Grant JonesCalling himself the last “ungentrified emcee” in a recent Breakfast Club interview, Fat Joe remains a divisive rapper, particularly amongst hardcore rap fans. His outlandish stories are a running joke and his self-declared legendary status remains in the shadow of Big Punisher. Pun’s debut from 1998 remains better than anything Joe has released, and Joe’s latest album “The World Changed on Me” is, unfortunately, further confirmation of a rapper proudly refusing to grow as an artist. Considering this is the first Fat Joe album in fifteen years, sat next to LL Cool J’s “The FORCE” and Redman’s recent “Muddy Waters Too”, it feels all the more obvious.
My cynicism isn’t purely from a place of disbelief – Fat Joe has been a frustrating rapper for a while now. He’s never been the most technically gifted emcee, or even particularly interesting, benefiting from a talent for surrounding himself with brilliant producers and rappers you simply cannot ignore. That said, his earlier material had some personality – he was commanding on his first two albums, stomping you in the head with his tough talk. You couldn’t ignore him, particularly over those raw, New York beats. His post-millennial work similarly boasted excellent production, but at the detriment of Joe himself – he started to become secondary to his production. In fact, since 2004, he’s never felt like the main event on any of his records, associating with names like DJ Khaled, Rick Ross and more recently, Cool and Dre. He shifted from mean-spirited gangsta rap to unlikely nightclub anchor, and he’s been trying to mimic that mainstream momentum ever since, occasionally dipping back into the hardcore style that put him on the map.
There’s no insight into his day-to-day, his relationship with his children, his actual life. It’s still entrenched in this fake world of constant partying, champagne-popping and endless waves of video vixens. The fact that he hasn’t changed is something he claims to be proud of, but as an emcee, I’d wager that he’s gradually got worse. The hunger’s not there, and it’s impossible to ignore when he’s rhyming alongside Remy Ma on “Outta Control”, who makes sure she grabs your attention with every bar managing to outdo the previous one:
Except, “Outta Control” isn’t even on the album! This song is miles better than everything else on “The World Changed On Me”, which also starts under false promises, and is probably why I’m so cranky writing this. There’s a drumless instrumental on “Talking Hot” and a commendable Westside Gunn impersonator doing the adlibs – I thought we were getting Joey Crack experimenting with some new production. Karma Nova even sounds like Stove God Cooks. Alas, it immediately descends into Ty Dolla Sign warbling over distorted Trap, and Joe suddenly falls back into the background again on his own album. Remy Ma does pop up on “Us”, but it suffers from a hugely repetitive beat. What’s frustrating me the most about this album is Joe is hardly rapping. Some songs take a full minute before we even hear from him.
The song that highlights how Fat Joe is still stuck in 2007, is the terrible “Paradise”, with the ordinary (and admittedly gorgeous) Anitta and the perennial non-entity that is DJ Khaled Diddying up the joint.
I quite liked the Babyface track “I Got You”, as it feels like an R&B song with a Fat Joe feature rather than vice versa; although Joe describing his sexual prowess in detail might put you off your cornflakes, particularly after he had his moobs out in the “Outta Control” video above. If you’re looking for the best track on this album, it’s easily “They Don’t Love You”, with its smooth Jhene Aiko sample. This is the Joe that I feel we should be seeing in 2025. It sounds like he’s talking to the listener directly, rather than hazily reeling off derivative boasts on Autopilot. He’s being honest, and considering his lengthy career and interesting stories, I wish we got more of this:
“Reminiscing, my brothers listening to Foreigner
You guys got bad karma, I got Kamala
They say, “Crack, use your voice, keep informing us”
Truth told, D.O.C. been had the formula
God is the greatest,
He keeps teaching lessons
My son autistic, he’s my biggest blessing
Nobody wins when the family feuds
Don’t ask them questions ’bout Rem’ and Papoose
You wanna argue, come meet me at the arena
Who thought I’d be a world star even as a senior? (WorldStar)
It’s all love ’til they start to hate you
…
Give to my community, computers after school
Couldn’t buy no shoes, my mama ain’t have no digits
Now I drop a sneaker, shit is selling out in minutes
I ain’t Jay or Nas, but I still do numbers
Still drop anthems every few summers
Tremenda mezcla, P.R. con Cuba
Feeling like Griselda ’cause we got all the shooters“
But again, it’s over before it truly gets going. Traditionalists will also notice there’s no D.I.T.C. input, and aside from Remy, no Terror Squad members.
Fat Joe was generally a reliable source of tough, in-your-face Hip-Hop whereby if he wasn’t stomping you in the ear with his rhymes, then the beat was declaring war instead. Joe is blunt, boorish and occasionally clumsy with his rhymes, but his albums are always good for a few head-nodders. “The World Changed On Me” is so beset on replicating Joe’s most commercially successful period that he shouldn’t really be moaning about change. This reluctance to change makes his music sound decidedly dated, and similar to Ghostface Killah filling his album last year with strange Autotune numbers, it feels more concerned with doing numbers rather than appeasing fans that might be a similar age to Joe. The 54-year old, just as a proposition, is frozen in time. It’s like Jay-Z still making tracks with Pharrell and gloating about bagging honeys. I struggle to see the appeal, although I have to admire the sheer stubbornness in refusing to stray from his formula.