The 10 Best Rappers of the 2000s

From André 3000 to JAY-Z, these are the rappers who reigned from 2000 to 2009.

jay z anthony barboza
Getty

Image via Getty/Anthony Barboza

jay z anthony barboza

This feature was originally published on August 26, 2013.

When you think about it, the 2000s were like the worst decade ever. It kicked off with the fiasco that was the 2000 presidential election, then we got 9/11, and then the war in Iraq. By the time Katrina hit, five years in, we pretty much just threw up our hands and said, "Fuck it, this sucks. Let's all start making remember-the-'90s lists to put up on our Tumblrs." And then, for good measure, the cruel decade closed with the entire global economy crashing. Because why should any of us deserve to be happy?

But when it came to hip-hop, things were a little less bleak. Hear the haters tell it, and the rappers of the 2000s didn't compare to the rappers of the '80s and '90s. But that's unfair. Every decade has its ebbs and flows. In every decade, artists rise to the occasion to put on for their culture. In this regard, the 2000s were no different.

However, different things did happen in the 2000s. With the rise of the mixtape scene, artists produced previously unheard-of amounts of music. Meanwhile, older rappers proved that it was possible to have a career in hip-hop that lasted more than five years. In fact, that this would become the norm. Perhaps most significantly, hip-hop saw its powerbase shift, with Southern rappers becoming the dominant voice of the genre while the West Coast failed to produce many new stars (Peace to the Game, though) and New York became less and less relevant.

All this stuff, of course, is better understood in hindsight. It's always hard to see the current forest for the trees. So a few years removed, we take a look back at the decade that was (from 2000 to 2009) and name The 10 Best Rappers of the 2000s.

[Ed. note—Honorable mentions to: Game, Ludacris, Nelly, Ja Rule, and Common who all had their moments along the way but didn't make the cut. Better luck next decade!]

10. André 3000

andre 3000 chris polk

Albums Released Between 2000-2009: N/A

Classic Mixtape: N/A

Group Albums: OutKast's Stankonia (2000), Speakerboxx/The Love Below (2003), Idlewild (2006)

Biggest Billboard Hits Between 2000-2009: "Ms. Jackson," "Hey Ya," "The Whole World" "So Fresh, So Clean," "Roses"

I know what you're thinking. You're looking at those N/As up there, and then at the title on the group album's list, and you're saying to yourself (or, I dunno, out loud? at your computer screen?), "Wait a minute. How can a guy who really only put out ONE proper rap album in the 2000s be one of the 10 best rappers of the decade?"

Well, allow me to explain. (Or try to, at least. You may still disagree when I am done. I invite you to throw a rotten tomato at your computer screen if that's the case.) It's about the guest verses.

After OutKast's impeccable run of albums in the '90s—SouthernplayalisticcadillacmusiK, ATLiens, and Aquemeni—Andre Benjamin had reached the very height of his craft. Expanding the breadth of rap-lyric subject matter with stunning, beautiful words about alienation, sadness, race, class, confounding expectations, untraditional masculinity, love, remorse and regret, he was rhyming as well as anyone had ever rhymed. On a par with the Rakims, the G Raps, the Biggies.

But, being from the South (Atlanta, GA to be exact) he had reached this point quietly. Because rap's slow-to-turn appreciation apparatus was still having trouble accepting that the "country bumpkins" outside of NYC could produce artistic geniuses like the city slickers from the Mecca. It wasn't until Eminem mentioned him in a breath with Jay Z, 2Pac, Biggie the best-rapper list he rapped on "'Till I Collapse" that people really started appreciating Andre the way we should all have been all along.


 

Andre was apparently done being a part of a rap duo called OutKast, at least for the time being, every now and then, he'd get the itch to get on the mic. He'd lay some lines over a beat we'd been hearing on the radio. Luckily for us, luckily for the art of rap, when he did this, he'd leave that mic half-melted, half-splinted, with its wires spilling out of its guts.


 

And that was in 2002, after Stankonia had continued OutKast's unbelievable streak of albums, after Andre had continued to stretch the politically nuanced, observationally acute, emotionally expressive boundaries of rap with material like "B.O.B." and "Spaghetti Junction" and "Ms. Jackson"—who else could encapsulate such a perfect little nugget of wisdom about how life changes, how marriages end, than, "You can plan a pretty picnic/But you can't predict the weather?"       

And that came after Andre had retired from rap. You could hear it coming at the end of Stankonia—a string of songs that got very weird, very experimental, and atmospheric. And Andre was singing more than rapping. Apparently, he had gotten bored. It was as if he felt like he'd rapped everything he had to rap, and that his exquisite gift for rhyme just wasn't turning him on any more. So in 2003, when OutKast reached their pinnacle of popularity with Speakerboxxx/The Love Below, they did so with two separate albums packaged as one: Big Boi's rap album, and one of full of Andre's soul-funk crooning.

The Love Below is lots of fun. "Hey Ya" is one of boom-you-know-that's-a-classic-the-first-time-you hear it pop songs. And the jazz, Prince-y experimentalism was proof that Andre had more kinds of genius in him than we'd ever know. But man, did it hurt. We rap fans missed the Andre we'd come to love, the rapper Andre. So this is where the story gets interesting. Because while Andre was apparently done being a part of a rap duo called OutKast, at least for the time being, every now and then, he'd get the itch to get on the mic. He'd lay some lines over a beat we'd been hearing on the radio. Luckily for us, luckily for the art of rap, when he did this, he'd leave that mic half-melted, half-splinted, with its wires spilling out of its guts. His best stuff started in 2005, with a guest verse on Atlantan DJ Unk's one-hit wonder "Walk It Out" that scolded rap youngins' for following trends in slang talk ("Walk it out like an usher/If you say 'real talk'/I probably won't trust ya...") and fashion choices ("You're new to this part of town/Your white T, well to me, look like a nightgown...") That's about as good as rapping gets. And it didn't let up. Like he said at the end of his rhyme, "Not saying I'm the best/But til they find something better/I am here, no fear, write me a letter...." An ensuing run of guest verses—on Rich Boy's "Throw Some Ds," UGK's "International Players Anthem (I Choose You)," Devin the Dude's "What a Job"—is among the great runs in rap history. During it, Andre snatched Busta's crown as rap's greatest scene stealer of all time. More than that, he took rhyming to a different place, a more literary place, I would say, in some ways, than it'd ever been before. Read this. It's the opening part of his verse on the remix to Lloyd's butter-soft 2007 R&B hit "You." It tells a story of meeting cute" in vivid rap detail and gorgeous stream-of-consciousness.


I said, "What time do you get off?"

She said, "When you get me off."

I kinda laughed but it turned into a cough

'Cause I swallowed down the wrong pipe

Whatever that means

You know old people say it so it sounds right

So I'm standing there embarrassed

If we were both in paris

I woulda grabbed her by the waist and kissed her

but we in middle of Whole Foods...

