Apparently, J. Cole isn't the kind of rapper he wants to be. From the beginning of his career at the height of the blog age, the North Carolina native has staked his reputation as an unknown rapper, the model for the genre, the check on the experiment. . Although a talented singer with a supple voice, he has always been reverent (sometimes to a fault) with legends from the 1990s and early 2000s, writing about his life in long, mythic arcs and interspersing his albums with radio singles that anchored by ribs and The details of the characters were created in his early mixtapes. It delivers all of this in a way that's designed to free up space for decisive show-punching bursts—a magnetic function, if you can hack it. Cole often can't.
It may be deleted later, released as a “mix” without warning last week, exists solely to highlight this competitive streak in Cole's music. How else are we going to get a record that, instead of a single, was loosely aimed at Kendrick Lamar, who had taken a very light swipe at Cole on Future and Metro Boomin's “Like That” weeks before? But this past weekend, less than 48 hours after its release, Cole took the stage at his own Dreamville Festival in Raleigh and apologized to Kendrick for “7 Minute Drill” and the thump of recycled Jay-Z bars and crackling metaphors (“Fly pebbles in your dome, we Stone Temple pilots”; “Still putting on a show, but it went down like the Simpsons”), calling it “the dumbest shit I've ever done in my fucking life.” It can! The sure thing is It may be deleted later lives up to its dated title as a record that, for reasons related to the apology and not, seems to be undoing itself in real time.
Both would-be singles, “Fever” and “Stealth Mode” featuring Bas, feel like half a record abandoned before being rounded into its ideal shape. (The former is limp and still mostly effective, especially after he recovers from a clumsy opening line that for a second recalls his infamous verse on Jeremih's “Planez.”) Elsewhere, attempts at verbal pyrotechnics become indiscreet: On midway through “Huntin' Wabbitz,” his flow has settled into a sleepy seesaw, and his boasts about being “very locked in” don't quite read as intended.
And even, It may be deleted later it has many exciting elements—rhythmic, textural, even personal. Opener “Pricey” is weighed down by an gratuitously frivolous break and equally strained references to John Gotti and Rick and Morty. But his drums sound like they're crawling through quicksand, and Cole runs nimbly through them. A track later, on “Crocodile Tearz,” he grinds through his teeth in a way that makes him sound more composed and menacing than ever. “HYB” is an extremely rare thing, a subtle integration of drill rock into a less industrial sonic palette. On “Stickz N Stonez,” The Alchemist delivers the kind of irresistible hop that makes rappers buckle up and find new pockets.
