The 20 Best Comebacks in Rap History

A career in rap is never guaranteed. Scrolling through iTunes can read like a roll call of nobodies and trivia answers. So many artists explode onto the scene with that one great song and then immediately fall off. Because of the twisted part of human nature that enjoys to see people fail, artists who only shine bright in a quick flash tend to to get more attention than those who claw their way to the top, or even to the middle. But we end that today.

That's right: Today, we celebrate the artists whose careers resemble J's on a graph, the ones who took a misstep along the way only to find themselves winning the race. It might be cliché, but this list absolutely calls for an LL Cool J quote. Maybe something along the lines of, "Don't call it a comeback." Or "I need love." Perfect. Read on for a thorough look at the best comebacks in rap history.

Written by Eric Rosenthal and Jeff Rosenthal (@ItsTheReal)

RELATED: The 30 Worst Fall-Offs in Rap History
RELATED: The 50 Biggest Hip-Hop Clichés
RELATED: Green Label - 10 Musical Comebacks We Want to See This Year

Wiz Khalifa, the man who put Pittsburgh on the rap map, was once lost in his own world. After partnering with Warner Bros. Records in 2006, Wiz found middling success, with just one song ("Say Yeah") charting in 2008. He and the label split not long after, and Wiz set about to see if he could do what the label couldn't: promote Wiz Khalifa.

Interestingly enough, he found himself in layers and layers of smoke, and realized that he was home. Mixtapes like How Fly and Burn After Rolling, and the album Deal or No Deal were perfect warm-ups for the hugely popular mixtape, Kush & Orange Juice. He consistently toured sold out theatres across the United States, and an enormous ground-roots fan base was ready to celebrate when he signed a joint venture with Atlantic Records.

By the time Wiz's single "Black and Yellow" zoomed straight up the charts, Wiz couldn't even remember that he was ever associated with Warner Bros. Either because he'd made it doing things his way... or because he was super baked.

This was the worst. An entire swath of the population put their hopes in Kanye, for the return of artistry to music; the return of honesty to pop culture, of pure id to celebrity. He had built up an ever-expanding catalog of classic music, first injecting soul into hip-hop, then strings, then synths, then sobs.

And then he threw it all away on an empty bottle of Hennessey, after tottering on the hip of Amber Rose, because Taylor Swift had the gall to win an award that really-really-should've gone to Beyonce. It was so regrettable, but it was so Kanye. And he was so right in saying it. That's not the point of this list, but it had to be said. Anyway, it became this whole big thing; President Obama called Kanye a "jackass" and Kanye disappeared for a while.

There would be reports of him popping up in London or Paris, working on this or that; it was a dark time. And then "Power" dropped, an unapologetic asshole unleashed. This was Kanye the underdog, Kanye the villain. Where his climb to the top of hip-hop was quick, this gave him the brushback he needed; because of it, he's emerged stronger than ever. Good luck getting rid of him again.

Bun B is Southern rap royalty, both as one half of the legendary group, UGK, and as a solo artist. After putting in work as regional artists down in Texas, UGK signed to Jive Records in the early 1990s, and each subsequent release—from Too Hard to Swallow to Super Tight to Ridin' Dirty—climbed higher and higher on the charts. By the late nineties, even the New York rap scene was taking notice, as Jay-Z featured Bun and Pimp on his Timbaland-produced monster single, "Big Pimpin'," which took them all to a whole other tier of success.

But just as things had started to come together on a national level, Pimp was sent to jail on an aggravated gun assault charge. While Pimp was out of sight, he was certainly not out of mind, as Bun made it his mission to keep Pimp in everyone's thoughts through his "Free Pimp C" campaign. Bun repped for UGK in his own music too, releasing the hip-hop chart-topping Trill in 2005, and not long after, Pimp came home.