That's about as good as any type of writing gets. Powerful, economical, original, evidence of a brain that works a little differently than other brains—as all brains work a little differently than all other brains. But the trick is in the telling, the showing, the ability to express the little unique thoughts we all have all through every day. The too-often ignored minutiae that makes life so varied and colored and tragic and glorious. It's rare that someone is able to put that stuff on page. Nevermind making it rhyme and fall into a rhythm and sound as smooth and exhilarating, as inspiring, really, as Andre makes it sound.

He's as good as there's ever been. Even in small doses. That just makes us notice it more. —Dave Bry 

9. Nas

nas getty shareif ziyadat

Albums Released Between 2000-2009: Stillmatic (2001), Lost Tapes (2002), God's Son (2002), Street's Disciple (2004), Hip Hop Is Dead (2006), Untitled (2008)

Classic Mixtape: N/A

Group Albums: N/A

Biggest Billboard Hits Between 2000-2009: "I Can," "Hip Hop is Dead," "Made You Look," "One Mic"

Picture this. You're the most anticipated new artist in hip-hop. You drop a flawless first album with production by some of the greatest sonic architects in NYC's hip-hop hall of fame. You're a high-school dropout being hailed as a genius. But before you can bask in your glory the whole rap landscape shifts. No more sneaking an uzi on the island in your army jacket lining—suddenly everybody's on the road to riches and diamond rings.

So you regroup with a get-money manager and a pair of producers who've mastered the art of building hit tracks. You mess around and drop a chart-topping sophomore album. Yet even as you start to stack paper most of your friends from around the way are still packing heat and slinging stones. Meanwhile your goodfellas are lobbing subliminals, measuring the duration of your reign at the top of the rap game, and judging it to be short, like leprechauns. (Leprechauns!)

From those to whom much is given, much more is expected. Such was the dilemma faced by Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones. Beset by his own brilliance, the bard of Queensbridge wasted no time trying to improve upon his miraculous debut, Illmatic—often hailed as the greatest rap album ever made. After the success of his smash sophomore album, It Was Written, Nas's catalog was plagued by inconsistency. Despite moments of brilliance, The Firm, I Am…, and Nastradamus were hit-and-miss affairs. Blame it on rampant bootlegging or lack of focus, but the bottom line was that one of hip-hop's most eloquent artists was adrift. The video for "Hate Me Now," his last great single of the 1990s, showed Nas being crucified, an eloquent image that spoke to the young MC’s world view. But the next chapter of the Nas legend would contain some major plot twists.


 

By the dawn of this millennium, hating on Nas had become a rite of passage in certain circles of the hip-hop intelligentsia. According to conventional wisdom, he had squandered his gifts, dumbing down his lyrics to chase the paper that was raining down on a street culture that had morphed into an entertainment industry.


 

By the dawn of this millennium, hating on Nas had become a rite of passage in certain circles of the hip-hop intelligentsia. According to conventional wisdom, he had squandered his gifts, dumbing down his lyrics to chase the paper that was raining down on a street culture that had morphed into an entertainment industry. Nas became exhibit A for posturing purists. All this finger-wagging left him in an unfamiliar place: low expectations. The effect was liberating.

He opened the decade by returning to the source of his strength, the Queensborough projects where it all began. Best remembered for the hit single "Oochie Wally" featuring the Bravehearts, the album also boasted "Da Bridge 2001," a QB posse cut including Marley Marl, MC Shan, Capone, Mobb Deep, Nature, Cormega, Tragedy Khadafi, and Millennium Thug. Nas’s song-closing verse provoked "This music mogul rollin with a hundred soldiers," setting the stage for hip-hop’s next epic conflict: his battle with Jay Z.

On 2001’s "Takeover," JAY-Z went in on Nas (and to a lesser extent, Prodigy), naming names and airing out a long-simmering rivalry. Nas responded with "Ether," a song that returned him to the mystical “ghetto monk” mode that so captivated listeners from the outset. Loyal fans may disagree over who won the battle, but there is no question that Nas’s 2001 album Stillmatic marked a return to top form. Aside from "Ether," a song Nas no longer performs, the album contained the hit single "One Mic," which saw chart success without compromise. The lyrics were "pure, like a cup of virgin blood." Although he would later reconcile with his nemesis, eventually signing with Def Jam while Jay was president of the label, the conflict served reinvigorated Nas’s competitive spirit.

Four months after releasing Stillmatic, Nas watched his mother lost her battle with cancer. The pain from the loss fueled his next album, God’s Son—his best work of the decade, one of the best albums of his career. Producer Salaam Remi made bangers like "Get Down" and "Made U Look," the hardest record to date. "You’re a slave to a page in my rhyme book," he declared over a knifed-up version of the "Apache" breakbeat, supremely confident in his powers. Another Remi joint from the album, the Beethoven-sampling, children's-chorus-employing "I Can," went on to become the biggest hit of Nas’s career.

Moving from strength to strength, he followed up with The Lost Tapes, a collection of unreleased gems that got lost along the way. The richness of songs like "Doo Rags," "Poppa Was a Playa," and "Fetus" offered a revisionist version of Nas’s artistic development. His output over the rest of the decade included the double album Street’s Disciple, which, sure, could have benefited from a tougher edit. Still, "Thief’s Theme" and "Bridging the Gap" featuring Nas’s father, jazz hornsman Olu Dara, stand strong among the MC’s best work.


 

22 years after his debut on Main Source's "Live at the Barbeque," Nas remains one of the most compelling and divisive artists in hip-hop. His career can be read as a parable of hip-hop's greatest possibilities as well as its liabilities.


 

In 2005, Nas collaborated with Damian Marley on "Road to Zion," a single from Jr. Gong’s smash album Welcome to Jamrock. Their creative chemistry would bubble up again in 2010 on the collaborative album Distant Relatives, setting the stage for Nas’ next don’t-call-it-a-comeback moment, the triumphant album Life Is Good.

The much-derided concept albums Hip Hop Is Dead, which was nominated for a Grammy, and Untitled, which Nas planned to title Nigger until Def Jam balked at the last minute, were defiant creative gestures that, once again, suffered from inconsistency despite moments of brilliance. "People afraid of criticism," he raps on on the latter's former title track "N.I.G.G.E.R (Slave and the Master)." "But I always put myself in a sacrificial position..." Who else but Nas would pose such provocative questions so fearlessly? "They say we N-I-double-G-E-R/Much more/But still we choose to ignore the obvious/We are the slave and the master." The image speaks to the apparent contradiction between the artist's inner "Esco" and the gravitas of "Nastradamus."

