Milestones: Teflon Don by Rick Ross
Rick Ross did what few thought possible just a couple of years prior: he ascended to hip-hop’s upper echelon with an album so opulent and assured that it silenced nearly all doubters.
Back in 2006, Rick Ross crashed onto the scene with Port of Miami and its inescapable single “Hustlin’.” The Miami rapper, influenced by the likes of The Notorious B.I.G. (for effortless big-money braggadocio) and Uncle Luke (for Miami’s homegrown hustle), had gone from local Carol City hopeful to national sensation overnight. Port of Miami rode the wave of “coke rap” anthems, even sampling the film Scarface’s theme on “Push It” to underscore Ross’s kingpin fantasies. Yet despite respectable sales and a Def Jam co-sign from JAY-Z, many in the hip-hop community didn’t take Ross seriously beyond his infectious hooks. His husky voice and larger-than-life drug lord persona felt almost like a caricature curated by the industry, “JAY-Z’s get-rich-quick scheme,” as some cynics sniped. If “Hustlin’” made him a star, some assumed it was a fluke or formula, and that Ross was merely cashing in on a gangsta-rap trend.
Those suspicions of inauthenticity exploded into full-blown ridicule in 2008, when a damning revelation threatened to upend Ross’s entire image. TheSmokingGun published evidence that the self-proclaimed cocaine kingpin had once worked as a Florida corrections officer, the antithesis of everything he’d rapped about. Rival 50 Cent pounced, mercilessly mocking Ross with skits and interviews that painted him as a fraud. The exposure of this “secret past” could have been a career-killer; in fact, it was hard to imagine Ross ever being taken seriously again. Hip-hop has long prized authenticity, and here was a rapper who named himself after a notorious drug trafficker (the real “Freeway” Rick Ross) seemingly caught living a lie. Many expected Ross to fold under the shame or at least offer contrition. But what happened next proved to be Ross’s shrewdest move yet, a turning point that set the stage for Teflon Don.
Instead of retreating or issuing mea culpas, Rick Ross doubled down on his fictional Bawse persona. When he released Deeper Than Rap in 2009, he pointedly did not address the corrections officer controversy in any serious way. There were no apologies or tortured explanations on that album. Ross did the opposite; he responded by exaggerating the most outrageous and ostentatious aspects of his music and image to “summer-blockbuster” proportions. He bet that listeners would trade strict reality for entertainment if the fantasy was compelling enough. The strategy worked. Deeper Than Rap was lush and cinematic, all breezy orchestral sounds, unabashed wealth, and criminal content that ultimately salvaged his career. It was as if Ross said, so what if I wasn’t a kingpin, I’ll become one in my music. By throwing the burden of believability out the window, he allowed fans to revel guilt-free in the extravagance and cheer as shit blew up. The album’s very title teased depth, and while it didn’t exactly deliver introspective confessions, it proved Rick Ross could craft his own myth and make you live in it. This creative rebound and the momentum of hits like “Magnificent” re-established Ross as a major player. He had, in effect, made himself bulletproof to controversy, a true Teflon Don in the making.
By 2010, Ross had parlayed this momentum into genuine influence. He existed at the center of street music, the barometer of what was hot on the block, thanks in part to an upstart producer named Lex Luger, who was redefining the sound of trap music. Just before Teflon Don dropped, Ross unleashed two Lex Luger-produced juggernauts, “B.M.F. (Blowin’ Money Fast)” and “MC Hammer,: that would become ubiquitous anthems. These monstrous tracks, with their menacing, speaker-shaking bass, were so impactful that even New York giants like Kanye West and JAY-Z (not to mention younger stars like Wiz Khalifa and Fabolous) came calling to Luger for beats in the months that followed. Long before EDM producers appropriated the term “trap” for festival bangers, Rick Ross had sculpted and shaped the sound of trap music on the mainstream leve. Teflon Don arrived with Ross at his most influential, his ear for beats sharper than ever, and the rap world paying close attention.
