How Will Smith and LL Cool J Work Through Being Older Rappers

Though hip-hop is 52 years old now, its fans are still getting used to the idea of an Old Rapper. There was a time when, if you hadn’t gotten your big break by 30, people expected you to wrap it up and clock in at UPS. But today, you don’t have to look far to find examples of elder stars. Golden-age pioneers like Big Daddy Kane (56) and Missy Elliott (53) have settled into the nostalgia circuit, while millennial icons like 50 Cent (49), Nelly (50), and Bow Wow (38) are starting to join them. Wu-Tang Clan, arguably the most recognizable rap entity this side of Tupac, is gearing up for their official farewell tour. De La Soul’s victory in their decades-long fight for control over their early catalog has led to new relevance for the trio—especially following the death of member Dave “Plug 3/Dove” Jolicoeur—in ways both positive and negative. Cali weed rap emissaries Cypress Hill just released a live concert film of their recent Simpsons-inspired greatest-hits collaboration with the London Symphony Orchestra. Old-school rap has finally reached the pedestal that classic rock has had a death grip on for years.          

As lucrative as nostalgia can be, though, not all elder rappers are consigning themselves to that gilded cage. Will Smith and LL Cool J, two larger-than-life titans of mainstream rap in their late 50s, have returned after years-long absences with new albums in recent months. Based on a True Story and The Force, respectively, deal with not just the concept of being an Old Rapper but the pressures that come with reentering the spotlight and adapting to a world far removed from the one that molded them. 

Smith’s album, in particular, comes with an overwhelming amount of baggage. You don’t become a blockbuster name—the first rapper to ever win a Grammy, a movie star whose films have grossed a combined $9.5 billion at the box office—without overexposure and compromise. The clean-cut good-guy image that made him an early rap hitmaker and star of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air has been dismantled thanks to his self-titled autobiography and a laundry list of controversies, most notably his reported-to-death slapping of Chris Rock at the 2022 Academy Awards. The toll of that moment has been dramatic and overblown, and combined with childhood trauma and lingering criticism of his kid-friendly swear-free rap style, the persona of Will Smith became a shield for the person to hide behind. 

“We all create these characters that are gonna be our characters who defend us in the world,” Smith said during a 2020 episode of The Breakfast Club. “Then, that character wins some things for us—we succeed by behaving this way. Then what happens? You get to a point where it stops working as well, and the reason it stops working is because it’s not true. I’m gonna be who I am, even if it isn’t in line with the Will Smith that people think I’m supposed to be.” 

Based on a True Story, released 20 years to the day after his last studio album, 2005’s Lost and Found, tries to split the difference between the Will Smith of then and now. The cheesy bravado and box office flexing of his earlier work is still there, but cracks have developed in the armor, and he responds by either lashing out or finding solace in faith. And don’t get it twisted—there’s enough cheese here to fill a Coogi-colored charcuterie board.

The first four words on opening skit “Int. Barbershop - Day” are “Will Smith is canceled,” uttered by Smith himself in an old-man voice, before its story unfolds. Smith, longtime collaborator DJ Jazzy Jeff, and comedian B. Simone play patrons at a barbershop with various opinions about his wins and losses. “Cringe” doesn’t begin to describe how shoulder-strainingly unfunny this song is—a decent premise undone by hammy overacting and self-deprecating “jokes” fit for a Funny or Die sketch—but by the time Smith himself enters the shop and the crowd shuts up, the point’s been made: Everyone talking shit about Smith behind his back wouldn’t do so to his face. It’s an opportunity to clear the air for a statement, the musical coda to three years' worth of buildup and an attempt to define himself for a generation of new listeners. And it’s a corny, treacly slog. 

I didn’t expect Will Smith to come back rapping over F1lthy beats or rhyming like a Mike clone, but I was hoping he’d evolved past the pious praise raps of loose singles like “Get Lit” or “You Can Make It.” But that and those blockbuster bars are all he has in store here. “You Lookin’ For Me?” tries to set the tone with a beat emulating Mastermind-era Rick Ross, but the writing skews too vague to dazzle or inspire much thought—he says he and Jazzy Jeff are like Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen, and no, he won’t be taking any questions about his relationship with his wife. Okay…and? The songs that shift fully into redemption mode aren’t much better, leaning aggressively on tired concepts like “Beautiful Scars” without digging deeper into what Will’s thinking and feeling at any given moment. “I will not sugarcoat this stuff with bubblegum,” he says in a quasi-trap cadence airlifted from 2018 on the Joyner Lucas-featuring “Tantrum.” Could’ve fooled me!

