Hip-hop artists of a certain age

We have grown used to the idea of the middle-aged rock star: it is more or less part of the job description these days. But what about the middle-aged rapper? Can he (she is a rarity) survive in the macho world of hip-hop, with hungry young rivals snapping at the microphone? Or is he doomed to discover that rap is no country for old men?

Raekwon chuckles. "No country for old men," the rapper repeats, amused. He is 45, the same age as his fellow New Yorker, Jay Z. A member of hip-hop's most successful group, the Wu-Tang Clan, he released his first solo album 20 years ago, Only Built 4 Cuban Linx, a classic of 1990s rap. Yet here he is, still in "the game" as he calls it, with a new album, Fly International Luxurious Art.

"I can compare myself to some of the greatest wine," he says, uncorking the mature person's favourite boast. "It gets richer as it gets older. I'm a way better artist, a way better businessman than I was in my younger days."

Not so long ago a rapper might have bragged about drinking vintage wines (indeed, Raekwon did so at the start of Only Built 4 Cuban Linx) but he wouldn't have compared himself with them. Rappers didn't grow better with age, they faded away.

Raekwon's hero Rakim, a 1980s pioneer rated as one of the best emcees ever, once rapped that he could "go on for days and days with rhyme displays that engrave deep as X-rays". But his days of success were over by 29. Other greats from the past - "legends", Raekwon calls them - have either diversified into different branches of entertainment, as with LL Cool J's acting career, or joined the nostalgia circuit playing old hits. Their days on the frontline are over.

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A survival of the fittest mentality predominates. It is summed up by the rap battle, in which a pair of gladiatorial rhymers trade lyrical barbs. The competitive ethos is reflected in the frequent use of sporting imagery in rapping. "I'll slam-dunk you like Shaquille O'Neal," Ice Cube snarls. "I'm serving this track like Steffi Graf," Lil Wayne, ever unconventional, chips in.

"I'm like Michael Jordan, I hate to lose," Raekwon tells me. The analogy is double-edged. If the rapper were really an athlete his career, at 45, would be over. But rap, unlike sport, also has certain advantages for the older practitioner. It is not physically demanding to perform (real rappers don't dance) and the writing side tends to improve with experience. If Raekwon, a specialist in snub-nosed crime stories, were a novelist, he would be coming into his prime.

"Exactly," he says. "There's no telling when I'll want to stop. It's one thing to get the legendary credit that I get, and it's another thing to think that the work I put in is enough to make me feel legendary. I still have a lot to do. I have a lot of energy left in me."

He and Jay Z join a growing list of rappers who show no signs of stepping back from the rap game as the years advance. Kanye West is 37, Eminem is 42, 50 Cent and Rick Ross are 39. For his last album Young Jeezy, 37, dropped the "Young" part from his name to become simply "Jeezy", without any dent in his popularity: the record reached number two in the US charts.

Raekwon reckons survival at the top of the rap game is a question of personal drive. "It all boils down to the individual. You got guys out there that have got better with time, you got guys that don't want to do it no more. If you become an iconic figure in the game and you choose to stop, that may be just a choice. It might be something you wanted to do."

The focus on character is true to rap's Darwinian outlook but it ignores changes in hip-hop's culture. The notion of a middle-aged rapper was almost unthinkable in the past. Now it is not. Why? One answer lies in the persona of the "boss". It is a role that has always been present in rap, as when another still-active veteran, Nas, sampled James Brown's "The Boss" in his 2002 classic "Get Down". But, over time, as rap itself has become an ever bigger business, the character of the boss has swollen to hyperbolic dimensions.

We see his imposing form in the Miami drug kingpin that Rick "the Boss" Ross pretends to be in his over-the-top raps ("I'm the biggest boss that you've seen thus far"). He's also there in Jay Z's swaggering Manhattan mogul act ("I'm showing growth, I'm so in charge, I'm CEO").

The inflation in bossing is linked to rap's expanding sense of its commercial power. Last year, for instance, Dr Dre claimed to win the race to be hip-hop's first billionaire when he sold his Beats headphone and music streaming service to Apple. Such a race could not exist in any other genre of music.

The boss is a useful archetype for the middle-aged rapper. It is not a role for a young man. "You have to start at the bottom and work your way up," says Raekwon. "It's like a job. You might have been an intern and now you're an executive."

Entwined with rap's corporate structure is a patronage system whereby older rappers promote younger ones. The exchange is mutual, with the tyro getting exposure and the patron advertising his continuing links to the streets. Rap's emphasis on competition masks the degree of co-operation that also exists in it, especially between the generations.

Raekwon, like many rappers, grew up in a fatherless household. He believes there is room in rap for father figures, a surrogate for the absent real ones. "Yes, absolutely," he says. "Being a father figure is a hard thing because it means being a role model."

He has children himself, the eldest a 20-year-old daughter. "I'm not a grandfather yet! Don't put me up there too quick," he says.

There is a limit to how old rap can go.

'Fly International Luxurious Art' is out on April 28 on Ice H2O/EMI

Photographs: David Wolff-Patrick/Redferns; Shareif Ziyadat; Xposure Photos; Gary Miller/Filmmagic

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