From underdog to rap entrepreneur. Jay-Z opens up to Rick Rubin

Over the years, our views on Rick Rubin have evolved. We first discovered him as the music producer who moved nimbly between genres, blurring their boundaries, whether it was rap, metal, country or classic songwriting. He is the man who doesn’t play an instrument, can’t read music, and proudly stands by it: the Def Jam label, founded when he was just over twenty in a dormitory room, remains unforgettable, followed by the Beastie Boys, Run-DMC, and the prodigious Johnny Cash, resurrected by his magic touch. In 2017, with “Oh, Vita!”, he even brought Jovanotti—who was going through an artistic crisis—back into the limelight, showing him a viable creative way forward. Rubin would step in and orchestrate the mysterious alchemy that set a confused talent back on the right track. To do so, he always used the same formula: know yourself, and do what comes most naturally to you. As time goes by, we will come to realise that Rubin, with his guru-like appearance, long beard, bare feet and ever-present short shorts, was also a highly skilful navigator of the contemporary music market, which held him in awe because, with his style, he shook things up and defied the rules.

Jay-Z, on the other hand, is now part of hip-hop’s history, a leading figure in the genre but also the embodiment of its decline. He has never made a secret of the fact that he got into it primarily for the money, ever since he realised that his rhymes and his knack for delivering them would earn him far more than the life of a small-time gangster he had embarked upon. Jay has become the epitome of the rap businessman, the millionaire who explored the underbelly of showbiz and emerged with Beyoncé, a host of hits and the decision to call it a day and leave the scene before his artistry began to wane (he’s now back and has organised some concerts, but the feeling is that this is mainly a nostalgic whim).

Rubin and Jay-Z had already known each other and worked together back in the days of the ‘Black Album’. Now, as wealthy, fulfilled and seasoned fifty-year-olds, they have reunited for an inevitably celebratory endeavour: the rite of confession. A superstar, Jay-Z, who speaks his truth to a confessor, Rubin, who nods and doesn’t ask too many questions. Jay-Z in 8 is an eight-part TV series, also available in Italy via Mubi, in which Rubin acts as the officiant and Jay-Z (who is also the producer) stages this oral autobiography, punctuated by songs they used to listen to religiously together, complete with lyrics superimposed on the screen. The entire production is set in the stunning central hall of the Palais Brongniart in Paris, which for a century and a half served as the city’s stock exchange—a former temple to money, where a man who has turned money into a catechism speaks of himself as if he were already history.

The setting is monastic: the building’s deserted nave, a mixing desk, two chairs, a massive sound system, and a powerful bank of lights overhead. Pure Rubin-style minimalism, accentuated by the lush black and white of the images captured by Bradford Young’s photography. The two listen to a track, discuss it, Jay delves into his memory, and then Rubin plays another song. It is the same formula the producer had already tried and tested with Paul McCartney in McCartney 3, 2, 1: an identical listening ritual, although there the conversation focused mainly on dissecting the music, whilst here the lyrics are dissected. With Paul, Rubin played the role of the awestruck fan asking ‘how do you do it?’, whilst the former Beatle responded generously by recounting anecdotes, some well-known, others less so, spanning half a century. This time, everything revolves around Jay-Z’s memories – of which he has plenty – although he remains vague throughout and names very few people, putting on an air of reticence and weighing up every word as if he had his legal team lined up behind the camera. Yet the most revealing moments in the first episodes of “Jay-Z in 8” are precisely his confessions as a former street kid with a turbulent past as a drug dealer – a past that resurfaces without much preamble, with moments of candour one wouldn’t expect from a man so in control. At one point, Jay-Z argues that rap is successful because it is the music of those who start off at a disadvantage, but when he says this, he comes across as aloof and detached, highlighting the series’ paradox: the man who was once the underdog now tells his own story as if it were a late 20th-century memoir, set against the backdrop of a neoclassical building that epitomises power. Occasionally, the confession turns into revelation, but there is only time to be surprised by it before the kitsch mannerisms take over again. Rubin asks a few simple questions and occasionally lets out a ‘wow’ or an ‘incredible’. He is a suitor of rare astuteness, and his weapon is humility: to those who already have everything, he offers the one thing they might lack – namely, the feeling of being listened to attentively by someone who wants nothing in return. Just as when he produces, Rubin does little, and he does it well: he strips away, prunes, cleans up, and puts his stamp on what remains. There is something vampiric about the process: the star lays bare his fragility and Rubin returns it reawakened, whilst appearing not to have touched a thing. Anyone who enters his studio—or his TV series—comes away convinced they have been understood. After all, Jay-Z is a salesman too, and the two recognize each other. Of course, eight episodes is a lot for what is ultimately a filmed podcast, intent on projecting nonchalance. A few uncomfortable truths are touched upon, but the authorised autobiography has its own rules. No scoops, but above all, it’s a show featuring two stars who allow themselves the luxury of filming themselves whilst listening to their music calmly and in silence, in an age where extreme speed in finding solutions is constantly demanded.