Competition was none. He remained on top like the sun. And if this is really the end of the career of Shawn Corey Carter, then it was one hell of a run. Y’all already know: We’ll always love Young Hova.

“ Anything I set out to do, I set out to be the best. And as far as rap, I don’t feel like anyone can do what I do better.”

On a balmy August night in 1998, an unusually candid and talkative Jay-Z sat on a secluded bench on the Brooklyn Promenade, and matter-of-factly predicted his inevitable rise to rap royalty. Maybe it was the wine he knocked back earlier in the evening at a festive dinner at Carmine’s Italian eatery with his Roc-A-Fella cohorts. Or maybe it was the knowledge that he had just completed the album—Vol. 2… Hard Knock Life—that would catapult him to stardom. But the man was certainly abuzz with confidence.
Over the next five years, Jay would dominate his field, recording prolifically (averaging more than one album per year), and churning out a seemingly endless stream of hits—his shape-shifting delivery equally at home on a frenetic track from Timbaland, sweeping soul anthem from Kanye West or classic DJ Premier banger. No matter the beat, Jay-Z displayed an uncanny ability to reconcile the seemingly contradictory facets of his persona in a way we could all relate to. Whether it was analyzing street dreams with detached arrogance (“Dead Presidents”), adopting a cautionary voice (“D’Evils”), celebrating rags-to-riches success (“Hard Knock Life”), exposing the pitfalls of fame (“Lucky Me,” “Heart Of The City [Ain’t No Love]”), lamenting lost love (“Song Cry”) or just appreciating the finer things in life (“Big Pimpin’,” “Poppin’ Tags,” etc.), the genius of Jay Hova is that within his witty, effortless storytelling lies vulnerability and truth. His art not only reflects his own life experiences, but those of a generation of listeners—who see a little bit of Jay in themselves.

But on this October evening—seven albums, a Grammy, several hundred million dollars in Rocawear revenue, a Reebok shoe deal, a Heineken commercial, his own New York sports bar 40/40 and a high-profile “friendship” with one bootylicious songbird later—an older, wiser, and most definitely richer Jay-Z sinks into a couch in the main room at Baseline Recording Studios. Fresh from a day of back-to-back photo shoots—one of his least favorite obligations—and a meeting with Madonna (yes, that Madonna) to discuss a possible collabo down the line, Jay relaxes in a crisp striped shirt, impeccably ironed Evisu jeans, dark blue Yankees cap and his own S. Carter sneakers, and reminisces about his illustrious career. Once again, he speaks with candor and coolly makes some predictions. But this time, he’s not forecasting another multi-platinum album, challenging a fellow MC to a lyrical duel or boasting about his vice-tight grip on the industry. Nope. With The Black Album set for a November release, a tour planned and an upcoming autobiography, tentatively entitled The Black Book, due to hit stores next year, the man who two years ago proclaimed “I can’t leave rap alone, the game needs me” is changing his tune. Yup. One of the very best who’s ever done it claims he’s hanging up the microphone. Jay-Z says he’s retiring.