DOIN IT WELL
From Hollis to Hollywood, LL Cool J has been jingling longer than any other rapper in the game. After forays into books, television, and movies-and a highly publicized MC challenge - Mr. Smith is back with G.O.A.T. featuring James T. Smith (The Greatest of All Time), his hardest-hitting album since Mama Said Knock You Out. Go ahead, call it a comeback.

By Lola Ogunnaike and Christian Witkin

Just 30 minutes outside Manhattan, at the far end of the Francis R. Buono Memorial Bridge, you'll find the infamous Rikers Island, a sprawling 415-acre prison. Deep in the bowels of this barbwire-encircled compound - past the general-population prisoners playing pickup ball, past the plastic case displaying a gang of confiscated shanks, and far past the posting of this Dostoevsky quote: "The degree to which a society is civilized can be judged by entering its prisons" (American translation)-is the Central Punitive Segregation Unit, or the "Bing." The path to this solitary-confinement ward is as quiet as the inside of a sealed jar. But when the doors to the Bing slide open, you're immediately overwhelmed by the deafening cries of inmates-some fighting to remain sane, others slowly going crazy.
"Let me out of this motherfucker!" yells a man locked in a cell on the second tier.
On the first floor, two pale white hands reach out of the food slot of cell No. 21. They flap around like gasping fish on land before handcuffs quickly choke the life out of them. "It ain't the Holiday Inn," deputy Tim O'Reilly dryly observes. No, it most certainly isn't. Look around and you'll see nothing but the whites of the inmates' eyes. Faceless apparitions floating behind dead-bolted doors with nobody to call their own. More screams. More cries. More pleas for freedom. Metal against metal. And the piercing clang of jingling keys. Prisoners locked down 21 hours a day in 11' x 12' pens. One hour of recreation time. Three showers a week. A personal escort at all times.

LL Cool J remembers all of this. He visited Rikers every day for a week last summer, right before he started writing his new album, G.O.A.T. featuring James T. Smith (The Greatest of All Time). "I went there to show the inmates some love, to give 'em some encouragement," he explains. "It was a cold, lonely, and desperate place. A draining place."

Far away from Rikers, in a plush hotel suite in Montreal, where LL is shooting a big-budget remake of the '70s cult sci-fi film Rollerball, he talks about the tragedy of seeing women and children in prison. The horror of giving birth while incarcerated. It's clear the Bing is forever seared into his memory. "They have to take a shower in a stall that's probably the size of a phone booth with handcuffs and chains on their ankles," he explains. "It was bananas. The shit is unbelievably degrading and unbelievably rough, man. I can only imagine what goes through a man's mind in that situation. You've got to hate the world at that point."

Bimmy Antney, LL's childhood friend and director of A&R at Def Jam, initiated the tour of the prison as an exercise to toughen the rapper up. "I think Rikers was good for him," he says. "LL was too Cali'd out. The mansions, the sushi-all that's fantasy shit. He needed to see some real gutter shit to get back in touch." According to Antney, it was a mind-blowing experience for LL. "After the first day he was like, 'Damn, I don't know if I want to go back.'"But LL returned, giving himself over to the gutter of all gutters. Antney says the experience turned LL into a "lion." "He wasn't sitting around having conversations with Burt Reynolds; he was eating in the mess hall with niggas that was never going home. That shit really made him realize where he could've landed. After we left the island, I didn't hear from L for three days. When I found him, he was down in the basement of his grandmother's house writing." Most of LL's early work was created in that basement. When he emerged, he had written six tracks, including "Homicide" and "Can't Think."

Traces of Rikers run through G.O.A.T. Packed with loads of grit and palpable grime, it sounds nothing like LL's albums of recent years. Conspicuously absent are schmaltzy pop joints like "Hey Lover" and overly fluffy production. G.O.A.T. is angry, unflinching, undeniably hardcore, and completely unexpected. On this album, the veteran rapper is fueled by a burning need to set the record straight. "I have to let people know that I'm the greatest rapper of all time," he says with a smile. Like a bloodthirsty pugilist he pounds his message home song after song after song. "Ain't no rapper dead or alive fuckin' with me / Ask the last bitch that tried to come and get me," he spits on the album's intro. "Why am I called the greatest of all time? / Because for 15 years I kept y'all standing in line." Of course, keeping in mind the fact that a significant number of his fans wear high heels, LL-lover of all ladies, lip-licking lothario-includes a few tracks for the females ("Imagine That," "Hello," and "This Is Us"). For the most part, however, G.O.A.T. is an indefatigable machismo-fest. On "Legendary," the Muhammad Ali of rap states, "You don't understand, I'm just the best that ever did it / When my physical form's gone, I'll spit it from the spirit." And "Mirror Mirror" delivers a no-holds-barred hook that's sure to cause a shitload of controversy once it hits the streets: "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who was the man before Pac and Biggie Smalls?" he asks. Arrogant? Yes. Self-indulged? Extremely. Fun to listen to? Oh, most definitely.