22 years after his debut on Main Source's "Live at the Barbeque," Nas remains one of the most compelling and divisive artists in hip-hop. His career can be read as a parable of hip-hop's greatest possibilities as well as its liabilities. Love him or hate him, you cannot ignore Nasty Nas. He remains incomparable, irrefutable, and indispensable. —Rob Kenner

8. Young Jeezy

young jeezy Ilya S Savenok

Albums Released Between 2000-2009: Let's Get It: Thug Motivation 101 (2005), The Inspiration (2006), The Recession (2008)

Classic Mixtape: Trap or Die (2005)

Group Albums: U.S.D.A's Cold Summer (2007)

Biggest Billboard Hits Between 2000-2009: "Soul Survivor f/ Akon," "Put On f/ Kanye West," "I Luv It," "Go Getta' f/ R. Kelly, "And Then What" f/ Mannie Fresh

Young Jeezy was never considered one of hip-hop's more lyrical rappers. He was an artist who found his strength in epic, powerful, all-encompassing energy, a raw charisma that seethed through brittle, synth-made trap-house beats, powered by the frequency-filling grit of his own voice. That grizzled vocal style, projected to the foreground with a sustained exuberance, seemed like something he was almost unconscious of. He rode a wave of BMF cash and undeniable antihero magnetism to a dominant position in hip-hop, ignoring traditional rules and marking the moment when Atlanta's street rap scene re-emerged as a universe unto itself, but on a larger stage than ever before.

The ruling subject matter and focus was the streets, cocaine distribution, specifically. And like Dr. Dre and Snoop a decade earlier, his purpose was simple. He wasn't interested in complexity, intricacy, or nuance. His purpose was regime change, a grass-roots-up coup de etat, and that meant finding the shortest possible path possible between himself and the greater rap populace. This was the sound that could crown a new king. Unlike Dre, though, he stuck with an underground, street-ready pop-chart-unfriendly sonic blueprint. Shrill, pointillist production (courtesy, primarily, of Shawty Redd) was brought to the surface for outsiders for the first time, shifting Lil Jon's mainstream-friendly production style into a confrontational, metallic timbre, reducing the crunk club sound to shards of desiccated abrasion.


 

Once, someone perfectly articulated to this writer the difference between Jeezy and Rick Ross by saying that Jeezy made them want to earn money, while Rick Ross encouraged them to spend it. Where Ross saw the fruits of his labor, Jeezy's focus was on the coke itself, looming throughout his lyrics like snowcapped mountains, epitomizing the single-minded, totalitarian focus of his vision.


 

And at the top of this bubbling populist energy was a new regal persona who stripped gangster rap to certain core, essential elements: the underlying pathos for started-from-the-bottom success stories, the invulnerable hood superhero persona, the hustler's ethos and its rewards. Jeezy's unrelenting focus was the hustle. "Motivation," he called his music. Eschewing the title of "rapper" for "trapper," he created "whistle-while-you-work" anthems for drug-dealers.

But he wasn't a blue collar pusher. He carried the regal poise of the man at the top of the pyramid. His was the soundtrack, after all, to the Big Meech era. Once, someone perfectly articulated to this writer the difference between Jeezy and Rick Ross by saying that Jeezy made them want to earn money, while Rick Ross encouraged them to spend it. Where Ross saw the fruits of his labor, Jeezy's focus was on the coke itself, looming throughout his lyrics like snowcapped mountains, epitomizing the single-minded, totalitarian focus of his vision.

Jeezy's art was that of empowering energies, mantra-like lyrics, and images that evoked an all-conquering largesse. Floors covered in roaches transformed to marble when he turned the lights off and then on. Uniforms were introduced; you couldn't walk a mile in his Air Forces (which everyone wore) and his simple mean-mugging snowman t-shirts flooded schools and hoods and suburbs alike. Remorse, anguish, guilt, any kind of empathy with the victims of his world are absent, because it would undercut the psychological gamesmanship.

Young Jeezy might not make this list, though, if it weren't for his third album, 2008's The Recession, which proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that the rapper was more than just the sound he came in the door with. A refined elaboration of his debut, his third offering had an even more unified vision, and began to home in on exactly what made him one of hip-hop's foremost craftsmen. While some of the rawness of his debut was sanded down, the unforgiving purposefulness and urgency of his debut remained in place, and the shock-of-the-new brought by his earliest work (seminal mixtapes like Trap or Die) had been replaced by greater consistency and tighter focus. The sound of hip-hop continued to evolve, and other artists, like T.I., had brought a flawed, multi-dimensional human element to Jeezy's inspirational purity. But from "Lose My Mind" to his recent "R.I.P.," Jeezy has proven that his vocals still project an aesthetic that transcends era or nuance. —David Drake

7. Cam'ron

camron kmazur getty

Albums Released Between 2000-2009: S.D.E. (2000), Come Home with Me (2002), Purple Haze (2004), Killa Season (2006), Crime Pays (2009)

Classic Mixtape: The Diplomats, Vol. 1 (2002)

Group Albums: Diplomatic Immunity (2003), Diplomatic Immunity 2 (2004)

Biggest Billboard Hits Between 2000-2009: "Hey Ma," "Oh Boy," "Down and Out"

If this list was based on three-year stretches, you could make a strong case that Cam'ron belongs at the very top.

Some background: After dropping the under-promoted S.D.E. in September 2000, Cam "ran in the Sony building" and "smacked grown folks around like they were only children" to force a move to Roc-A-Fella Records in 2001.

What followed was an incredible run of albums: In May of 2002, Cam dropped his Roc-A-Fella debut, Come Home with Me, which, on the strength of monster singles "Oh Boy" and "Hey Ma," hit No. 1 on the Billboard pop chart and effectively launched the solo careers of his cohorts Juelz Santana and Jim Jones. That million-selling effort was followed by the crew album, Diplomatic Immunity, another smash hit that solidified Dipset as hip-hop's preeminent "movement." (A powerful word that quickly became ubiquitous, and soon after, meaningless.) At the end of 2004, Cam's critically acclaimed solo follow-up, Purple Haze, got "computers 'putin'" and became one of the decade's most quotable albums. Three years, three certified classics.


 

Like all competitors, rappers are at their best when they're at their most confident. Emboldened by his affiliation with rap's hottest label, Cam was unf**kwittable during his Roc years. While his penchant for drama kept rap blogs buzzing, it was his intricate rhyme schemes that made The New York Times and Pitchfork take notice.


 

But you can't gauge Cam's career by albums alone—it'd be like judging one of his songs by just the hook. Consider what else happened between 2002 and 2004: Cam'ron introduced the Diplomats on a series of legendary mixtapes; put Harlem back on the hip-hop map; took some not-so-subliminal shots at labelmate Jay Z, instigating the rift that would eventually break up Roc-A-Fella Records; dissed Nas in the most flagrant way possible; coined the phrase "U Mad?" on, of all places, The O'Reilly Factor; murdered freestyles on the reg; and single-handedly made the color pink and Grandma-style earrings de riguer for male rap stars.

Like all competitors, rappers are at their best when they're at their most confident. Emboldened by his affiliation with rap's hottest label, Cam was unfuckwittable during his Roc years. While his penchant for drama kept rap blogs buzzing, it was his intricate rhyme schemes that made The New York Times and Pitchfork take notice. From 2004's "Down and Out," for example: "Street mergers I legislated/The nerve, I never hated/On murders, premeditated/Absurd, I hesitated/Observe, cock and spray/Hit you from a block away/Drinking sake on a Suzuki, we in Osaka Bay." This was gangsta rap from a different planet.

