The buildup to J. Cole’s The Fall Off has had the rap world pining for the rapper’s take on his own internal conflict. To satiate the hunger and heighten anticipation, the 41-year-old artist dropped the Birthday Blizzard ’26 mixtape, a quartet of loosies meant to boost momentum and guide listeners toward the February 6 release date.
Ever since he bowed out of the Big 3 beef of 2024, Cole’s reputation as one of the best emcees of his generation has been in flux. For an artist so obsessed with achieving hip-hop greatness, how could Cole contradict himself so dramatically in what became the defining rap clash of the last thirty years? The answer, at least according to Birthday Blizzard ’26, is a bit muddled.
Before we get into that, though, let’s make it clear that Cole has been remarkably honest about his desire for greatness. One of the biggest selling points for his fans is the clarity and ferocity of that ambition. This is a man who has charted his own career through album and mixtape titles that trace the cliché milestones of fame: The Come Up, The Warm Up, Friday Night Lights, and now, The Fall Off. Inherent in that chronicling is the notion that Cole has already reached his peak and has, of his own accord, pressed the button on his own decline.
But here comes the contradiction: on Birthday Blizzard, he blames the industry, the internet, the AI bots, and rampant avarice. On “Bronx Zoo,” he recalls the halcyon days when the culture was all about “rappin’ and ball playin’,” but “now the bread and butter is yappin’ and parlayin’.” He blames the nature of his fall-off on everyone else’s clamor for fame, gossip, and hype, whereas he’s always positioned himself as being about the purity of the game.
That’s even though Cole had no issue playing that game during his rise and, at least initially, stepping into the hype hurricane that the Big 3 beef would ultimately conjure.
All of it reads as a bit frustrated. He wants greatness, but doesn’t shoot the ball when his number is called. And it’s not because he lacks the skill; rather, he doesn’t want to participate in a hip-hop world that can be watered down to simple entertainment. The problem is, it’s hard to call yourself the GOAT when you’re not willing to do that.
Part of being the greatest is stomaching all the BS. Jordan still had to do press. LeBron still has to sign autographs. And Kendrick Lamar still has to do a couple interviews. You have to do all of that, and still rap circles around the competition, to even be a respectable entrant in the GOAT conversation.
Greatness hardly ever detonates its own hype on purpose, but that’s what Cole suggests he did when he apologized. “The top ain’t really what I thought it would be,” he raps on Bronx Zoo. “And so I jumped off and landed back at the bottom / And restarted at a level where I wasn’t regarded as much / Just to climb past them again and tell ‘em keep up.”
It reads a little hollow, though, because he didn’t really jump off willingly, he was pushed by a larger hip-hop audience that felt he threw rocks and hid his hand. And the restart hasn’t really happened yet. That begins on Friday with The Fall Off.
I would argue that Cole’s main thesis, that he is just as human as the rest of us, still holds true. He calls the rap game a “frozen tundra” on 99 Build, one that’s been “overcome with loads of marketing plans / based on randomly dissin’ and hatin’ on the next man.” He continues: “I understand, imagine workin’ hard as you can / On this album you planned, hopin’ it charges yo’ brand / But as soon as you drop it, the world’s ignorin’ again.”
Later, he adds that “Drama enhances the attention brought to the fans.”
That frustration with art as a business is deeply relatable for any creator living in an era of constant content churn. The only issue is that Cole was willing to be a part of it, until the kitchen got a little too hot. And that’s fine. The problem only arises when he attempts to rewrite history. He didn’t fall off intentionally; he was absolutely dragged.
That is not to say that Cole’s legacy is forever tarnished. He’ll be the first to tell you that the money is still quite long, that he’s created generational wealth for his family, and that he didn’t have to kowtow to major label heads to do it. He’s still one of the best rappers working today.
But it does feel like he’s entered the “Death of Auto-Tune” era of his career, where he endlessly criticizes what a younger generation of rap fans thinks is poppin’. And there’s space for that in hip-hop, especially for a 41-year-old husband and father.
What’s more difficult, and messier, about Birthday Blizzard ’26 is that he’s chasing ghosts of his own making: fighting spiritual warfare within himself while attributing the oncoming backlash to an audience that didn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to do.
Let’s hope that The Fall Off brings a bit more reflection, honesty, and thematic variety going forward. Otherwise, that decline is going to be a lot harsher than we — or Cole — ever imagined.
