LL Cool J is Def Jam, and Def Jam is LL Cool J. Never in the history of recorded rap, if not music itself, has a relationship been this symbiotic. LL is the artist that launched the foundation of Def Jam, which eventually became the most enduring and powerful record label in rap history. And in turn, Def Jam fostered LL’s career as one of the longest and most fruitful ones in hip hop.
But like the saying goes, all good things come to an end—or at least in this case, all things come to an end. After the release of Todd Smith in 2006, LL had one album left in his 13-album deal, something that he was keen on reminding everybody ever since he dropped the 10 album in 2002.
So, in a way, it felt like LL Cool J was one step closer to freedom with each LP, rather than a celebration of the longest partnership between artist and label in the history of the rap genre, akin to Kobe Bryant and the Lakers. And that only fed into the perception that perhaps things were not all that rosy.
There always seemed to be tension between those two: LL Cool J and Jay-Z. In 1998’s “Second Round K.O.,” Canibus, then in lyrical conflict with LL, dropped the well-known names of the rappers LL had battled in the past before dropping one that barely anyone expected.
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Almost three decades later, LL Cool J mentioned an encounter with Jay in the mid-‘90s outside a club in a way that could be best described as a “lyrical ambush.” LL was rather dismissive about the incident; to him, that was far from a rivalry because at that time, now closing in on a decade as a professional rapper, he had a record deal. Jay-Z didn’t.
But fast-forward a decade, from the mid-‘90s to the mid-2000s, and it was Jay-Z who had the upper hand, overseeing the company to which LL was signed. By the time LL released Todd Smith, Jay-Z was “retired” from making music and settled into his tenure as president and CEO of Def Jam. But then Jay-Z made an about-face, much to the surprise of virtually everyone. Kingdom Come, his return album, showed up seven months after LL’s Todd Smith.
Even though there wasn’t much to promote beyond the album’s failed second single, LL must have felt undercut by that move. By then, Def Jam’s primary focus on newer, younger, more promising, and potentially more lucrative signees—normal business practice, but considered by LL to be detrimental to his career—was more obvious than ever before. So, ultimately, Jay-Z, coupled with his lack of experience as an executive, was the fall guy.
Whether LL was feuding with Jay-Z or not, he had one more album to put out and then move on. The symbolically titled Exit 13 arrived on September 9, 2008, following, for the first time in his career, a mixtape. Once again, LL had a lot of fuel in his tank: his declining respect, his declining sales, his declining career. “It’s Time for War” is the opening salvo, the long-overdue smackdown for people who had dared downplay his legend due to his relatively lackluster run in the 2000s.
You said I was finished, and Father Time was the blame
You disrespected my legacy and threw dirt on my name
Told DJs he's over; he ain't spittin' the same
What he says is irrelevant; hip hop culture has changed
Amid the imperial atmosphere that Suits and Burhardt provide with the confluence of horns and orchestral choir sounds, LL bludgeons with a flow and cadence that conjures memories of his very first album, reminding everyone why he’s considered one of the greatest to ever do it:
You see I changed rap forever, I elevated the game
Launched the greatest label in the history of rap
And for 24 years I carried it on my back
Exit 13 is replete with affirmations of LL Cool J’s place in hip hop history. The very next track, “Old School New School,” has Ryan Leslie cooking a brew with triumphant horns and a couplet of Biggie’s “Who Shot Ya” for LL to celebrate his ability to thrive in virtually any era. In “You Better Watch Me” and “Rocking with the G.O.A.T.,” Uncle L reminds naysayers of why he’s the king of brag rap. And in “This Is Ringtone Murder,” featuring Grandmaster Caz injecting some old-school flavor in the hook, LL figuratively goes for the necks of a class of rap artists simplifying their beats and rhymes for a bump in the digital sales of their singles at just 99 cents a pop. Come to think of it, before he was a meme, Souljah Boy belonged to that group.
Well, LL Cool J was and will never be a ringtone rapper. And he could hang with a much younger generation of rappers who at least take lyricism seriously in “Get Over Here.” In fact, in Exit 13, LL sounds rejuvenated, an adjective that would have never been ascribed to him post-Mr. Smith. LL is not regarded as one of the technical greats in hip hop, but at least here he’s reasonably reduced the amount of corniness and sloppiness in his rhymes, and the bars are much more tightly woven.
The beats also help a great deal. In addition to Ryan Leslie, there’s the sparse, beep-laden bop that DJ Scratch of “Ill Bomb” and “The G.O.A.T.” provides in “Rocking with the G.O.A.T.” And there’s the synth-laden menace that Marley Marl—yes, Marley Marl of Mama and 14 Shots—primarily crafts with the drums that Swizz Beatz created for Cassidy’s “I’m A Hustla” in “You Better Watch Me.” LL is truly in his element when the energy of the beats match his energy on the mic.
Exit 13, however, begins to sag about a third into it. It’s a monster of a record: 19 tracks, about 73 minutes. Only G.O.A.T. surpasses it in girth, and that’s by a whisker. So, obviously there’s an issue with quality control.
We can start by blaming the blatant commercial concessions. During the 2000s, the need for a pop-friendly first single from LL Cool J was more obvious than at any other point in his career. From a purely business standpoint, there’s nothing wrong with that, of course. (See: Eminem.) But they had to be good, and they had to work.