In August of 2007, the duo put out Underground Kingz, which topped the charts and spawned arguably UGK's greatest single, "International Player's Anthem (I Choose You)." Tragedy stuck on December 4, 2007, when Pimp C passed away at the age of 33, leaving Bun once again without his musical brother. But Bun rebounded, releasing acclaimed music including the 2010 album Trill OG, which received a rare 5-mic "Classic" rating from The Source magazine. Bun's fellow artists, critics, and fans, all hold him in the highest regard for his music, his intellect, and the way he keeps Pimp C's spirit alive.

A regional success for nearly a decade, Pitbull was an exceptionally witty, sometimes X-rated, sometimes-political, quick-spitting fixture on several DJ Khaled projects, various Lil' Jon staples, and a handful of his own albums. But after a series of fun, yet commercially average singles like "Dammit Man," "Culo," and "Bojangles" and a series of not-fun lawsuits and altercations, Pitbull sat at a rap crossroads.

And to his credit, Pit started dressing like James Bond and danced his way over to the EDM world at the perfect moment, teaming with Ne-Yo, Afrojack, and Nayer on the chart-topping monster, "Give Me Everything," and the rest is history. Pitbull found his niche, rapping over upbeat dance music, and he crossed over, starring in Kodak commercials, co-hosting New Year's TV broadcasts, and in short order became one of the biggest, most-appealing mainstream artists in the world.

Curren$y was once the future of Master P's No Limit Records. Curren$y was once the future of C-Murder's TRU Records. Curren$y was once the future of Lil Wayne's Young Money Entertainment. But jets are meant to fly solo (just go with it, for the sake of the story), and once Curren$y left all those affiliations to become his own boss, his career rose to new heights. Releasing indie projects like This Ain't No Mixtape, Jet Files, Pilot Talk I, and Pilot Talk II, not to mention his collaborations with close friend (and then-indie artist) Wiz Khalifa, Curren$y established a new identity and popularity as the most smoked-out rapper in the game.

Much as he took all the flack for leaving Lil Wayne's side, Curren$y deserves all the credit for building a huge fan base that supports him on tour and with his new records. Curren$y signed his label, Jet Life Recordings, over to Warner Bros. Records in 2011, which has resulted in Muscle Car Chronicles, The Stoned Immaculate and Priest Andretti, as well as a lot of weed money for Spitta.

Juicy J had sold a bunch of records, won an Oscar and starred in an MTV show before the road ran up even though he and Three 6 Mafia were still running, and so they looked down only to realize that they too were about to fall to the ground from about a mile high. (Insert Wile E. Coyote bug-eyes.)

In 2009, as a 34-year-old, Juicy concentrated on a solo career, focusing on the elements that had made him a success in the first place: songs about fucking and getting fucked up, songs about fucking people up. He would not grow with his audience; instead, he would play to frathouses. After two incredible mixtape collaborations with Lex Luger, he joined Wiz Khalifa's Taylor Gang, and now he's a bigger star than ever. "Bandz A Make Her Dance" went from slow-burner to number-one, a strip club anthem that will probably get played at people's weddings.

Sean Price has been around almost as long as good hip-hop has, a hard-knuckled veteran who delivers with consistency. Unfortunately, the effort hasn't always been recognized. (Such is the peril of being an underground artist!) Price first found audiences as half of Heltah Skeltah, which itself was a fraction of Boot Camp Clik, only for both of those entities to fall apart: problems with labels and each other were to blame.

And so, in the mid-2000s, Sean P. went solo, putting the entirety of Brooklyn on his own back—he's a big guy, large frame, he can handle it. Though he hasn't been embraced by radio or television, his rhymes - brutal, comical - have found a home on the blogs, Nah Right especially. (When his songs hit the Internet, you'll see tweets go up that just say "P!") He puts up numbers, too: the trendline of his last three solo albums have hooked an impossible curve upwards. It could be the music, or it could be that he knows how to conduct himself in interviews.

