Damnit, does Rick Ross have eyeliner on? Look at his face on the cover. Look closer. Above the tat. Is his debut, Port of Miami, less the sensationalized exploits of a Floridian freeway but more an allegory for a modern Midnight Cowboy? Everyday he’s hustlin’, but what? Drugs? Or butt? As entertaining as that idea may be, that would require an understanding of subtlety and narrative, neither of which are present in Rick Ross’s output. Instead, he is coca nostra in the most plebian sense: Scarface samples and icy synths literally freeze the album’s bloated nineteen tracks into a rock-hard mold. The music is not to be dissected or digested; Port of Miami is pure consumption. It is a high from the moment it enters the listener’s system and can only be maintained by a rapid follow-up. But what hope can there be when even the crack backpacker extraordinaire Clipse needs nearly four years to bring that beat back? Exactly. Enjoy the fix while it lasts.