Every day he's hustlin', but on his debut, Port of Miami, Rick Ross barely works up a sweat. Sometimes he rhymes slowly, sometimes he rhymes quickly, and sometimes he doesn't even rhyme. He likes to repeat phrases instead of thinking up new ones, and ends up doing a disservice to his fantastic Tupac-meets-teddy-bear growl. It's redundant to complain about lengthy commercial hip-hop albums (sixteen-plus tracks is the standard; get used to it) but Ross makes clear how little he has to say with a lyric like "Thinkin' 'bout Ran Rover/Damn that was fucked up/Found him in the trunk with another dude/Fucked up/The world fucked up/That's why I'm fucked up/Don't get fucked up/Fuck with me, you're fucked up." Producers such as Cool & Dre and Jazze Pha add melody and shine to standard, tinny Southern beats (which really have little to do with Miami). Ross clearly isn't trying to change the world he's just making "whore debit" and crack-cooking sound cheerier.
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