“Baby” was the designated golden child (no pun intended), featuring The-Dream and produced by Tricky Stewart. By then, though, LL’s skills as a loverman had eroded to the point that he delivers languid bars over synth-heavy production that sounds like it could have felt more at home on a Jeezy record: about three earlier. Then there’s the rock remix of “Baby,” which just makes things worse. Sped up with the same lyrics as the original, the song is pegged as featuring Richie Sambora, best known as the lead guitarist of the rock band Bon Jovi. But anyone anticipating scrunching guitars would have been disappointed to hear something that sounded more like a voicebox. Since when did Sambora become Troutman? Not surprisingly, “Baby” didn’t exactly have the ladies, or anyone, really, screaming for more.
So, “Baby” obviously doesn’t work. And neither does the Lil’ Mo-featuring “Cry,” a promo single where LL’s uninspired take on romantic promises can make one pine for its older and superior namesake—also featuring Lil’ Mo, this time, with Ja Rule.
As for the other romance songs, they marginally fare better. “Feel My Heart Beat” has LL Cool J enjoying a role play with then G-Unit artist Precious Paris in The Dream Team’s strident bass-and-horn track. Paris’s then-boss, 50 Cent, is restricted to the chorus. No menage-a-trois here, folks. Suits and Burghardt show up for the Bollywood-influenced “I Fall in Love,” where LL gets on a rollercoaster with Elan Luz Rivera. And “Like a Radio” is a metaphor-rich song where LL is greatly assisted by Ryan Leslie’s vocals and austere yet compelling, club-ready soundscape. If we never get the heights of LL’s ‘90s romance prowess again, at least these are fine.
By the time the final third of Exit 13 rolls in, some listeners may be relieved to see the advance guide signs. “Speedin’ On Da Highway” is a thumper of a song that has LL admirably employ his BAD-era flow with a new-school sheen. “Come and Party With Me” breaks up the monotony of the dearth of guest rappers on the album with the presence of Fat Joe and Sheek Louch. And “Ur Only a Customer” and “We Rollin’” make up for their lack of immediacy with their cruise-ready ’70s-styled instrumentals, thanks to McFadden & Whitehead and Gwen McCrae, respectively.
But the last third could have done without “Mr. President” and “American Girl.” LL Cool J has never been the overtly political or socially conscious type, and one can see why here. Bush the Second might be on the way out in 2008, but it sure doesn’t feel like it, with LL confronting him on various issues of national interest: from illegal immigration and poor healthcare to 9/11 and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. There’s a randomness to the whole affair that marks “Mr. President” as an inferior companion to earlier similarly named efforts from more socially aware rappers like 2Pac and Intelligent Hoodlum (now Tragedy Khadafi). Oh well, considering the stuff with Canibus, at least LL and guest Wyclef Jean made up.
And then “American Girl” comes right after that, with an instrumental that feels ripped out of a Revolutionary War marching band. It just makes LL blithely tie his physical appreciation for American girls in all their diversity (in more ways than one) to the Founding Fathers and the Revolutionary period of U.S. history so much worse. Who knew that Thomas Jefferson would love BET? Who thinks replacing George Washington’s face on the dollar bill with a pair of boobs is funny? Why don’t the lines where LL praises Benjamin Franklin for indirectly providing the “best [girls] in the world” register at all? And who would have thought that this level of racial and historical dissonance—particularly coming from a Black American, a descendant of slaves—was the precursor to LL’s worst musical moment? (That’s another story.)
Thankfully, Exit 13 ends on a bit of a high note. In “Dear Hip Hop,” with DJ Scratch inserting a sample of MC Shan’s “The Bridge” in the hook and Streetrunner providing the somber horns and strings, LL Cool J takes the blame as an elder statesman for not being more vigilant about the growth and maintenance of his beloved genre. Could he have taken on a more active role, such as a music exec a la Jay-Z? Could he have been too distracted by his growing film commitments and other non-musical endeavors? Could he have had direct progeny, just like EPMD, or Biggie, or ‘Pac, or Jay-Z? Regardless of the what-ifs, it’s at least admirable that LL Cool J, even with his immense contributions to what we rap and hip hop fans enjoy today, still feels he could have and can do more.
In retrospect, there’s a bittersweet aura and quality to Exit 13. It’s marginally better than any album LL Cool J put out in the 2000s. Shave off five or six songs from it, and it’s way better. Exit 13 also points to a possible path of aging gracefully in hip hop music. LL was 40 then, ancient by rap standards, and the album is an acceptable template from which middle-aged rappers would develop superior offerings, such as Jay-Z’s 4:44 in 2017 and, more impressively, Nas’s King’s Disease and Magic series between 2020 and 2023.
But it was clear that Exit 13 was not going to be a best-seller. After the string of ho-hum albums, people were truly beginning to move on. Consequently, Exit 13 bears the unenviable distinction of being the first LL Cool J album to neither go Gold nor Platinum upon its release. LL would blame Def Jam for not having the incentive to properly promote a farewell album. But the truth is, every artist’s commercial run inevitably comes to an end, and LL is no exception. At least Exit 13 serves as an admirable acquittal of a guy who’s been accused of not being as great as he actually is. Besides, just because the off-ramp was not exactly the smoothest doesn’t mean than you can’t get back on the highway again.