For an album that boasts so many big-name guests and huge sonic ambition, Teflon Don is strikingly lean. Clocking in at just 11 tracks, it’s remarkably streamlined; no filler, no flab. This brevity proved to be a masterstroke: for an MC who often revisits the same wells of material (money, mafiosos, Maybachs), a tight 50-minute runtime kept Ross’s message potent instead of diluted. Rather than exhaust the listener, Ross sharpened his persona to a fine point across the album’s sequence. And from the very first song, he makes it clear that modesty has no home here. On the bombastic opener “I’m Not a Star,” Ross unleashes a barrage of audacious imagery: “If I die today, remember me like John Lennon/Buried in Louis, I’m talkin’ all brown linen/Make all of my bitches tattoo my logo on they titty/Put a statue of a nigga in the middle of the city.” These lines are outrageous by design. Ross essentially demands a martyr’s remembrance and a monument to his name, delivered with a snarling bravado. What might have sounded like cartoonish boasts from a lesser rapper land as badges of unapologetic swagger from Ross. He’s daring you not to believe him, and doing it with such conviction that you can’t help but nod along. If there was ever any doubt, Teflon Don confirms Ross knows exactly who he is in the booth.
With confidence on overdrive, Ross proceeds to conjure a fully formed “Planet Boss,” a self-contained universe of luxury and power. The production throughout is sumptuous and expansive, silk-sheet soul samples, cinematic strings, triumphant horns, and trunk-rattling 808s blend into a soundscape as fantastical as it is grandiose. It’s a refuge from reality where rappers can film videos on yachts with as many speedboats as they want. Within this world, Rick Ross sits at the center as the undisputed don, and all the guest stars orbit comfortably in his atmosphere. Teflon Don manages to be both a solo showcase and a star-studded ensemble piece. Ross plays the role of a big-budget film producer casting A-list talent in his blockbuster, yet his own presence is never diminished in the process.
The heavyweight guest list on Teflon Don is the kind that would have made a ‘90s Bad Boy album blush. Virtually every track (save the intro) features a notable collaborator, but rather than feel like a crutch, the cameos enhance the opulence of Ross’s world. JAY-Z delivers a scene-stealing verse on “Free Mason,” using Ross’s platform to pointedly deny those pesky Illuminati rumors that had swirled around him. “I said I was amazing, not that I’m a Mason,” JAY quips wryly, flipping conspiracy chatter into a boast. Hearing Hov rap alongside Ross underscores the album’s central theme: Black excellence draped in mythic trappings, untouchable like the Teflon Don himself. On “Live Fast, Die Young,” Ye shows up in a playful, more subdued mode, arguably his most aw-shucks, disarming self since 2007. Ye doesn’t try to steal the spotlight here; instead, he glides over the glossy instrumental with understated charm, even slipping in a sung hook, and lets Ross’s energy carry the rest. The chemistry is smooth, yielding a life-of-luxury anthem with a bittersweet aftertaste (Ross notably uses his verse on this track to juxtapose his car collection with reflections on the devastating Haiti earthquake, adding a brief glimpse of real-world gravity amidst the flaunting).
Ross’s Maybach Music franchise has always been about uniting eras and styles under a banner of class and flash, and “Maybach Music III” might be the series’ pinnacle. Over a lavish J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League composition that literally includes orchestral fanfare, strings modulating like a royal procession, Ross convenes veterans T.I. and Jadakiss alongside neo-soul queen Erykah Badu. The result is a sumptuous posse cut. T.I. and Jada each murder their verses with slick bravado, and Badu’s ethereal hook elevates the track to pure luxe grandeur (who else could make “Maybachs on Bach, Bach on Maybachs” sound heavenly?). The beat even switches up dramatically at the end, evoking the flare of Biggie’s classic verse on “It’s All About the Benjamins,” which is fitting, Ross has always idolized The Notorious B.I.G.’s ability to be gutter and glamorous at once. Ross can’t match Biggie’s lyrical genius, but here he shows a similar confidence and commanding presence on the mic, holding his own even after two decorated MCs have spit fire.