A decade, of course, lasts longer than three years. Post 2004, as 50 Cent and Jay Z graduated into moguldom, Cam'ron was like the kid who just can't get out of high school. In the span of a few years, he left Roc-A-Fella, got shot at in D.C., beefed unnecessarily with 50, appeared on 60 Minutes to muse on snitching, and then promptly disappeared for a long hiatus. By 2009, the Diplomats were a memory and "Where's Cam'ron?" was a popular meme.

Still, even in his leaner years, Cam always had joints. "Wet Wipes" and "Touch It or Not," off of 2006's Killa Season, are two of his best songs, as is "Get It in Ohio," from his underrated comeback album, 2009's Crime Pays. Though his popularity peaked in the first half of the decade, his skills—and his smug confidence in them—never waned. Cam'ron may have disappeared, but he never fell off. —Donnie Kwak

6. T.I.

ti filmmagic

Albums Released Between 2000-2009: I'm Serious (2001), Trap Muzik (2003), Urban Legend (2004), King (2006), T.I. vs T.I.P. (2007), Paper Trail (2008)

Classic Mixtape: In Da Streets Pt. 1 (2002), Down With The King (2004)

Group Albums: Grand Hustle Presents: In Da Streetz Volume 4 (2006)

Biggest Billboard Hits Between 2000-2009: "Whatever You Like," "Live Your Life f/ Rihanna," "Dead and Gone f/ Justin Timberlake," "What You Know," "Bring 'Em Out"

On March 28, 2006, T.I.'s fourth album, King, debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard album charts. It was a rare moment when self-aggrandizing hip-hop hyperbole met unassailable fact: Tip crowned himself ruler, and by measures both objective (sales) and subjective ("relevance," critical acclaim), he was right. In the pre-leak era of album releases, T.I. reached for the throne with gusto, employing New York's producer of the moment (Just Blaze, on "King Back"), nodding to his Southern forebears (UGK on "Front Back"), and re-affirming his already classic single ("What You Know")—just in the album's first three tracks.


 

King was the culmination of a long-building moment: when the capital of hip-hop in the South became the capital of hip-hop period and the King of the South became simply the King.


 

King was the culmination of a long-building moment: when the capital of hip-hop in the South became the capital of hip-hop period and the King of the South became simply the King. It had been in the works for a Hotlanta minute. The A had been outshining New York for years, and T.I. had been gunning for the crown since his sophomore album Trap Muzik made a surprise debut at No. 4 on the Billboard charts in the summer of 2003. Still, it was a clear demarcation point: an MC who was both undeniably lyrical and undeniably Southern was the undeniable king of rap.

At his rappingest best, as on his seminal Lil Flip-ethering mixtape Down With the King, T.I. worked with a barely controlled sneer. The ferocity of his delivery threatened to derail his flow at any moment, only to be brought back from the precipice of battle rap chaos by his craftsmanship. Tip's ability to ride beats until the wheels fell off (and then charge on for another couple blocks with the axles kicking up sparks off the pavement) coupled with his distinctive Southern twang often overshadowed his studied approach to rhyming. Internal rhymes, syllabic dexterity, the wittiest wordplay—T.I. possessed every tool in the MCing 101 handbook. He also possessed (in spades) the one element essential for the greats, the one that you can't teach or study: pure, natural, imperial swagger. —Jack Erwin

5. Kanye West

kanye west getty kevin winter

Albums Released Between 2000-2009: The College Dropout (2004), Late Registration (2005), Graduation (2007), 808s and Heartbreak (2008)

Classic Mixtape: Get Well Soon... (2003)

Group Albums: N/A

Biggest Billboard Hits Between 2000-2009: "Gold Digger f/ Jamie Foxx," "Stronger," "Heartless," "Love Lockdown," "Good Life"

More than a decade ago, Kanye West was the underdog.

Check out how he used to talk:

"My beats was wack at one point. I wasn't always having hot beats, I learned how to make hot beats. I'm focusing on rhyming now and I'm going to be the fucking best, and I'm gonna be charting with these niggas. I'm gonna come out No. 1, hopefully. If it's not the first album, it'll be the second album, if it's not the second album, it'll be the third album. I'm not just trying to say I'm gonna come out and sell 10 million but I'm gonna do everything I got in my power and I got a one up because I just hear my beats first."

Watch this clip of a young Kanye West. It will refresh your memory that at one point in time, he wasn't on top. People weren't lining up to hear his music. Yet this year, in the run-up to Yeezus, the world stopped for any snippet of a new material from the now 36-year-old rapper. But it was 13 years ago that Ye got his big break, where he went from producing for local Chicago artists to working with the big leagues at Roc-A-Fella Records—Freeway, Cam'ron, and of course, Jay Z.


 

It wasn't until his third try, Graduation that West found himself in the running to be one of the most influential artists—if not the most influential-of his generation—and popping up in discussions about the genre's finest lyricists.


 

It wasn't until Jay's The Blueprint, in 2001, that Kanye showcased his soul-based sampling on tracks like "Izzo" and "Heart of the City (Ain't No Love)." And we got to watch the effect that that had on 'Ye in his "Through The Wire" video—which included footage of his Roc-A-Fella Records "chaining day" in August 2002. But it wasn't all easy. Kanye initially struggled to find his place as a rapper among popular artists out at that time. Even Talib Kweli went on record earlier this year to talk about the awkwardness, back then, of wanting Kanye's beats but not his raps.

It was his beats that got him in the door at the Roc. And while his first solo album, The College Dropout, released in February 2004, would go on sell three million copies and win a Grammy award for Best Rap Album, it relied heavily on those masterful soul-samples. Not many people talked about Kanye as being of a great rapper. His following album, Late Registration, was a huge success, too, incorporating live instrumentation with the help of Jon Brion. But it wasn't until his third try, Graduation, that West found himself in the running to be one of the most influential artists—if not the most influential-of his generation—and popping up in discussions about the genre's finest lyricists.

It was early September, 2007. And the "Clash of the Titans"—the much-hyped first-week sales showdown between Kanye and 50 Cent was about to show everyone that there had been a sea-change in the game. Gangsta rap was losing its grip of the audience's throat. Graduation came in at just under a million (957,000 units sold). 50's Curtis, 691,000. But it wasn't just a stylistic, aesthetic victory—Kanye's future-soul experimentalism over 50's pop-friendly gangsta sonics. Kanye's lyrics had improved immensely. From "Can't Tell Me Nothin'":

"Treasure, what's your pleasure?

Life is a, ughh, depending how you dress her

So if the devil wear Prada Adam-n-Eve wear nada

I'm in between but way more fresher..."

Introspection, braggadocio, wordplay, matched now to better pacing, and slower, more confident delivery, the lyrics on Graduation proved to be a watershed moment for Kanye. The moment people finally, once-and-for-all, stopped doubting him as a serious, full-fledged, top-flight MC.

