Enough Is Enough. I’m Officially Good on Jay Electronica

Hit the eject button and get me off this bus IMMEDIATELY.

As an avid comic book head, X-Men alumna Laura Kinney (AKA X-23, AKA the other Wolverine) introduced me to the concept of a trigger scent.

In short, she was a clone created in a lab by an evil corporation—like a room full of Stephen Millers—for the sole purpose of murdering innocent people who would much rather do things like continue breathing oxygen or frolic with pumpkin spice lattes. And as if being a bloodthirsty teenage girl, with retractable claws and a natural aptitude for unarmed combat, wasn’t terrifying enough, her villainous overlords also created a trigger scent that would send her into an uncontrollable murderous rage—as in mauling everything in sight—if she detected it.

They exploited this means of control to heartbreaking effect—forcing Laura to slaughter the geneticist who became like a mother to her, completely against her will.

Fast forward to June 23, 2009, and Jay Electronica’s “Exhibit A (Transformations)” had a similar effect on me.

Try as I may, I could not get that fucking song out of my system—immune, car, home stereo, or otherwise. Those haunting chords? Those ominous piano keys? Jay extolling the virtues of “five finger ring rap” over Just Blaze’s unique brand of gospel-infused boom bap?!

Y’all. Y’all.

Please take me to the King.

It took me months to wean myself off of whatever he put in that song, crying into my drug counselor’s arms as I snuck hit after hit between therapy sessions. And just when I found the courage to kick the habit and reclaim my sobriety, this motherfucker went upside my head with “Exhibit C”—another sanctified banger—and Hip-Hop would never be the same again—as evidenced by the endless deluge of freestyles and discourse it spawned.

In the weeks that followed, with his buzz at a deafening pitch, a fierce bidding war ensued. And once the dust settled, Erykah Badu’s then-boo signed with the other Jay’s Roc Nation label in 2010. Typically, this would imply a full-length project was soon to follow. But nope! That Electronica person proceeded to play in our faces for an entire decade—teasing album release dates one second, and breaking up billionaire happy homes the next.

And with sparse musical output throughout his extended 3,734-day drought, I pursued other interests, relocated to Los Angeles, ventured into an illustrious career in Hollywood, had a whole ass child, and finally rid myself of my addiction to all things Jay Electronica—or so I thought.

Because out the blue, in February 2020 to be exact, came this succession of tweets from the New Orleans wordsmith himself:

“‘…my debut album featuring Hov man this is highway robbery’”

“Recorded over 40 days and 40 nights, starting from Dec 26”

“Releasing in 40 days”

“A Written Testimony”

My trigger scent was instantly reactivated.

However, after years of suffering and stammering through severe withdrawal symptoms, Jay’s debut album, “A Written Testimony,” didn’t quite deliver the fix I was fiending for. Yes, there was a minuscule amount of that pure, uncut raw on there, but being a guest appearance on your own debut album is a criminal offense in at least 17 countries. Why in the red, white, and blue fuck is Beyoncé’s husband laid out on the bench press, doing all the heavy lifting?

After over a decade of anticipation, calling that “album” underwhelming is the understatement of the century. And just when I thought I had finally flushed every ounce of disappointment out of my system, not to be outdone, the 49-year-old returned from the dead with a surprise release on Friday: this time, a 7-track clunker that’s equal parts flimsy, disjointed, and grueling. (He also dropped a 5-track EP I'd describe the exact same way.)

To be clear, “A Written Testimony: Leaflets” isn’t uncharted territory. It’s still riddled with the same protracted speeches, random incursions, and conspiracy theories we’ve come to expect from a dude who treats his rap career like a booty call. I’m just hip to this ruse and smart enough to know better now.

After broken promise after broken promise, I don’t want to listen to six minutes of duct-taped speeches interrupted by a meager two-minute ration of rapping.

I don’t want to listen to Stevie Wonder’s archival footage being ambushed by opaque rhymes and meandering production.

I don’t want song titles I can’t recall while I'm trying to tell the homies about a song I almost liked.

I don’t want Diddy.

And most importantly, I don’t want music that’s created without audience consumption in mind. I’m an ardent proponent of allowing an artist to explore the full breadth of their artistry, but gotdamn, nigga. At least pretend like you give a fuck about how your music sounds as a cohesive body of work.

Shit.

Jay’s mutant power is mystique; it’s a ploy he wields with unparalleled mastery. But with his discography falling into question as his facade continues to erode, all that’s left is a gifted rapper who's proven himself incapable of delivering a quality, full-length project. And after almost 20 years of failing to be rewarded for my patience, I have zero interest in waiting to see if he’ll ever deliver on that promise.

Because, as much as I hate to admit it, Jay Electronica no longer has a trigger scent—that’s just the lingering stench of wasted potential.