It was even more fun to make, says LL. "I haven't been this excited about an album since Momma Said Knock You Out," he confesses. "With G.O.A.T., I decided to take off all the creative handcuffs. I let myself be free... I've gotten rid of the managers who were slapping my wrist telling me not to curse, to tone it down. I'm not playing the perimeter on this album," he says. "I'm dunking on niggas and taking it straight to the hole." Free from his own musical Bing, LL spares no one. On "You Can't Fuck With Me," he takes a jab at a certain comedian: "Once and for all, what's my opinion on Jamie Foxx? / He pussy, and plus he ain't as funny as Chris Rock" (a pointed reference to the fight LL and Foxx had on the set of Any Given Sunday last year). He uses "Back Where I Belong" to crucify Canibus, who called him a "homo rapper dripping with wack juice" on "Second Round K.O." "I hate to be responsible for destroying your career / A one-hit wonder-no wonder you disappeared," LL spits.

Though he relentlessly disses Canibus on G.O.A.T., calling him a "baboon-looking nigga" that he'll "butt fuck like a ho," LL refuses to malign the MC in real life. "I don't have anything against him. I don't see any reason to dog him in the press," LL says. "Once the mike's turned off I don't hold any grudges. Whatever I need to do on my albums I do and then I leave it separate. The same way that a woman can be a complete freak, nasty, do everything crazy in the world to her husband and then turn around and treat her children like a tender mother."

Surprisingly, LL readily admits he was "rusty" when he first battled Canibus. "Ring rust," he says. "If I was in New York I would've come 10 times harder." He also credits the young rapper with rejuvenating his career. "I thank Canibus, and I'm being serious. Right before the Canibus stuff, I was definitely disinterested in rap. I didn't have a challenge, a reason to be aggressive," LL explains. "I actually remember sitting in my driveway in Beverly Hills three years ago saying to Brian [his personal assistant], 'I don't even feel like rapping anymore. I don't have anything to say.' "

Frankly, it's hard to imagine LL Cool J not having anything to say. He likes to talk a lot; he's not long-winded, just a bit effusive. When the topic turns to the tattoo that launched a thousand disses and he's asked whether it hurt being under the needle, the rapper answers in one rambling gush: "Like hell. Crazily. I felt like I had some pink panties on two sizes too small, with a chain-link thong."

At a hulking 6-foot-2, 240 pounds (with a size 14 foot to boot), LL is literally larger than life, but at the same time he's completely real. "He's a gentle giant," says famed actress/choreographer/director Debbie Allen, who worked with Cool J on the TV sitcom In the House. "He's such a sweetheart and he's soooo funny." Silly is more like it. The rapper, who clearly loves performing on- and offstage, has the entire room in stitches when he breaks into old-school dances like the snake and the prep. But he's no joke. When LL Cool J walks into a room, you definitely know he has arrived, and there's no question you're in the presence of a man who gives and commands respect-the word is tattooed on his left bicep. "Gotta have respect," L says. For the record, the lovely, lustful way he licks those succulent pink lips is "a habit," he says. "That sex-symbol shit is corny." And even though he has flown his Queens, N.Y., barber, Bless, north of the border for a shave, LL claims he's not the fussy, pretty-boy type. "I'm a Marlboro type of cat," he says, his chest swelling just a tad (for the record, he doesn't smoke). "I'm not going to be in the mirror more than my girl. I put on some FUBU and keep it moving."