All that hard work, it pays off. —Lauren Nostro

4. 50 Cent

50 cent getty theo wargo

Albums Released Between 2000-2009: Get Rich or Die Tryin' (2003), The Massacre (2005), Curtis (2007), Before I Self Destruct (2009)

Classic Mixtape: 50 Cent is the Future (2002), No Mercy, No Fear (2002), God's Plan (2002)

Group Albums: G-Unit's Beg for Mercy (2003), T.O.S (Terminate on Sight) (2008)

Biggest Billboard Hits Between 2000-2009: "In Da Club," "21 Questions f/ Nate Dogg," "Candy Shop f/ Olivia," "P.I.M.P f/ Snoop Dogg, Lloyd Banks & Young Buck," "Disco Inferno"

In 2013, when most rap consumers look at 50 Cent, they see a guy with a bunch of businesses who was once a famed rapper, since gone cold. That's the most simple version of the story. The truth is that 50 hit the new millennium with the power of a nuclear bomb and redefined what it meant to be a superstar rapper forever.

Ever resourceful, a strategic genius from the start, 50 first won attention by gleefully taking shots at every breathing rapper who mattered. 1999's "How To Rob" served as the perfect launchpad for 50 Cent to take off into the stratosphere. Catchy and controversial, it taunted rappers far more famous than he was, calling for a response that would raise his profile. "I'm about a dollar," Jay Z would go on to say, "What the fuck is 50 Cent?" He was on his way. 

That was before he got shot. Nine times. Including a slug in the face. This too, he somehow used to his advantage. Bullet shrapnel in his tongue? No biggie. He perfected a slow, lisp-filled flow with a distinct southern accent that made him stand out from the rap pack.

Everything about 50 was different. The Look: A heavily tatted, chiseled thug with a smirk who looks like he could serve as easily at Rikers Island as he could in The Avengers. The Talk: A smirking, no-fucks-given attitude with a bloodlust for conflict. And what distinguished him most? What set 50 apart in a way that image and style can't compensate for, no matter how great? The Music. 50 backed everything up. He was the first rapper in too long that the radio and the streets truly believed. Ask anyone how they felt from the summer of 2002 to 2003, and they might tell you it was one of the most refreshing, fun, crucial moments in rap. Legit checks for 50 Cent? No such thing. Those two quarters dropped and it was a wrap for anyone who stood in the way of the former gold-glove boxer from Southside Jamaica, Queens. A megastar had arrived, the hype was crazy and the music that was being put out was something special.


 

Every rap fan was trying to claim that they were the ones who put you up on 50 Cent, but the real truth is that he did it himself. After going on a mixtape run (50 Cent is the Future; No Mercy, No Fear; God's Plan) that may never be topped, 50 delivered a classic in Get Rich or Die Tryin'. From gritty anthems to diss tracks to club bangers to even, yes, the occasional singsongy pop monster, 50 was rap's renaissance man, one studio record out.


 

Everywhere you went, on every corner in the New York City you'd hear 50 spitting over popular beats like Mobb Deep's "Bump Dat," and Wu-Tang Clan's, "Y'all Been Warned." He was not just co-opting other rappers' records, but reconfiguring their ownership. He'd take a beat and do with it as he pleased—it's his now. In fact, if you were among the unluckiest, he would take your whole career and do with it as he pleased—you're a stepping stone now. Sorry he's not sorry.

Every rap fan was trying to claim that they were the ones who put you up on 50 Cent, but the real truth is that he did it himself. After going on a mixtape run (50 Cent is the Future; No Mercy, No FearGod's Plan) that may never be topped, 50 delivered a classic in Get Rich or Die Tryin'. From gritty anthems to diss tracks to club bangers to even, yes, the occasional singsongy pop monster, 50 was rap's renaissance man, one studio record out. And it wasn't just the streets of New York. Or L.A. It was Tokyo. Paris. London. The suburbs. The college campuses. And everywhere in between. Never has a rapper in the contemporary era felt so ubiquitous.

Think about the catalogue: "In Da Club," "21 Questions," "Candy Shop," "Disco Inferno," "I Get Money," "Ayo Technology," one after the other, after the other. Oh, and that first G-Unit album, Beg for Mercy? Fire. When was the last time a crew record from a major rapper actually delivered? In 2004, 50 would go on to executive produce Lloyd Banks' Hunger For More, which ended up selling more than a million copies. Not only was 50 a ruthlessly efficient machine unto himself, he gave away hits ("Hate it or Love It", "How We Do,") to put then G-Unit affiliate The Game on the map. It's this songwriting prowess is what should define him, and go a long way towards defining the decade itself. He masterfully fluctuated from hardcore gangsta rap to radio fare your mom and sister would two-step to, singing along with every word.

Sure fans and critics of rap have a very what-have-you-done-for-me-lately attitude when it comes to 50. But men lie, women lie, numbers don't: 30. Million. Sold. If you've followed 50's career, you know dude is always one smash hit away from owning the clubs, again. On May 24, 2000 he cheated death. Thirteen years later, 50's resume does more than just hold up, it's immortal.

Yes, sure, 50 went cold. He's not the unstoppable  force he once was. But it's hard to hold going cold against an artist who was once as hot as he was. When you can't get any hotter without turning to vapor, you're bound to to cool off. —Joe La Puma

3. Lil Wayne

lil wayne getty ray tamarra

Albums Released Between 2000-2009: Lights Out (2000), 500 Degreez (2002), Tha Carter (2004), Tha Carter II (2005), Tha Carter III (2008)

Classic Mixtape: Dedication 2 (2006), Da Drought 3 (2007), No Ceilings (2009)

Group Albums: We Are Young Money (2003)

Biggest Billboard Hits Between 2000-2009: "Lollipop f/ Static Major," "A Milli," "Got Money f/ T-Pain," "Prom Queen," "Mrs. Officer f/ Bobby Valentino & Kidd Kidd"

Lil Wayne might be the ultimate example that the 10,000 hour rule is real. The majority of great rappers come out the gate and drop classic albums on their first or second try. Wayne, however, debuted in the late '90s running with Cash Money as a member of the Hot Boyz. Despite the fact that he had hits, platinum plaques, and spewed immortal hip-hop phrases like "bling bling" and "drop it like it's hot" on wax before being old enough to drink, in the early 2000s, hardly anyone expected him to surpass his previous achievements. Along with all the Cash Money crew, with the exception, in some cases, of Juvenile, Wayne was not known as lyricist. More of a game-spitter, probably, as his boss and benefactor Baby always liked to put. (In retrospect, Wayne may have been a bit underrated in this regard.)

Somewhere along the way in the 2000s, though, he became one of the most improved rappers the form has ever known—a legitimate holder of the title of the Best Rapper Alive. Wayne's unique trajectory resulted in a run unlike anything rap has ever seen.

Tha Carter and Dedication showcased the new and improved Wayne, but their respective sequels, 2005's Tha Carter II and 2006's Dedication 2, showcased Wayne maximizing his potential. Suddenly his words were perfectly enunciated, his flows had pinpoint precision ("Got that key for the leaf, that feast the beef/No need to speak, let it be, what it be.") His punchlines were funny, gangster, and totally random (sometimes all at once). As his bars improved, so did his concepts. Look at the way he strings together his hometown pride on the second verse of "Best Rapper Alive." He doesn't just call himself "the Heart of New Orleans," but works references to Zulu ball, Essence Fest, Jazz Fest, Mardi Gras as well as the The Showboy's "Triggaman"—the musical basis for the city's glorious rap history.

