The rapper has also been munificent, bringing many of his Toronto buddies along for the ride. Noah “40” Shebib, a fellow child actor, now his main producer, signed a deal with the same management firm. Another, Matthew Samuels (aka Boi-1da) was behind the controls for Eminem’s new single Not Afraid. Other friends have been given titles like “creative director” and “personal assistant,” mostly, Drake admits, so he could put them on the payroll.
But as large as the pie is, not everyone got a piece. Drake was recently quoted in the New York Times as saying he feels “unsafe” in Toronto at all times. Part of that stems from a May 2009 incident where he was robbed at gunpoint at a College Street eatery. “I feel like in Toronto—from a rap standpoint, or even from being a young, black kid—I’m the only one to achieve this level of success,” Drake told Maclean’s. “Those individuals who hate to see a person succeed, those are the individuals I fear, because in this city I would be their No. 1 target.” A couple of months ago, another Toronto rapper and former collaborator, Big Page, labelled Drake a “snitch,” accusing him of helping police put the robbers behind bars. With his mentor Lil Wayne currently serving a one-year sentence for gun possession in a New York City jail, and his own Forest Hill “street cred” in chronically short supply, it’s a sensitive subject for Drake. “It’s public record that I actually never co-operated. I didn’t show up for the trial,” he says. A PR rep steps in to close off the line of questioning before it can go much further. “It was just something that I wanted to leave behind. They gave me my life that night.”
Overcoming adversity—and the jealousy of rivals—is a well-worn theme in rap. But Drake’s new album perhaps takes it to a new level. From the title on down, Thank Me Later has the feel of an artist who wants nothing more than to justify, and at times reconcile with, his phenomenal success. “Money just changed everything, I wonder how life without it would go?” he sings in Fireworks. There are winks at his endorsement deal, worries about how his fame is affecting friends and family, and sly references to past flashes in the pan in The Resistance. “Did I just trade free time for some camera time? Will I blow all this money, baby, Hammertime?”
But for all the lyrical ambivalence, one gets the sense that it’s mostly for show—the 23-year-old is right where he always wanted to be. “People ask me if I’m surprised by his success,” says Lauren Collins, a long-time Degrassi cast mate. “Not really. I always saw how talented and ambitious he was. He believed in himself more than anybody I’ve ever met.” Marvin Karon, a former acting teacher, still remembers a 13-year-old with a preternatural sense of self, and buckets of easy charm.
He’s also a quick study. Prior to So Far Gone’s release, he had never given a live performance. Within weeks he was tearing it up in front of 20,000 people a night, and gaining a reputation for his jokey between-song patter. For Thank Me Later, he made a deliberate decision to add singing to the mix, undertaking months of intensive voice training. (These days, his vocal coach is travelling with him on the road, working with him before and after every show.)
And in a part of the music business that is generally recognized for its excesses, there is a sense—from a distance at least—of discipline. The plan for the money, beyond “to make a lot more,” is to start investing in real estate. Already a silent partner in a Toronto eatery, Drake wants to open his own upscale Italian resto—envisioning a sanctuary for him and his celebrity friends. And while the Internet is littered with videos of female fans launching bras at him during concerts (he drapes them from his mic stand) Drake swears he’s not filling up hotel rooms after shows. “Women are very approachable these days,” he laughs. “They’re not necessarily shutting me down left, right and centre. But I’d much rather be with one woman, and take it easy, or go for dinner.”
U.S. journalists in particular seem surprised to encounter a rapper who is articulate and polite, qualities Drake attributes to his prior career. “I think acting readied me for being this person,” he says. “I witnessed what it is to be humble, to really listen to people, to look them in the eye.” Although from a Canadian point of view you might best describe him as bilingual—the kind of guy who can rap about his Bubbe entering a nursing home just as comfortably as he boasts about making a certain part of a woman’s anatomy “whistle like the Andy Griffith theme song.” “Even if I say the word ‘bitch,’ I always try to say it in a coy, witty way,” he explains.
At this point, the success of the new album has become weirdly irrelevant. The self-imposed goal is to become a “timeless artist,” defined in rap terms as someone with a career that spans seven, eight, maybe 10 years. Then a return to acting, following the Hollywood path blazed by Will Smith, the former Fresh Prince. In the last six months alone, the press has labelled Drake as “the new face,” “future” and “religion” of hip hop. What does he call himself? “Mr. Got-a-lot-of-work-to-do.” Only a couple of years removed from singing along with CDs in his mom’s basement, Aubrey Drake Graham is now in a position to snatch the crown. “I still get very scared and nervous because I’m competing with my heroes,” he says. “These guys are scary individuals to be wanting to outsell or outdo.”
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