It's always a little surprising to remember that. There's a shadow version of that phrase, too, though: J. “I was like, ‘Word up-this is funny as hell.’ But the second or third time, I was like, ‘All right, it's almost embarrassing now.’ Like, ‘All right, man, y'all gonna make me put a feature on the album just so this shit can stop.’ ” Cole went platinum with no features” has become a persistent slogan, like something advertising execs dreamed up around a conference table. Cole diehards, this is a point of pride they love to recite in response to a mention of “Drake” or “Kendrick” or any other name in the “generation's best rapper” debate. Three of these went platinum with no features-as in, without the help of appearances by other artists. He's released five albums, all of them platinum-certified chartbusters. His two early mixtapes, The Warm Up and Friday Night Lights, are considered classics. Cole is one of the most popular rap artists of this generation. So if this were Cole's last year making music, how would he feel? (Don't worry, he assures me, he's not quite ready to stop-even if fans have a trick-knee-before-it-rains feeling that his next album might be his last.) Put simply, J. He tried stardom the conventional way, retreated, retooled, and then achieved real success by trying it again. And he doesn't fulfill the traditional expectations of a career in music, eschewing showier displays of status.
He favors fan-centric releases, like surprise listening parties or Apple Music pre-order pages that spring up just before an album is available, over advance announcements (and did so long before it was the prevailing business model). He achieves it on his terms: He doesn't work with a lot of other artists, he doesn't drop a lot of singles, he doesn't do a lot of press. He's famously uncompromising when it comes to his success. This reticence for attention can be read as a specific kind of obstinacy.
Fans and gossip blogs didn't know he was married until director Ryan Coogler accidentally revealed it in an interview. Home is in North Carolina, where he can play basketball at a local gym for hours without being disturbed. Cole might be a famous musician, but in some ways he tries to live life like he's not. Tautz / Shoes, $650, by Etro / Watch, $17,300, by Omega Sweater, $1,355, by The Elder Statesman / Pants, $460, by E. Cole lunch.Ĭole grew up in Fayetteville, North Carolina-about an hour south of his current home base of Raleigh.
Everyone avoids eye contact for a tremulous second, hoping he doesn't notice how the room smells overwhelmingly of french fries, because no, nobody ordered J. Sandwiches freeze on their journey to mouths. He pauses and asks if anybody ordered him lunch. He makes his way around the room, shaking hands, slapping palms, clapping backs, bumping chests. He enters imperceptibly, all Gumby limbs and soft energy, setting off a slow ripple of awareness as people realize he's there.
While he's over at Spectrum Center, finalizing details for his halftime performance on Sunday night, his team has turned a mellow lounge space into a West Elm-decorated war room, preparing to film a few interviews for a documentary he's working on.Ī makeup artist gently cleans her brushes, somewhere someone is audibly losing at Ping-Pong, a cameraman angles a tripod to J. Cole has about 12 waiting for him at a studio on the Friday of NBA All-Star Weekend in Charlotte, North Carolina. You can tell how famous someone is by the number of people assembled in a room, setting things up, ready to spring into action at the exact moment of their arrival.