But heres the thing about Wayne: He didn't just maximize his potential, he made the most of his moment. When you add up the albums, the mixtapes, the singles, the guest spots, and even the leaks—shoutout to the Empire for The Drought Is Over 2 (The Carter 3 Sessions)—no rapper in history has had such a productive prime. Wayne's catalog is a total mess: There really isn't an essential album that could capture him in all his glory. Songs like "I Feel Like Dying" or "Duffle Bag Boy" are essential Wayne cuts, but neither ever appeared on one of his albums. 


 

He didn't just maximize his potential, he made the most of his moment. When you add up the albums, the mixtapes, the singles, the guest spots, and even the leaks—shoutout to the Empire for The Drought Is Over 2 (The Carter 3 Sessions)—no rapper in history has had such a productive prime.


 

In his prime, Wayne was the hip-hop Tasmanian Devil: He was the beast that ate through any and all instrumentals by just whipping himself into a frenzy. Wayne made more songs in 2006 and 2007 than someone like Rakim has made in his entire career. And it's not just that he released a 100 songs in a year, it's that he released 100 dope songs in a year.

Its hard to pinpoint the exact moment Wayne figured it all out. But his 10,000th hour might have been in 2007 when he spit the verse of the year on "We Takin' Over." It was way more than just a great 16 (he's produced countless great-16s), it was his ability to sense opportunity—this was his time—and seize it. That verse was analogous to Wayne's career after he flirted with leaving Cash Money before re-joining the roster and becoming president: Baby threw up the lob and Wayne rose to the occasion to slam it home. By then it was too late: Weezy had unleashed the beast from within and there was nothing to do but feed him beats.

And by then, we couldn't get enough Wayne. He's not just the only rapper who could even consider dropping a double disk mixtape like 2007's Da Drought 3, but he's the only rapper who could make it one of his greatest achievements. He didn't just rap over other people's beats, he made you forget the original versions. He'd turn Mike Jones' "Mr. Jones" into the unforgettable "The Sky is the Limit" before making Jay-Z's "Show Me What You Got" sound all the more underwhelming by blacking out on it in a way Jay simply could not at the time. But he was still "spitting like a retard" and finding time to shoutout Apollo Creed while flipping Beyonce's "Upgrade."

On Like Father, Like Son's "Don't Die" Wayne rapped, "And just think, I'm one sell-out record away from being famous." That "sell-out record" came in the form of a syrup-sweet radio tune named "Lollipop" which became, in 2008, his first No. 1 hit. His well-earned star-power then propelled "A Milli" into the top 10, one of the most rappity-rap songs to ever reach such heights of mass appeal. With singles like those, Wayne's hard work and momentum paid off when Tha Carter III was finally released on June 10, 2008 and sold a million records it's first week—Wayne's signature achievement.

From there on out, Wayne's status was secure. He is unquestionably one of the biggest and best rappers of the early 21st century. His fame continued on, but he certainly lost some of his muster (and maybe his mind) when he opted to pursue a misguided rock album, Rebirth. Yet, even then, at the close of the decade, in the midst of losing his touch, he dropped one of his best mixtapes, No Ceilings. Ending the decade on a high note, proving that even in the darkness he could turn it on like a light switch. Hey, that's what you put the long hours in for. —Insanul Ahmed

2. Eminem

eminem getty michel linssen

Albums Released Between 2000-2009: The Marshall Mathers LP (2000), The Eminem Show (2002), Encore (2004), Relapse (2009)

Classic Mixtape: N/A

Group Albums: Devil's Night (2001), D12 World (2004)

Biggest Billboard Hits Between 2000-2009: "Lose Yourself," "Without Me," "Crack a Bottle f/ Dr. Dre & 50 Cent," "Shake That f/ Nate Dogg," "We Made You"

The statement that Eminem is the most successful rapper ever is inarguable. That’s #factsonly. The statement that he is the best rapper ever is arguable. It may not be a fact, but on his best days, there is no one who has ever enjoyed the confluence of intricate wordplay, innovative, well executed song concepts, and absolutely mesmerizing melodies and rhythms, that Em has. A master of his craft, who came into his own artistically in the summer of 2000 with the release of his sophomore album, The Marshall Mathers LP, Eminem has dominated the genre of hip-hop in a way that cannot be understated (and perhaps, to someone who missed his zenith coinciding with music’s all-time sales peak, fully understood). And what makes this dominance so significant is that he achieved it on his own terms; on hip-hop’s terms. He is a rap nerd, an obsessive/compulsive writer who used the conventions of hip-hop—autobiographical narrative, punchlines, shock, and threats—to propel his music to mass appeal.

Between 2000 and 2004 Eminem redefined what it meant to be a successful rapper, both commercially but, more importantly, artistically. Marshall Mathers and its follow up The Eminem Show showcased a meta self-awareness that rap had hinted at (self-reference is nothing new to hip-hop) but took it to new heights with whole bodies of work that explore the relationship between artist and audience. Songs like "White America" directly addressed his aberrant success while records like "Stan" dug deeply into the psychology of fandom, examining the bizarre relationship from the vantage of both the artist and the fan. But as his confidence grew, his style evolved. By the time he released the 8 Mile Soundtrack and then Encore, his most self-indulgent and bizarre album (let’s call it his Yeezus), he began to eschew the word games and metaphors for a focus on cadence, emphatic statement, and impassioned confession. "Lose Yourself," his most successful and best song, is a beautifully linear articulation of his ascent as an artist. And it has looped guitar licks, and a repeated, rapped chorus.


 

What makes Em's dominance so significant is that he achieved it on his own terms; on hip-hop’s terms. He is a rap nerd, an obsessive/compulsive writer who used the conventions of hip-hop—autobiographical narrative, punchlines, shock, and threats—to propel his music to mass appeal.


 

However, the later half of the decade was tougher on Em, and really the reason that he isn’t number one on this list. Drug addiction, isolation, and resistance to hip-hop’s evolving sound forced Eminem out of the zeitgeist, and, like an undefeated boxer who gets knocked down for the time, without the confidence of imperviousness, his mojo ebbed. Where he had once enjoyed effortless flow, the bars on The Re-Up and his various guest spots sound hollow and forced. His last project of the decade, 2009’s Relapse, found a clean Em struggling to find his artistic footing, anchoring himself in his well-worn serial killer mythos, perhaps due to an inability to deal with the fresh trauma of his recovery. Topically, he careened between the macabre ("3 a.m.") and the corny ("We Made You"), grasping for purpose. That said, he raps incredibly ably on the album, marrying the best elements his I’m-so-crazy Slim Shady phase and the polished, elastic swing he developed circa 8 Mile. Records like "Underground" and "Stay Wide Awake" are impressive feats of flow, and strong arguments that even an embattled Em can put words together better than anyone else rapping.

