The Virginia-born rap star has built a two decade career on being one of the most uniquely gifted emcees in Hip-Hop. His latest album, produced by Pharrell and Kanye West, continues in the coke rap tradition for which the former Clipse member is famous. His drug tales have become a source of criticism with virtually every Pusha release; there's an ongoing belief that he's limited by, (or worse—that he's become creatively stagnated by), his preoccupation with that white powder.

But Pusha T's gift for coke rap—and it is just that, folks, a gift—is a reflection of his creativity that mirrors our own love for stories involving the sale, criminalization and glamorization of cocaine culture. The Hollywood version of a drug kingpin has become the embodiment of the contemporary American anti-hero. The extended success of shows like Narcos thrives on cocaine as much as King Push does; and even movies that aren't necessarily about the stuff, like Martin Scorsese's Oscar-nominated 2013 hit Wolf Of Wall Street, are ostensibly covered in coke.

Just days before Pusha dropped It's Almost Dry on the public, Snowfall, FX's popular period drama about the crack trade in South Central, wrapped its fifth season. Damson Idris stars on the show as aspiring drug dealer Franklin Saint, and FX has already announced that the upcoming sixth season will be the show's last. The exploits of Franklin and his burgeoning crime organization have been must-see TV since Snowfall debuted in 2017. The biggest draw of the series initially, was its attachment to authenticity: Snowfall boasted the late John Singleton as it's executive producer, and its premise was in many ways a fictionalized take on the life of famed former South Central crack kingpin, "Freeway" Ricky Ross.

For centuries, we've lionized gunslingers, bootleggers and train robbers; we've turned criminals like Billy The Kid and Lucky Luciano into symbols of rebellious American fortitude, even as they also represent the violence inherent in this country's heritage and the ravages of capitalism's insatiable appetites. From a creative standpoint, Pusha T's ability to spin drug narratives as allegories for perseverance and/or pain isn't simple glamorization; there's something cathartic and necessary about expressing the highs and lows of a hustle that has shaped so much Black life in contemporary America.

A glaring difference between Pusha T and a series like Snowfall is the show depicts a reality without having to attach itself directly to the culture of the world it's depicting. So it's authenticity may be drawn from co-signs, but it doesn't have to pay a debt to the personalities or the community that has given it a wellspring of creative inspiration.

"They stole my life story, that's my life story," said Freeway Rick about Snowfall last year. "They stole my story, yeah. It's a fact. John Singleton and I was supposed to be working on a movie and the movie is [still] finna come out. We finna start casting for the movie right now. It's so much to it. It's my story and they're benefitting off it. I'm not benefitting."

What's uncomfortable about a show like Snowfall is also the awkward reality when it comes to hustle-driven rap music. In America, the coke trade has disproportionately affected Black communities. Since the Nixon administration's declaration of a War On Drugs in the early 1970s, and the Reagan administration's infamous 1980s crackdown, Black people have been arrested more often than times their white counterparts. Understanding what drugs have done to a community, and knowing that the community is still reeling from those effects and we can see the damage done daily; we can't just pretend scripted TV shows only exist to bring truth to power.

Shows like Snowfall are often white writers' renderings of the urban experience, a wholly fictional take on very real pain. Even star Damson Idris, a self-described "nerd from London" who studied with rapper W.C. to master the L.A. slang and speech for the role, isn't directly culturally connected to the reality of that pain. Actors become stars and producers win awards, but the harshness of the very real stakes being played out every day in the streets don't change. When Snowfall ends, the blight that it depicts does not.

But those who consume Pusha T's drug tales are living vicariously through his stories. That was always the appeal of Jesse James and Al Capone; that's why little kids would watch Westerns and then go outside and play "cowboys 'n Indians." It's why rappers in the mid-1990s adopted Sicilian-sounding alter egos. It's why suburban housewives fill up their Spotify playlists with "bad bitch" stripper rap. It's the thrill of experiencing a lifestyle you'd never delve into on your own.

Obviously, the music speaks to true experience. But we all know the audience that loves Pusha T is varied; everything from dope boys in the trap, to coffee shop hipsters and tech bros are familiar with his body of work at this point. That's not unique to him; that's what rap music's general audience looks like now. That secondhand thrill that makes a dad blast dope tales after dropping his kids off at private school is the same feeling that little boy got playing with his plastic six shooter after watching Gunsmoke generations ago.

Pusha T isn't required to press pause on his pusha tales. Scorsese may have directed Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore, but when fans see his name attached to something gangster, the buzz is inevitable. Sometimes you just have to know what you're good at. and Marty may not still live in Little Italy, but that doesn't mean that world can't still be a source of inspiration for him. When we demand that Pusha T change, what are we really asking of him?

King Push is a storyteller and a lyricist, blessed with a knack for wringing the wit, the tragedy, and the survivalist spirit out of every last one of those stories. This country loves cocaine; it has just historically punished Black people for getting in on the action.