ItвЂ™s a similar emotional investment to that which crops up in вЂњWet DreamsвЂќ, a feat of storytelling and a moment of honesty so grand as to be cringe worthy, recounting the tale of young ColeвЂ™s sexual awakening, and the fumbling naivety which defined it. Over a chopped up vocal sample and alien beats he finally shows us the flow that earned him his reputation as one of the best in the game, with the kind of callous fury that fans will cling to as a sign his passion hasnвЂ™t died. Despite using a chorus that plays off the overworked вЂwindows/wallsвЂ™ chant made famous by the Ying Yang twins, album standout вЂњG.O.M.DвЂќ reminds us that, stylistic confusion aside, Cole can spit. If this all sounds overly negative, itвЂ™s not meant to вЂ“ these low points somehow manage not to detract from the glimmers of his previous brilliance, and ColeвЂ™s charm is almost certainly to thank for this. His use of lame tropes about hos and bitches also fall short, an accessory to a point about nothing at all, much like his infrequent references to racial tensions in the music industry (yes, thereвЂ™s a dig Iggy AzealeaвЂ™s, albeit one so mild as to barely register), which feel, in comparison to the forceful entreaty for change presented by the likes of Run The Jewels and Kendrick Lamar, like a beginnerвЂ™s guide to hopping on an idealistic bandwagon: the easy way to feign depth. The problem with all of this is it renders ColeвЂ™s claims to greatness hollow, his confidence ringing untrue, echoing throughout the album as though he himself knows he isnвЂ™t really fooling anyone. Unfortunately for them, 2014 Forest Hills Drive doesnвЂ™t suggest an artist whoвЂ™s continued on his predicted trajectory, but rather one who has allowed himself to become overwhelmed by the feast of creatively diverse emergent rap the last two years have endowed us with, and consequently no longer really knows where heвЂ™s headed.ДЄs an album it feels listless, slapdash and even at times lazy, as though the hunger and frustration that seemed to creep out of the corners of Born Sinner has dissipated, with too many of the songs appearing like the embittered ghosts of other (not always better) rappersвЂ™ oeuvres: the preposterously titled вЂњA Tale of 2 CitiezвЂќ could be a Drake off-cut, the sample from вЂњFire SquadвЂќ languishes like something out of a second-class Eminem track and the beat on вЂњHelloвЂќ might as well have been a Flying Lotus rip-off, while вЂњSt TropezвЂќ sees Cole attempting to sing in a manner previously only heard in the more excruciatingly awkward works of Childish Gambino. There was a time when it felt definition was indeed ColeвЂ™s ambition: his previous LP, 2013вЂ™s bold Born Sinner was riddled with tracks that suggested an untapped reserve of lyrical deftness and a canny ear for a great beat: it was one of the strongest rap albums of the year (and lest we forget, 2013 was the year that brought us game-changers like Yeezus and Nothing Was the Same) and spoke of growth and promise that left his fans awaiting new work with baited breath.

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