I won’t say I lost the joy, but in this six-year period from my last album, I didn’t record for a year and a half. Was there ever a moment where you noticed yourself losing the joy for the art form? Where it started to feel like something forced? That’s gotta feel like a fucking wilderness. I got to a point, probably about the four- or five-year mark, where I’m like, “Man, I hope they ain’t forget about me.” A lot of new artists coming out every day. The game is moving so fast-it’s a lot of new music being released. It’s a long time, and the consumption of music is moving faster by the second. I don’t generally feel it, but this time I really was wondering, like, “Will they still love me?” Six years. But this is the first time I’ve felt actual pressure. It’s not just what I think or what somebody else thinks. Until we all collectively feel like it’s ready. We heavy on bodies of work, and we don’t put it out until it’s ready. I’m heavy on that culture, and I think we all are as a team-TDE-we just come from that era. You don’t come off as the type to get nervous about how your work is received, but I gotta imagine you felt some pressure-even if it’s just internally-to create something and for it to land. It’s been six years since Do What Thou Wilt dropped. Granted, it isn’t exactly clear what kind of market there is for that sort of thing anymore. It’s not a perfect record (the run time is more than a little long), but it’s overflowing with the kind of focused introspection that could turn grating in less deft hands. And there’s an overriding message-about grief and growth and all the messiness in between-that touches the kinds of nerves his best work does while avoiding most of his previous projects’ poorly aging pitfalls. There are a couple of turns of phrase on the project that no one this side of Marcy could fuck with. He’s as nifty in a pocket as he thinks he is. Plus, it helps that his sword hasn’t dulled. And just put it in God’s hands and hope for the best.”

“I tried to remove a lot of my arrogance with this album. “This is the first time I’ve felt actual pressure,” he admits. Over 18 economical tracks, he takes it all the way back to square one: before TDE, online-chat rap circuits, rhyme scheme indoctrinations, or fame itself. The new record, Herbert (a nod to Soul’s government name), sees him back from the mountainside, the sound of the Word still ringing in his ears. “He went through a lot of life,” says TDE capo and Soul’s longtime manager, Terrence “Punch” Henderson Jr. That’s how Top Dawg Entertainment’s black sheep, the semi-suburban yin to ScHoolboy Q’s Cripped-out yang, a Lupe-Fiasco-mixed-with-sativa kind of predestined MC, went plain missing. One year turned into three, a pandemic hit, and he might not have lost his way, but he had to find a new path. The short story is that Soul went through some shit. “It has to happen naturally on your time, on your accord.” “You can’t force art you can’t force your creativity,” the rapper says, eyes hiding behind a pair of gold-accented aviators. Hence the hiatus-which he takes no pride in but also finds no fault in. He’s ready to control what he can, though music sometimes isn’t one of those things. The 35-year-old Carson, California, native sinks into a gray velvet sofa in a boutique hotel on the Lower East Side of Manhattan a week before his first album release in more than a half decade. Ab-Soul is laid back but not without a care.

Ranking ab soul albums