Before he was LL Cool J "the Great" he was James Todd Smith, a scrappy kid from the working-class section of Hollis, Queens, born into a home filled with music. ("My grandfather played tenor sax; my mother played accordion. My grandmother sings in the choir.") By age 9, LL was rhyming. By age 13 he'd already made his first studio recording. In the studio, young L found he could escape from the nightmare of his father pumping bullets into the stomachs of his mother and grandfather, nearly killing them both. In the studio, he could escape from the memories of abuse he endured at the hands of his mother's lover Roscoe-he was often stripped naked and beaten for the crimes of being hungry, watching TV, or looking at Roscoe the wrong way. Understandably, LL doesn't like visiting this period of his life-"I'm not going to get into all of that. It's in my book," he bristles. But he does offer this: "If you're a woman and you're in a situation where your man beats on you and you stay in that relationship, you're a fool. Straight up. You're stupid."

In the studio he would find his wings, and, he says, "fall in love" with his dream to rock the bells from Hollis to Holland. LL's eyes tear up when he remembers recording his first song. "I was, like, 13. It was incredible, like stepping into a ring at Gleason's Gym for the first time. I made a record that means 'stop, look, and listen' in Swahili." Before long, LL had people doing just that. "He rocked a show in our high school automotive class, tore the motherfucker up, and never came back," says Antney. Discovered by Rick Rubin and Russell Simmons in 1984, LL was only 16 when he signed a 10-album deal with the fledgling Def Jam Records. He was the label's first artist, "the foundation of the company," Simmons says. "His record 'I Need a Beat' was the epitome of what we were trying to do. It was the perfect record to start a label on."

Over the past 15 years, the LL­ Def Jam union has proved to be a match made in hip hop heaven. Def Jam, due in part to its success with LL, is one of rap's largest record labels. It's hard not to sound like a sycophant when discussing LL's formidable career. He was the first rap artist to release eight consecutive platinum-selling albums. His groundbreaking song "I Need Love," off of his second album, 1987's Bigger and Deffer, was rap's first ballad. Never afraid to navigate uncharted territory, LL was the first rap vocalist to perform on MTV Unplugged. And he has amassed countless awards, including a Grammy for Best Rap Solo Performance in 1991 for "Momma Said Knock You Out," another in 1996 for "Hey Lover," two NAACP Image Awards, 10 Soul Train awards, 15 New York Music Awards, and a 1997 MTV Video Vanguard Lifetime Achievement award.

Grandfather of ghetto fabulousness (peep model Veronica Webb on the back cover of 1989's Walking With a Panther, clutching bottles of Moët) and arguably the sexiest pinup in rap, LL is undeniably one of hip hop's most enduring icons: a chameleon who, like Madonna, has been able to keep pace with and remain relevant to pop culture. Easily shifting between being a rapper, actor (Deep Blue Sea, In the House), author (I Make My Own Rules), entrepreneur (LL COOL J Inc.), spokesman (FUBU, Coca-Cola), philanthropist (Camp Cool J), and family man (wife Simone, his childhood sweetheart, is pregnant with the couple's fourth child), LL is a modern-day renaissance man. And still a musical force to be reckoned with. "He's one of the most important brands in hip hop," says Def Jam president Kevin Liles. "When you think LL Cool J you think hip hop." And you think Def Jam, but that may change soon.

It's no secret that, in recent years, LL's relationship with his label has been strained. Def Jam's flagship artist believes a portion of the company's profits should've gone to him when it was sold to Universal Music Group for a reported $70 million. He received nothing. It could easily be construed as a slap in the face, but LL says, "I'm not mad at Russell. I forgive Russell. It hurt my feelings, but that's all it did." In his defense, Simmons offers, "I'm sorry that he believes that he deserves a portion of Def Jam, but that's just something we don't see eye-to-eye on." LL, whose contract only calls for one more album, says he hasn't set his sights on leaving Def Jam, "but," he adds cryptically, "it remains to be seen."

It's well past 1 a.m. on a breezy night in Montreal, and the same LL Cool J who said he was ready to retire for the evening an hour ago cannot sit down. The rapper has just returned from his Suburban RV, where he listened to G.O.A.T.'s title track three times in a row (there's no sound system in his luxury suite). "I'm the G-O-A-T, the greatest of all time," he chants over and over again until he bursts into uproarious laughter. He tickles himself. He knows only one rapper in the history of hip hop would have the audacity, the sheer balls to declare himself the greatest of all time. He knows that lone soldier is him. It's this very knowledge that excites him and moves him to make grandiose statements off wax.