The album’s most ubiquitous hit came in the form of “Aston Martin Music,” a sultry, cruising single that paired Ross with Toronto’s emotional rap crooner Drake and R&B songstress Chrisette Michele. With its twinkling piano loops and soft-focus hook, “Aston Martin Music” was a bid for radio and summer playlists, and it succeeded. Yet, for all its commercial appeal, it embodies the one aspect where Ross’s universe shows seams: the uneasy collision of two worlds. Drake, at that time a rising star of sensitive introspective rap, brings a breezy singing verse that was actually a reworked portion of one of his own songs. The chemistry between Drake’s lovelorn tone and Ross’s boss talk is slightly awkward; it’s the sound of two different rap ideologies meeting on uneven terms. Even so, the track’s popularity proved Ross could extend his reach to R&B crossover terrain without completely compromising his persona. If anything, it’s intriguing to hear Ross’s usually immovable character navigate a softer palette. And thanks to J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League’s lush production (and Chrisette’s angelic background coos), the song still oozes the rich atmosphere that defines Teflon Don.
Of course, not every all-star experiment lands perfectly on Planet Boss. The album’s one notable misstep comes with “No. 1,” an energetic but ill-fitting track featuring Diddy and Trey Songz. Over a rocking, electric-guitar-laced beat (courtesy of Danja), Diddy is present largely to amp up the intensity. But his hype-man schtick here feels out of place, like he barged into the wrong party. One reviewer noted that Diddy would’ve been better off performing in character as Sergio Roma, his hilarious rock-star alter ego from the film Get Him to the Greek, instead of hyping up the overamped, ill-fitting rock moves of “No. 1.” In truth, the song sounds so unlike the rest of Teflon Don’s luxe soundscape that it’s jarring. Fortunately, this detour is sequenced late and doesn’t derail the album’s flow, it’s a brief peek outside Ross’s carefully curated world, and it only reinforces how compelling that world is when he sticks to it (sidetone: replace the song and add “Audio Meth” with Raekwon, then you’ll have a skipless record).
Teflon Don not only marked the creative peak of Rick Ross’s career, but it also had ripple effects on the state of hustler rap in the 2010s. By delivering such a polished, extravagant take on the cocaine-cowboy fantasy, Ross effectively reshaped the landscape for his peers and successors in the early part of the decade. The thundering template of “B.M.F.” and “MC Hammer,” for instance, ushered in a new wave of ominous, Lex Luger-style trap production on mainstream records. Suddenly, everyone wanted that gigantic, emphatic sound. Even up-and-coming rappers under Ross’s own wing, the Maybach Music Group recruits like Meek Mill and Wale, found themselves rapping over beats that traced back to the blueprint Ross laid on Teflon Don. Ross had become an unlikely trendsetter: a Southern MC borrowing from the mafioso rap playbook of ‘90s New York and the slick sophistication of soul music, and then selling it as the new gold standard of cool.
The once scoffed-at rapper who was laughed off as a corrections officer in a fake Gucci tracksuit managed to flip the script entirely. By embracing the joke and amplifying it into a spectacle, he in turn made believers out of skeptics, or at least rendered their skepticism irrelevant. On Teflon Don, Rick Ross wears audacity like a tailored suit, rapping about statues in city squares and comparing himself to John Lennon with a straight face. He invites you into his dream of limitless wealth and power, and you find yourself rooting for the dream. In the end, that may be Teflon Don’s biggest legacy of self-created mythology in music. Ross took the figure of the hip-hop hustler – molded by influences from Biggie to Scarface – and blew him up to blimp-sized proportions, until the character was too larger-than-life to fail. The album’s title, borrowed from mob boss John Gotti’s nickname, proved fitting in more ways than one. Against all odds, nothing stuck to Rick Ross, not the doubts of purists, not the barbs of rivals, not even his own complicated past. He had rendered himself immune, the Teflon Don incarnate. And in doing so, he gave hip-hop one of its last great tales of the gangster-as-superhero, an album that glitters like an oversized pinky ring yet remains, unquestionably, solid as steel.
Great (★★★★☆)