Jay-Z's Yankee Stadium Residency Day 2 Review

‘The Blueprint’ album has served as an unofficial soundtrack to a mourning city since its 2001 debut the morning of September 11. That sort of timing supports evidence that Hov is a prophet, of sorts, in Timbs (the kind of comedy, I am convinced, God loves). A dark fog containing memories of loss hovered over night 2 of Jay’s historic Yankee stadium residency. I tried to shake the chill I felt in my bones as I scanned my press pass entering the towering Bronx coliseum.

Night one, Jay turned the stadium into a rambunctious family affair with Beyoncé and daughter Blue Ivy on the keys for “Feeling It.” I let my optimism chew on the idea that this show would have the same (if not greater), big-stage, big-moment, vibrant, energy. But when the clock hauntingly struck 9:11pm, the show began as an ode to both the city’s grief and Jay’s. 

I hold love and hate in my heart for Jay-Z in the same dark pocket of flesh where I hold love and disdain for my daddy, and I’ve long recognized this as a problem. As a super-sleuth of my own emotional tar pits, when my eyes first scanned across the term “parasocial relationships” in a communication textbook during college (a term that describes a one-sided psychological bond where one person extends significant emotional energy and interest while the other party is completely unaware of their existence), I knew I had that shit. 

Research supports that adolescence is a psychologically sensitive time where lyrics and media aren’t just environmental static, they are programming. And as a young and hungry aspiring writer, Jay’s verbal dexterity, storytelling, wordplay, and rhymes became welcomed downloads into the electrical wiring of my brain stem. His words were my cheering inner-coach — a “big bro” voice in a family of sisters and a wise father figure who stepped in for my Aquarian father who leans more aloof than present. Jay’s voice was the only masculine I could count on for immediate relief. Need to go to war? Blast Takeover. Need to feel like a champ? Turn on U Don’t Know. Need to cry? Song Cry got you. It’s summer and you need an anthem? H to the Izzo. Blueprint has it all, including sorrow. 

The psychological enmeshment between my inner world and Shawn Carter’s lyrics began during such a crucial time in my childhood brain development that I’ve spent years trying to untangle it all, like stubborn, half-busted, Christmas lights. That ball of confusion in my consciousness finally unraveled over the weekend as I watched Jay perform on day 2 of his 3-day Yankee Stadium residency, a show that left some Blueprint fans feeling robbed of guest performances from the likes of Beyoncé or Rihanna (one angry fan shared on Instagram she would’ve “sold her voice to Ursula”  to see one of the coveted day 1 and 3 acts). In the musings of my own disappointment, I found my inner child finally grappling with the reality of Jay as both an artist and a man. 

The Blueprint – Day 2

The Ruler’s Back was the trumpeting grand-opener, before the set list noticeably skipped to “La Di DaDi,” snubbing Blueprint’s iconic Nas and Prodigy diss track, Takeover. The skip underscores the statement Hov gave to GQ back in March about rap beef going “too far.” I was disappointed in the choice, but that’s a small grain of sand on a beach of disappointments I’ve held over Jay’s choices for years now. Like his partnering with the NFL on the heels of Colin Kaepernick’s kneeling protest. His reported abandonment of schooling programs in Brooklyn. His failed bid to bring gambling to the theater district in Manhattan. And his recent partnership with Target for the re-release of Reasonable Doubt amid ongoing boycotts. The age-old question of “Can we separate the art from the artist?” is presented as a rhetorical one, but the reality is: no, we can’t. 

The art made the artist, but our resistance to hold the multi-dimensions presented in people’s character makes us want to separate the art from the artist to alleviate our own inner tension. But that’s the point of the art itself – it summons us to sit in discomfort and make home in it, even if for a second.

Night two thrust me, along with 45,000 other Jay fans into the middle of what I can only describe as part victory lap and part PTSD nightmare. As two helicopters circled the stadium, aiming bright, white, spotlights on a bulletproof vest-clad Jay on stage, the crowd was on edge as the lines blurred between movie and reality. For a moment, we all shared in the surveillance Hov can’t shake. Before the billions, before the Bey, war was his reality — a reality of street life, gun violence, and poverty he’s still processing. The same way the entire Black community is privately processing where we are from and what we’ve survived, Hov’s doing the same thing, except in public, in plain sight. 

He stood on stage as an artistic martyr: not as Jay, not as icon, not as hero, but as a vulnerable human, still bearing the residue of poverty that lives long in the psyche even when champagne problems abound. I’m convinced Shawn doesn’t want his fans to ever forget that part of his story, because he can’t forget it either. The vibe was set for Eminem’s surprise live-performance of “Renegade,” because, like Jay, Eminem is an artist who never seems too far mentally from his childhood trailer in Detroit. Both men live life loudly out of the mud with grit still stuck in their teeth. Other guests, like legendary Slick Rick (“The Ruler’s Back” was the title to one of his ‘91 rap songs, originally) and longtime collaborator/producer Pharrell, subtly nudged at the idea that day 2’s show was about remembering the raw roots of the art of rap before capitalism (and Jay himself) pimped hip-hop as a global commercial powerhouse. 

Grand Opening, Grand Closing

At the end of the show, Jay appeared on stage in an angelic cream fit and a black Yankees cap crown to kiss the city goodnight night, right when the crowd was fiending for an encore (like a true, retired corner boy). His tone was humble, as if he was invoking the “kid that used to pitch bricks” over in Bed-stuy while simultaneously standing as a now billionaire in the Bronx — a timeline collapse as well as a statistical miracle. For a moment, the Black boy who beat the odds was just happy his art still means something to the city that raised him. For millions of New Yorkers, who blasted and purchased The Blueprint on September 11, the album was a much needed soothing balm over a scar that will never fully heal. And every replay of The Blueprint since has invited Jay’s music to score the background music of our memories — from championship games, to weddings, family reunions, graduations, repasses, and barbecues. 

“The way it resonated with the world, it was part of healing for New York City. I was happy, hopefully, to provide some form of relief for such a tough time,” Jay said. And if we measure Jay’s impact and artistry against Nina Simone’s criteria which states that “an artist’s duty is to reflect the times,” then Jay has done enough. He gets a standing ovation from the heavenly bleachers and a “well done” from the ancestors, for sure.

But can we, as fans, ever stop wanting more? The vapor of disappointment rising from the night 2 Blueprint crowd (who notably missed guest performances from the likes of Bey, Rihanna, Nas, Usher, Teyana Taylor, Jeezy, and more from Day 1 and 3) is thick. So what do we do with it? What more do we expect from an artist that has already given the culture so much? How do we resolve feeling like, ‘stead of treated we get tricked? In Jay’s own words, “mothafuckas ain’t never satisfied,” and maybe, he’s right.

Jay-Z's Yankee Stadium Residency Leaves Some 'Blueprint' Fans Wanting More was originally published on hellobeautiful.com