Methinks a trace of cynicism has crept in. A recent interview in Billboard found Lupe claiming that he’s running out of energy to make hip hop because -- get this! -- “I still don't think I'm famous.” Well, no, Lupe is not famous, but it’s a bit shocking to see him decrying this status, and also tittering of the forthcoming Kanye/Pharrell/Lupe supergroup that, “Whoever is going to pay is going to pay a whole hell of a lot.” Are these quotes taken out of context? Fucked if I know, but they sound alien from the guy whose mixtapes I’ve been listening to, and coupled with the recently leaked “Dumb It Down” (off the forthcoming The Cool) it seems we’ve got an angry genius on our hands. For all the Nas and Kanye comparisons Lupe’s endured, his career seems to be following most closely De La’s path. The fluorescent, day-glo optimism of Food & Liquor (2006) couldn’t last, which is why we now find Lupe Fiasco darkly formulating a peanut gallery and throwing darts at himself. Here’s a rap track that hates rap; I’d call it postmodern if I knew what that meant anymore and if the track didn’t also validate the form, as Lupe so effortlessly does when at his best, which he so very fucking is here.

The beat is barely there -- think a boombox playing the bass line from Dead Prez’s “Hip Hop” while tumbling through a washing machine -- but it’s meant not to distract, and, besides, there’s enough esoteric wordplay here to fill a hard drive, so fuck a flashy beat on this one. Check, for example, the way he slowly denounces his senses (“I’m eyeless,” “I’m earless,” “I’m mouthless”) and then loads the rest of the raps with extravagant imagery about Klingons and unicorns as a counterpoint to the vicious, self-loathing hook. A mutating chant of the titular demand, the chorus here contains more profanity and ill will than Lupe ever mustered on his debut. And even though it’s satirical (“These girls are trying to be queens, Lu!”) it’s still laced with such venom that the track-closing claim that he “ain’t dumbing down shit” seems a token happy ending, a sort of self-termination pact. He won’t dumb shit down, and for that he won’t be famous, and for that he won’t keep making records after his third, he’s saying. Which means, if my nerd math is correct, that The Cool is going to be his Empire Strikes Back and I need to clean up my trousers.

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