Def Jam Records once heralded Joe Budden as the future of the legendary label, fit to follow in the footsteps of LL Cool J, the Beastie Boys, Public Enemy, DMX, and Jay-Z. In 2003, New York radio played his songs "Focus," "Fire," and "Pump It Up" on a loop, and the Just Blaze-produced "Pump It Up" went on to be Grammy nominated.

But by the time Jumpoff Joe submitted his darker-themed sophomore project, the label was tuning out the former drug addict. Budden artistically felt a-ways, and butted heads with new Def Jam president Jay-Z. Soon thereafter, Joey found himself a tarnished free agent. While some saw signing with indies like Amalgam Digital and E1 a step down, Budden used them to cultivate and grow a targeted audience, hungry for true, deep, emotional rap music.

Listeners got all of Joe (and each one of his relationships) whether they liked it or not. Along the way, he recruited the top lyricists Crooked I, Joell Ortiz, and former foe Royce da 5'9, to join him on a song, "Slaughterhouse." Their musical rapport turned into a group, which turned in to an indie album, which tuned into a major label deal through Eminem's Shady Records. Today, while he may not be doing Jay-Z numbers, Joe Budden makes the music he's proud to make, playing to large, loyal audiences. By anyone's definition, that's a success.

Gucci Mane has built a mountain out of mixtapes, an empire of Brick Squad, but it almost never happened. In 2005, just as it was starting off, Gucci's career was already at a standstill: he had just released "Back to the Traphouse" on Warner, his first major debut guest-starring the likes of Ludacris, Pimp C and a green Trey Songz; the world shrugged. (Reviews from the time called him "unskilled," "mushmouthed" and "uninspired.") For many rap fans, Gucci was simply known for being involved in a war of words and fists with Young Jeezy.

From nothing he cooked something: his long-ignored words suddenly connected with the streets, where they were rediscovered by critics and bloggers. Where some saw insanity, they saw genius. (It doesn't much explain the ice cream tattoo on his face, or, actually, maybe it does.) Four years of grinding led to server shutdowns and a Mariah Carey collaboration in 2009, "Obsessed."

While arrests and general weirdo behavior have limited his potential, he is considered a bold-faced name; his dodo-brain activities warrant TMZ headlines. Gucci's career could've been left for dead on the side of the road, but because of hard work and invention, that fate was reserved only for a woman he famously shoved out of a moving vehicle.

A hip-hop legend, the Grammy Award-winning lyricist Common had been left for dead at age 33 by fans and critics alike, after he went seriously left for his fifth studio album, Electric Circus. The man behind the seminal rap album, Resurrection, had taken a creative risk with 2002's experimental Electric Circus, and just two years later, was seen as more outcast than OutKast.

But one man's trash is another man's treasure. Kanye West, then a burgeoning backpack producer/rapper with an extremely popular soul-sample sound, was emerging as his own brand, and on the eve of his first Grammy Awards as an rapper, Kanye started his own label, G.O.O.D. Music. His flagship artist: Common. Ye and Common teamed to produce a classic album in 2005's Be, which not only put Common back on top of rap, but introduced him to a whole new audience. His resuscitated music career begat a steady acting career, and Common, more popular than ever, hasn't looked back.

As Tity Boi, he was ignored. Sure, he and his recording partner Dolla Boy had some success with "Duffle Bag Boy," but they were largely shoved to the back of Ludacris' DTP roster (behind Chingy, Shawnna, and I-20). After middling success, he dropped off the label and out of consciousness, lost in the sands of time.

But then he was back with a new name and with a force never felt before: his Twitter account seemed to develop over 100,000 followers overnight. (Now, it has well over a million.) Def Jam, his former label, came calling again, making him a priority for the first time; "SIMILAC," he once screamed, which now just sounds like cash registers going off. People dress like him! Kids love him, even though he's more than double their age.