"I am the greatest rapper of all time. Why wouldn't I think that?" Mr. Smith asks, genuinely puzzled that someone might think otherwise. "For 16 years I've been one of the most popular rappers out. Every single one of my albums has sold at least one mil. I have Grammys for 'Hey Lover' and 'Momma Said Knock You Out.' I think I'm more qualified for the job than anyone else."

But when you add up all of these things, do they make him the greatest? "Yes," says DJ Scratch, who produced eight tracks on LL's album. "Motherfuckers did a 10-year bid in jail for killing niggas over sheepskin and leather bombers, came out, and LL is still making fucking records," Scratch continues. "If you can't respect that then you're a fucking hater. Artists need to study him and take notes." "If you use longevity as your barometer, LL's accomplishments are unprecedented," says Nelson George, hip hop critic and author of Hip Hop America. "When we think of Biggie we think of a particular flow. When we think of Snoop we think of a particular flow. But LL has shouted, he's whispered, he's rhymed over R&B and rock beats. He's been a master at adapting whatever is hot at the time to his style. He's been dead a couple of times, but he keeps coming back."

To his credit, LL is one of the few rappers who has battled rival MCs his entire career: MC Shan, Kool Moe Dee, Ice-T, and Canibus. This may actually be one of the reasons he remains popular, says Method Man, who's featured on G.O.A.T.: "Every time someone battles him they add five years to his career."

But, in what's sure to be the hip hop debate of the year, there will be those who vociferously argue that LL isn't the greatest. They'll cite Rakim, Kool G Rap, KRS-One, Too Short, Biggie, and Tupac; LL's name will surface somewhere in the middle. Old-school rapper Kool Moe Dee-whose battles with LL in the late '80s were infamous and infinitely entertaining (the cover of Dee's 1987 album, How Ya Like Me Now, shows him standing in front of a Jeep that has run over LL's signature Kangol)-laughs hard and long at LL's claim to the throne. "That's one of the funniest things in hip hop history I've ever heard," says Dee, who remembers LL being a "punk" afraid to battle onstage at one of his shows. "Hardcore he wasn't. I challenge anyone to take what he was saying and take what I was saying and honestly say that I didn't win [our battles]. Clearly, it was no contest." Dee once said the initials LL stood for "lower-level, lackluster, last, least, limp lover, lousy, lame," and a host of other unflattering "L" words. " There was simplicity to the 10th power on a lot of LL's songs," he says. Yet Dee does place LL on his top-10 list of rap greats, calling him a shrewd businessman, a good actor, and a talented artist who's not afraid to take chances. "I know it sounds ironic, but when I look at LL, I'm like a proud father. He's definitely one of my offspring. He followed the map I laid out. Watching him definitely gives me more pride than anything else." Guess what? LL Cool J cares about none of this. The G.O.A.T. debate can rage on for years and he will be as resolute as he is at this moment. "I don't give a fuck; I'm the greatest right now," he declares confidently. "I'll yell it on top of a mountain with a torch in my hand like Arnold [Schwarzenegger] in Predator. I just really feel in my heart that I'm the greatest."

It's a long way from Hollis to Hollywood. On the set of Rollerball, nobody calls the guy rocking a red 'do rag and FUBU gear LL Cool J; that character doesn't exist here. He's Todd, and Todd isn't a rapper, he's an actor, a "real actor," says the film's director, John McTiernan (Die Hard, Predator). "Half the bozos running around Hollywood don't have the sense of showmanship he has."

In the film, Todd and Chris Klein (American Pie) unwittingly entangle themselves in a blood sport. The role requires that Todd know how to ride a motorcycle. So in the barren fields of Montreal, behind an abandoned cement factory filled with weeds, he practices riding his small blue Yamaha-with the same tenacity and dedication he has given his rap career-until the sun begins to set. There's no question he's a hard worker and clearly eager to prove to the movie industry there's room for more than one rapper named Mr. Smith who can juggle both worlds with equal dexterity. He has already convinced McTiernan and his wife, Kate, Rollerball's costume designer. "I think Todd could be the next big action star," she gushes.

All this will come in time. For now, LL says, in a moment of humility, "I'm just a black man trying to feed my family and live my dreams." He's that type of guy.