Rick Ross’ sophomore album sits comfortably between the champagne room and the Miami streets, all while anchored by his gruff, commanding bark. “The Boss,” with a glossy T-Pain hook, is a bottle-service anthem with an edge of gangster grit, turning Rozay’s claim as “The biggest boss that you’ve seen thus far” into shouted poetry. On “We Shinin’,” Ross toasts to his own success over lush soul trap—this is music for making it rain, where everyone eats butter-drenched lobster and wears bejeweled pinky rings.