Over the past two years, 2 Chainz went from nowhere to everywhere, a gimmicky add-on to songs released by everyone from Drake to Kreayshawn to PSY, and though he's not officially on G.O.O.D. Music, he might as well be. Whereas no one used to mention him, now he's got tens of thousands of white girls screaming his catchphrases.

Rick Ross, the rotund drug kingpin-turned-rapper, was not born in Miami, as he claimed, but rather in the mind of William Roberts. Roberts (later rechristened Ross) was an un-and-coming hip-hop artist from Dade County, who wrote and toured with Erick Sermon, later found a creative partner in DJ Khaled, and signed to Def Jam Records at the start of the President Sean "Jay-Z" Carter years.

With decent commercial success (see "Hustlin'"), Ross was on the fast track to the middle, before seemingly being derailed by a report from The Smoking Gun: Roberts was at one point in his late teens, a corrections officer. There were pictures; there were tax records. In hip-hop, this news was a certain death knell.

But Ross did the unthinkable: he didn't fight back. Nor did he admit to ever being a corrections officer. Shockingly, he went on with this new life without even regarding the charges, and amazingly, in time, he moved past it. He let the music speak for the character of Rick Ross, and the music ended up winning.

His new songs about transporting tons of drugs were giant hits, his mixtapes full of illegal activities ruled the internets, and not two years later, Ross was the talk of the music world with a brand new legacy. With his own thriving record label, sold-out arenas, and his records in constant rotation on radio, Williams Roberts fully became what he always wanted Rick Ross to be: the biggest boss.

Black Eyed Peas members will.i.am, apl.de.ap, and Taboo weren't always futuristic and/or successful. It took years as backpack rappers, a record deal with Eazy-E, a few name changes, the departure of a handful of lesser-known members of the group, a drastic shift in sound, and most importantly the addition of singer Fergie, to send the band into the stratosphere.

After their first two albums made it all the way to "eh" on the charts, the Black Eyed Peas were on the brink of being mere mortals. Will.I.Am, in an attempt to get proper backing from Interscope Records, agreed to label head Jimmy Iovine's call for a female member, and took Fergie in.

BEP's next album, Elephunk, was a smash, with "Where is the Love?," "Shut Up," and "Hey Mama." Monkey Business gave us "Don't Phunk with My Heart," "Boom Boom Pow," and "My Humps." In virtually no time, the Black Eyed Peas went from nowhere to everywhere, and stayed there. Will, Ap, Taboo, and Fergie have since created group albums, solo albums, car ventures, clothing lines, headphones, video games, schools, foundations, and a concrete definition of selling out.

In 2001, Arista decided to introduce T.I. to the world with the single "I'm Serious." It had production from The Neptunes and a hook done by Beenie Man (who had just come off of "Girls Dem Sugar" with Mya the year before). On paper, it looks pretty good; on Spotify, it sounds terrible. Predictably, it didn't do well; he got dropped from the label.

And so began the long crawl upwards, with appearances on DJ Drama's Gangsta Grillz mixtapes and—most importantly—Bone Crusher's "Neva Scared" remix in 2003. With Atlantic Records now backing him, T.I. surged. Hits came easily; his albums opened up in the Top 10, with first-week numbers stretching six digits. By 2004, Destiny's Child put him and Lil' Wayne in the video for "Soldier;" it's easy to see both of their crossover success tracing back to that moment.

And then there was King, a modern masterpiece, which obviously put him on top. None of his subsequent not-so-great albums have been able to knock him off. Even one very publicized federal prison visit couldn't stop T.I. His return from the stint can be considered a comeback of sorts, as well. His release resulted in Paper Trail, the most successful album of his career.

There's almost a black hole sitting between Snoop's successes in 1993 and 2002. His Doggystyle, one of the finest rap albums ever, set him up to be Dr. Dre's protege; he was twenty-one years old. "Gin and Juice," "Nothin' But a G Thang," and "What's My Name" built up incredible momentum, which was then shot to shit when he got involved in a murder trial in 1994. (As if that wasn't enough to kill his work ethic, Tupac was shot dead a year later and Suge Knight had grown from mean to menace.)