Without the context of his very public untangling, most of Based on a True Story sounds like it was recorded directly after Lost and Found and put on the shelf for two decades.  With the exception of “Hard Times”—which interpolates a lush modern twist into the plinking keys from the titular Dr. Buzzard’s Original Savannah Band song—the beats, mostly handled by producers Lexoskeleton, OmArr, and Kyle Townsend, are NBA 2K highlight-reel generic. They’re either too stuck in the past, like the inexplicable blend of gospel and nu-metal on “Bulletproof,” or playing catch-up to trends that are anything but fresh, like Afrobeats (“Make It Look Easy”) and the kind of trap-boom-bap mashups Eminem was making on Kamikaze (“Tantrum”). 

Based on a True Story is a missed opportunity, because Smith and company clearly wanted the world to hear it. He seemingly made all the right promotional moves—spots on podcasts like Drink Champs and Million Dollaz Worth of Game, video interviews with Spotify, even making a song on PlaqueBoyMax’s Twitch stream. But there’s little to chew on outside of the novelty of Smith’s return to the album format, and his flows are rigid and awkward. I left the album with the same amount of questions about where he, a genre icon, stands professionally and personally. Worst of all, I didn’t have much fun with it. 

It’s doubly disappointing because seven months ago, one of his contemporaries showed how to do an album like this right. LL Cool J may not have had the uphill media battle Smith did, but there were obstacles to overcome on the way to The Force. His last proper album, 2013’s Authentic, was a feature-heavy mess and, combined with his all-time embarrassing verse on Brad Paisley’s “Accidental Racist,” presaged a short-lived musical retirement. He claims to have had to re-learn how to rap again while making The Force, but listening to it, you’d think he never stopped. LL sounds reinvigorated, easing back into his trademark energy and charisma, comfortable but not complacent. There’s a blend of old-school flexing and braggadocio with a newfound thoughtfulness, the kind that comes from respawning into a game after dying halfway through the level. “I’m seasoned with it, floor seats, who needs tickets?/Time’s up, get your signs and pickets/Wanna see me in the desert, but your man’s liquid,” he spits on “Passion,” before breaking down the themes of Scarface and his family history.

Unlike Smith’s latest, LL moves between bully and teacher like he’s having a conversation with the listener. He’s not throwing platitudes at the wall to see what sticks; he’s walking you through his mind and making sure you take in the landmarks. Some include the title track’s “blue faces matchin’ the deep waves” of the ocean he parties on; some resemble the bustling, COVID-rattled Queens neighborhood he revisits, and where kids don’t know who he is, on “30 Decembers.” He’s capable of dedicating an entire song, “Spirit of Cyrus,” to retelling the story of Chris Dorner, the former California police officer who declared “unconventional and asymmetric warfare” on the LAPD, as well as making a loose, sexy love song with Bay Area rapper Saweetie. Fellow Queens native Q-Tip produced all but one of The Force’s 14 tracks, and the synths, samples, and instruments he slings consistently hit the same sweet spot between vintage and modern. They don’t sound reborn, they’re simply channeling the essence of the past while existing in the present.

Will Smith and LL Cool J are both nearing 60, which makes them among the oldest living rappers who still command large platforms. It’s a big deal that both of them decided to drop albums at this stage of their lives, especially after years away from the studio. But only one of these records feels old, like it’s straining to keep up, no matter how hard its creator tries to seem unbothered. The whimsical looseness of Smith’s Instagram and TikTok videos is missing on Based on a True Story. We don’t need him to reinvent himself, but it’s so vague and musically anonymous that none of the supposed truths revealed on the album have any weight to them. On the other hand, LL figured out how to translate his old-school values for a new age and sound like he’s still perched on top of that Audi 5000 from the cover of 1987’s Bigger and Deffer. Elder rappers are still figuring out how to navigate their careers in a youth-obsessed genre they pioneered, but it’s nice to know that for some, age is just a state of mind.