His career has not been without blemish. But even under the harshest light, it’s undeniable that during the first decade of this century, Eminem expanded hip-hop’s creative spectrum as well as its audience. He was an undisputed pacesetter. His success was a challenge to every other active rapper, and the ripples of his artistic influence can be seen in everyone from Redman to Jay Z to Kanye West to even Drake. Without sustained, culture-wide impact, its tough to argue Eminem as the defining rapper of the aughts, so he’ll just have to settle for being the best, technically, and the most successful, monetarily. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Marshall DGAF. —Noah Callahan-Bever

1. JAY-Z

jay z getty frank micelotta

Albums Released Between 2000-2009: The Dynasty: Roc La Familia (2000), The Blueprint (2001), The Blueprint 2: The Gift & The Curce (2002), The Black Album (2003), Kingdom Come (2006), American Gangster (2007), The Blueprint 3 (2008)

Classic Mixtape: S. Carter Collection (2003)

Group Albums: N/A

Biggest Billboard Hits Between 2000-2009: "Empire State of Mind f/ Alicia Keys," "Run This Town f/ Rihanna & Kanye West," "Dirt Off Your Shoulder," "'03 Bonnie & Clyde f/ Beyonce," "Izzo (H.O.V.A)"

You were expecting…anyone else?

No.

Wrong.

No rapper has come close to having the kind of decade—yes, decade—of success like Jay has. And we're not just talking about selling rap records, or getting plays, or making bangers for the club, or for the streets, or being a Rap Nerd Talking Point. No—Jay held you down for a full 10 years of crossover success. Were there hiccups? Sure. Were there even fully regrettable and laughable fuckups? Yes. But it's Jay Z who more than anyone else on this list shaped the direction of rap, and what it means to be a Great Rapper. Even more, what it means to be Superstar who happens to be a rapper. And he did it by virtue of having a higher success-to-output ratio than maybe any rapper to ever walk the planet. Ten albums. Only four of which suck, and that's subjectively speaking. And two of those are half-R. Kelly's fault.

The Jay Decade started out still dealing with Vol. 3 in more than a few ways. For one thing, your man was trying to beat the charges of stabbing his friend Lance Rivera (who had been, allegedly, bootlegging Jay's records). But also, he still had singles from the album burning: "Anything," built off another Annie-style beat (this one from Oliver!) was a minor success as a bonus track turned single. And then in April, Jay dropped the album's final single. Do the words "play with the dick in the truck" ring a bell? 

When the Hype Williams-directed clip for "Big Pimpin" dropped, it changed everything. It was all so, so wrong, but so, so right: Rappers on yachts, showering women in Grey Goose, a white-on-white color motif and letterbox around the frame that made it look like a Hustler's Heaven. And, of course, insanely raunchy lyrics. (Lyrics that Jay Z has since noted as being somewhat regrettable.) Those lyrics scream a lot of things, "Summer Hit" not being one of them. And yet, that chorus. That beat. That yacht. The song took JAY-Z to a level of crossover success he'd yet to see up that point. 

That fall, The Dynasty: Roc La Familia came out—not the strongest way to start his decade in terms of albums—at least compared to what was to come—but by no means the worst. And yes, it is a crew album (kind of). But it ranks in the upper echelon of crew albums, featuring the first song Jay ever did with Just Blaze ("Streets is Talking") a world-class Neptunes beat that powers what still ranks among Jay's best singles ("I Just Wanna Love U"), and maybe one of the hardest album intro tracks ever, among others. "Change The Game" and "Guilty Until Proven Innocent" would drop as singles the next year, though with substantially lesser crossover impact. Don't forget that Backstage came out in 2000 (and "Best of Me Pt. II" was on the soundtrack).


 

That sound was soon recognized as this album, and Jay Z's ambitious, Five Mic, contemporary classical rap was a welcome distraction from everything that started to happen around it, and whether they loved it or hated it, something every rap fan fell into in a way only the greatest books and movies and art can submerge us.


 

But by the time those were being let loose, they were old hat, nothing new. What Jay Z had in store for rap was going to do for the rap album what "Big Pimpin" did for post-Diddy rap videos: Jay Z was out there, trying to reinvent the classic. "Izzo" had been burning for almost a month by the time the album release day came, that game-changing Jackson 5-sampling Kanye beat running under Jay Z's warm appeal to the juries in the two criminal raps he was still facing: Not guilty, y'all got to feel me. And when the day came, and this would be all-time-classic album finally hit stores? The civilized world as we knew it changed, and September 11th became a day that even the biggest rapper on the planet could not (nor would want to) supersede in terms of infamy. And New York changed, too. But that change—which started with stunned silence—would eventually turnover to the sound of the moment. That sound was soon recognized as this album, and Jay Z's ambitious, Five Mic, contemporary classical rap was a welcome distraction from everything that started to happen around it, and whether they loved it or hated it, something every rap fan fell into in a way only the greatest books and movies and art can submerge us. And the lore around it was (and remains) larger-than-life, too: Jay cut the album in two weeks, and wrote it in two days? Is that really—no, it can't be—Michael Jackson on "Girls, Girls, Girls"? 

The next two singles are, in retrospect, almost hard to believe: "Jigga That Nigga" and "Song Cry." Sure, they're great songs. But "Heart of the City"-great? "U Don't Know"-great? And this is all to say nothing of "Renegade," which included the sole guest verse on the album, performed by Eminem (who also produced the track's beat.) Or "Takeover," with its insane, revolutionary, Doors-driven Kanye production, and lyrics that escalated the greatest rap feud of a generation to an entirely new level. Oh, yeah, and there was that too: The song, originally intended as a diss to Mobb Deep became—from the moment at 2001's Summer Jam when Jay premiered it, along with pictures of Prodigy in a leotard—was eventually rewritten to include much more about Nas after he fired back for Queens with "Ether." That performance, when Jay debuted "Takeover," was also the same one at which he brought Michael Jackson on stage with him.

Imagine that. I write this in an era when Papoose closes out Summer Jam. In 2001, Jay brought out pictures of Prodigy dressed like a ballerina, and brought out Michael Jackson. And Destiny's Child got booed

[It's worth noting that this was the same summer that Jay opened his Beyonce-dissing verse on the "One Minute Man" remix with the infamous "50 Grand I get this on one take!" ad-lib. Also, the "Fiesta (Remix)" was hot that summer, which represents the peak of Jay and R. Kelly's artistic relationship. It was a good vintage for Jay on ad-libs and remixes, too.]

And at the end of 2001? Jay Z released what is arguably the best live rap album ever, full stop. You forgot about Unplugged, didn't you? Go. Right now, go in a quiet room, put that shit on your best headphones and speakers, and listen to the opening notes: In what was one of the craziest years in relatively modern history—let alone rap—a subdued Jay joking around about his "poetry reading" to the opening keys of "Izzo" is exactly what the universe needed at that moment. In what sounds like an (entirely female) room full of Jay Z's biggest fans, backed by hip-hop's first band (The Roots), with a string section, Mary J. Blige, Jaguar Wright, and Pharrell, it is a virtually flawless run-through of some of Jay's best tracks (and has one of his most underrated songs as a bonus cut, too), and one of the earliest signs of the worldly, subdued charisma and gravitas that Jay would keep refining as time went on. 

