What Drove J. Cole on The Off-Season?

As his sixth studio album continues the themes of The Come Up, Friday Night Lights, and Cole World: The Sideline Story, it offers nostalgia for and longing for simplicity.

Even leaving the pandemic aside, I suspect there are a lot of people who are worn out because the world has gotten so complicated. I can’t help but guess that J. Cole might be one of them. Without noticing, the list of “required subjects” keeps growing, from practical skills to general knowledge. If you fail to keep up, you can lose your livelihood or get “canceled” in this kind of world (“One phone call get you canceled like a homophobe in this PC culture”—from “The Climb Back”). Because he delivered such accomplished storytelling on 2014 Forest Hills Drive (2014), expectations rise accordingly: a record-spanning concept or message, and the awareness to match.

When you’re tired, you start craving simple things. Clear, refreshing, familiar things. For me, that might mean my exam-prep days, when it was enough just to worry about five subjects: English, math, Japanese, science, and social studies. Or my days as a kickboxing trainee, when it was enough just to think about the opponent in front of me or the heavy bag. Your body starts wanting that feeling again. The feeling from a time when you weren’t expected to be a multitalent who can work flawlessly, be physically strong, sing, dance, and also offer the “right” comments on social issues. I think this is one reason so many people today throw themselves into workouts where the results scale directly with the effort.

Is it too cynical to say that this is why Cole released The Off-Season, and why he also made his pro debut with a basketball team in Rwanda? It may be a stretch, but what he wrote in an essay he contributed last year to The Player’s Tribune is suggestive.

“Now that I’m 31, I had become an artist who was barely interested in punchlines or wit, those measuring sticks that are generally said to determine a rapper’s skill. I was far more interested in story, emotion, and message. Those elements brought me many moments of satisfaction, but I couldn’t deny I’d lost my competitive edge. … ‘If my career ended tomorrow, would I have regrets? Is there something I wanted to do but never did?’ I could feel a clear ‘Yes’ fill my body.”

In the rap game, he still had unfinished business—and that thought lit a fire in him.

On the opening track “95 South,” Cole brings in Cam’ron and Lil Jon. Casting two figures who dominated the early 2000s signals, on one hand, a (maybe temporary) break from the “Platinum with no features” identity that defined his previous phase, where he became known for building conceptual albums largely on his own. At the same time, it reads like a longing for an era when mainstream hip-hop felt more straightforward. The lyrics drawing attention are also focused on “going off,” with lines that seem consciously aimed at the “punchlines and wit” yardsticks Cole mentioned. Even a single M (= million) wordplay lands like this:

“Could put a M right on your head, you Luigi brother now.”
— from “95 South”

“Shit crazy, didn’t know I got more M’s (Em) than a real Slim Shady video.”
— from “Applying Pressure”

Musically, this album’s lack of a single unified through-line works in its favor. As mentioned above, you get choices that evoke the early 2000s, and then, for example, “Pride Is the Devil” samples Aminé’s “Can’t Decide.” That looseness recalls Cole’s mixtape era, when he was beat-jacking tracks like JAY-Z’s “Dead Presidents II.” And he goes off again. It’s more than enough to show he can compete on the “measuring sticks” people use to rank rappers, and for people who are tired, it’s genuinely cathartic.

At the same time, another mixtape-era constant remains: his knack for slipping in lines with a bit of weight. On “Applying Pressure,” he throws out his own view of the current scene: “Instead of cappin’, why don’t you talk about being a broke rapper?” And on the final track, “Hunger on Hillside,” he spits: “I wanna know if they understand me/I put it all on A, ain’t no plan B.” Even in mixtape mode, that seriousness, and a faintly fussy, worried edge, is still there, and it makes you smile a little. From here on, he’ll probably keep weaving records by adjusting the balance between “Platinum with no feature” mode and mixtape mode depending on where he is at the time.

And there was one more unfinished item for Cole. In that same essay, he also talked about his basketball path, the one he abandoned after bailing on a tryout in his St. John’s University days. Two days after the album dropped, his signing with the Rwanda Patriots was announced, but ten days later he ended that short career due to “family reasons.” Come to think of it, before releasing 2014 Forest Hills Drive, he spoke as if reassuring himself: “I’m good with this.” Time passed, then he took on The Off-Season and the basketball stint because he still “had unfinished business.” After finishing the first round of that challenge, where is Cole’s head now? As a fan of his music, it’s hard not to wonder—because it’s very possible that answer shapes the direction of whatever comes next.