you either die a hero

Unbelievable. Lil Wayne scrambled up the white rungs of his fire engine and screamed, his voice carrying above the wails of the careening truck, announcing himself best rapper alive to an audience that, for some reason or another, listened. To him, of all people, they payed attention and bought the hype. More the bought they sold and traded Weezy F Baby became the hottest stock on the market, bear running 2 years straight without evidence of slowing. He clung on for dear life as his ride whipped him about through one drought after another, and when a faucet leaked he said fuck it and snapped the entire drain open. "Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here?" And we screamed for him our 21st century dreadlocked Spaniard.

Carter III was supposed to make it worth our time prove that we had not worshiped in vain. The legacy all the hype all the potential all the brilliance that flashed once or twice in the pan would gleam constant and throughout. There would be no dirt on this diamond it would be flawless.

The day came the week ended and despite delay and bootleg the aura smothered all; from the smoke arose 1 million not since 2005 had the Romans turned out in such droves, not just downloading and listening -- though millions more of course did -- but going out and purchasing. The myth cemented no longer legend but statue of gold and green Lil Wayne made good on his promise. He had become the greatest rapper of all time. Flow -- we've heard syllables twisted and bent more beautifully. Lyrics -- we've heard thoughts that wrung heart and molded mind more forcefully. Beats -- we've rocked our heads harder than this. But a rapper -- not lyricist, not poet or artist mind you -- is an entertainer, a performer, in other words a glorified peddler of some good or craft. He sold and goddamn it we bought.

Was it genius? Was it epic? Was it that sought after much talked about 'classic'? Those months of myth-building didn't prepare us for this for sure. Gone are the lines that punch so hard you gasp for a second then turn to your friend 'Did he just say that?' Absent the similes and metaphors that brushstroked 3-D scenes that reeked and stung, deafened and blinded. Lost, the carefree I-don't-give-a-damn, I-rap-you-listen and in its place something wrought by codeine and hash, a Picasso when we expected a Rembrandt.

He sold. We bought.