2002: Jay releases the rest of the Blueprint singles. Freeway's "What We Do" comes out and Jay, as a guest, is on, like, a pile of trash rapping with his young State Property cohorts. That was a great moment. "What We Do" is a fucking amazing song. 

In November, Blueprint 2: The Gift and The Curse gifts us and curses us in equal proportion: It's got hits on it, sure. But there were a lot of songs. And yes, a double-disc album only having three significant singles (one of which hinged around a so-so Tupac sample): Not a flawless victory. Not an L, but not a win. So Jay went and re-released the album as Blueprint 2.1 later on, which just kind of makes it worse. This doesn't sound like an argument for Jay any more, does it? But only one other rapper on this list released a double album during the aughts, and it wasn't a no. 1 album. It also didn't have a video with Beyoncé Knowles, and Beyoncé Knowles would not go on to be that rapper's wife. There was also Best of Both Worlds that year. It was a big deal to have an album with Jay Z come out in 2002, you know? There's not much more to say on the matter except that the entire thing came to a fitting close when Ty Ty maced Kelly. 


 

The next year, Jay starts rolling out a new product: "Business Jay." At the opening of his first 40/40, The Black Album is announced, and Jay's supposedly going to retire from rap.


 

The next year, Jay starts rolling out a new product: "Business Jay." At the opening of his first 40/40, The Black Album is announced, and Jay's supposedly going to retire from rap. Enter Pharrell, enter Kanye, enter Just Blaze, enter Timberland, Rick Rubin, Eminem, DJ Quik, 9th Wonder and the rest of what might be the greatest all-star producer lineup of any Jay album. (And upon its release, just to show off, or maybe to prove that he wasn't relying on this spectacular collection of beats to carry his swan song for him, Jay released the entire thing a cappella as well, in an era when that wasn't the norm. This inspired an overflow of remixes and, after it made its way to London and fell into the hands of a certain ex-pat producer named Danger Mouse, The Grey Album, which ushered in the mash-up era.)

The Black Album itself—printed on black CDs, with black reflective bottoms—saw Jay taking victory lap after victory lap, re-introducing himself to rap via the shiniest new beats, or new versions of the old beats that made him famous, or just Def Jamming with Rubin. On nearly every track, it seemed, for a moment, like Jay was truly going out on top, having not only brought in another classic record, and selling out the Garden with a massive, star-studded stage show (including the mothers of Biggie and 'Pac, together), and the rap-concert-movie-to-end-all-modern-rap-concert-movies, but also, having just introduced the universe to a young producer-turned-rapper named Kanye West. Jay Z as a rapper was done, it seemed, but it also seemed like the Roc would now live forever.

The Roc was done the next year. Also, Jay released that thing with Linkin Park and another album with R. Kelly. So, yeah: 2004. Not a great one, musically. 2005, however, saw the return of Jay to the public eye when he took over Def Jam Records and headlined Power 105's "I Declare War" show, complete with a mock-up of the Oval Office, as Jay—who hadn't put out a real album since 2003—decided to end his feud with Nas by performing with him on stage, and then signing him to a recording contract. Jay didn't even have an album out, and blew all of hip-hop away.

2006 was inevitable: The Jay comeback, which resulted in what is inarguably Jay's worst solo record, Kingdom Come. Again: We didn't say all of it was pretty. But those of you who want to talk money, don't forget: Jay inked one of the largest rap endorsement deals in history with Budweiser, and the album yielded the highest single-week sales in Jay's career at that point.

2007: Jay appears on a single with this new R&B artist he's signed, this Rihanna girl. Whoops: Turns out "Umbrella" breaks open every chart, wins VMAs, a Grammy, the whole deal. Later that year, Jay surprises the world by releasing American Gangster, basically a concept album he was inspired to make after seeing the Ridley Scott movie of the same name. The album ain't half bad, and to hardcore JAY-Z fans, stands as a veritable classic: While there might not be any radio hits, "Roc Boys," "No Hook," "Ignorant Shit" and "Blue Magic" all represent a massive and important return to form. Go back to it. It really is great album. At the end of the year, he hangs up his hat as President of Def Jam. Time to get back to music full time.


 

You know how this ends: In the last year of the first decade of the new millennium, Jay drops the third Blueprint. It's his 11th album to top the Billboard 200, breaking a record previously held by someone named Elvis.


 

The next year? Jay would become the first rapper to headline Glastonbury, which upset some people (the British, right?) You know you're a worldwide superstar when Oasis is beefing with you. So it was: Jay opened up his set pretending to strum on a guitar, and—in what's one of the most classic and underrated rap crossover moments, hands down—starts singing "Wonderwall": "Today/is gonna be the day/that I'm gonna throw it back to you…" He went all the way through the chorus, and launches—like a goddamn rocket—into an electrified version of "99 Problems" (with an added guitar riff from AC/DC's "Back in Black"). It's readily apparent to anyone with a set of eyes that Jay is now the best working showman in rap, and he hasn't had an album the world is completely crazy for since 2003. Doesn't matter. They were crazy enough for the others. That summer, Jay would go on to perform a new track at the very end of Kanye's MSG date: "Jockin' JAY-Z." The song wasn't only the official Oasis diss response, but also, one giant allusion to the forthcoming Blueprint 3—stoking hype that the "Swagga Like Us" single had already fired up. In December, Jay drops his second solo track of the year, "Brooklyn Go Hard," and pours gas on the flames.

You know how this ends: In the last year of the first decade of the new millennium, Jay drops the third Blueprint. It's his 11th album to top the Billboard 200, breaking a record previously held by someone named Elvis. It's an impossibly over-produced, gloss-on-gloss record. It's also got hits. And features everyone in rap: Kanye, Drake, J. Cole, Cudi, Rihanna, Alicia, Jeezy, Pharrell. The first single, "D.O.A." comes with a clip of Jay eating with Harvey Keitel at Rao's, murdering auto-tune. The song hasn't aged well, but at a time when the world was still reeling in T-Pain, it was therapeutic. The next one is released a month later, and buys JAY-Z the summer ("Run This Town"). The third single, "Empire State of Mind"—released two weeks before the Yankees win their first World Series title in nine years—is compared in the pages New York Times to Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York." And the last single of the year—the last JAY-Z single of the decade—is a Swizz Beatz banger that becomes the "fuck this, I'm outta here" anthem of a new era called "On To The Next One."

That's how JAY-Z left the '00s. 

This is the place where there's supposed to be some kind of outro paragraph, some Important and Critical Conclusion where this writer makes his closing argument for the reason JAY-Z was the best rapper of that decade, in grandiose summation. It'd be redundant, unless you've skipped to the bottom of this text, or you enjoy being wrong when faced with objective truths. It's not a matter of opinion that JAY-Z was the most dominant rapper of the '00s, just like it's not a matter of opinion that—say—World War II happened. Or that we won it. After all: History, as they say, is written by the winners. And JAY-Z wrote the first decade of the 21st Century to have him coming out on top of this list. Don't believe it? Just check the records. That's it. That's all you need to do. —Foster Kamer

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