rick James inspired hook and load bearing catch phrases for elder Millennials. He’s got Scarface counseling a grieving parent on “This Can’t Be Life.” “1-900-Hustler” became one of the great groups tracks of the 2000s, Roc-A-Fella’s finest hour, song-as-montage, Beanie Sigel playing operator as Jigga and Freeway and Memphis Bleek school rookies over the phone and demand swift remuneration.
Beanie Sigel is the keystone to The Dynasty. Squint and it might look like his album. Presented to audiences as social evidence that Jay-Z was still outside, Beanie installs South Philly and its fearless, flinty soul at the core of the project. Sigel’s verses sound like the ones with mortal consequences.
Sigel’s gifts, and the best efforts of what would ultimately be a short-lived version of the label, gave Jay room on The Dynasty to play teacher, preacher, drinker, lover, rake, mourner, friend and confidant. For one last moment, Shawn Carter sounded happy to just be a man among men. —EVAN MCGARVEY
