Rick Ross is the Gorman Thomas of rappers. Forever swinging for the fences, he blasts a home run once in a while but strikes out much more frequently. On his latest album, Deeper Than Rap, heNs as bombastic as ever, despite being exposed last year by the Smoking Gun as a former corrections officer and mocked on 50 CentNs website by his baby mama.
Here he claims that his mom stores his guns in the attic for him on “Rich Off Cocaine,” which is surely as untrue as the songNs title itself. This would be forgivable if Deeper Than Rap were a fun listen, but itNs just as grating as his earlier works; Ross has never been able to rap competently, and his mealy mouthed rhymes are as difficult to listen to as they are offensive: “Selling dope/Counting money/Keep my dick hard/Time to bust it wide open for a big boy,” he tells us on “Face.” Though there are a few long balls—T-Pain saves “Maybach Music 2,” and Nas makes “Usual Suspects” interesting—the vast majority of the tracks are nauseating. Considering this is RossN third album of criminally preposterous music, it must be said: Strike three, and youNre out, Bawss.