Snoop needed to get out of there, and so he did, leaving Death Row for Master P's No Limit in 1998. While it was safer there, it's almost like it never happened. He sold a bunch of records, but at that time, it was impossible not to. It was only when he connected with The Neptunes for "From da Chuuch to da Palace," "Beautiful," and "Drop It Like Its Hot" that he became like a real person again. That's when people started appending "-izzle" to the end of their words; that's when he had a show on MTV; that's how he's able to afford all of that weed.

Don't think Will Smith ever fell off? Then you don't remember the mid-90's. DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince were still recording even when he was on TV, but people could only handle so much Will Smith. Plus, they were trying to fit into the harder-edged '90s rap construct. As Wikipedia said of their 1992 album, Homebase: "The final single for the release was 'You Saw My Blinker', a song about an old lady that crashed into [Smith]'s new car and his anger at the events that happened thereafter." Yuck, no wonder Will finally cursed in that song! (He said the B-word.)

The next album went gold, and that's when Will decided to concentrate on acting full-time. He came back to rapping after 1996's Independence Day and 1997's "Men In Black," when it was just like, "Oh, right, remember that I could do this, too?" He dropped the trio of "Gettin' Jiggy Wit It," "Miami" and "Just the Two of Us" like they were nothing, staying in the number-one spot for what felt like my entire middle school existence.

Eminem has always had commercial success; the idea of Eminem full-out failing is almost impossible. Even Jay-Z says that he's the best rapper ever—it's not easy to just up and bellyflop. That's not to say that he hasn't had the need to rebound: his 2010 effort, Recovery, was so-named for his troubles with drugs, but could also have applied to his much-maligned Relapse (a sub-par outing for which he himself even apologized in numerous interviews). He had taken five years off to deal with his best friend Proof's death, removing himself from an industry that needs constant attention.

With 2009's Relapse, his great return, he seemed not just off...but way-off: his pop-cultural references were dated, as if they had also taken five years off. This was no more true than when he was making fun of the already-dead Christopher Reeve on "Medicine Ball." And then Recovery dropped, showing that it was a fluke, beginner's bad-luck. "No Love," built around a Just Blaze sample and a strong verse from Lil' Wayne, sounded as if Eminem had been plugged in again. "Love The Way You Lie," his single with Rihanna, became the biggest pop hit of his career.

It's so unbelievably hard to sustain an audience for 20 years, let alone five but somehow this guy has done it. In 1990, LL Cool J released Mama Said Knock You Out, a response to the critical disappointment that was the previous year's Walking with a Panther. It was cheesy and pandering, a caricature of his character. (Most disappointing part? That there's a jaguar on the cover, not a panther.)

Mama Said Knock You Out was the fourth (fourth!) single released off the album of the same name, after the baby soft "Around the Way Girl." The first, "To da Break of Dawn," went for the necks of everyone who had cold dissed him in his moment of weakness: MC Hammer, Ice-T and Kool Moe Dee. Men loved the aggression; women loved his muscles. These songs crossed over, a change from 1989's "Big Ole Butt" and "One Shot at Love," which he had so blatantly tried to force on suburban audiences.

This time, he put out five singles, and they all hit! It's because of this record that LL Cool J is talked about today. For the record: I got through all of that without calling it a comeback or saying "Don't call it a comeback" or thinking of a witty comeback for if LL Cool J gets mad about this.

Long considered a genius wordsmith, and the creator of arguably the best debut rap album ever, by the late 1990's Nas was in the midst a musical malaise. His LPs were unfocused, his songs didn't really hit commercially, and the most buzz he got was based off of Puffy's bludgeoning of Nas' manager Steve Stoute with a champagne bottle. No one was taking of, about, or to Nas.

In 2001, that all changed. Jay-Z released the diss record "Takeover" (which he teased at Hot 97's Summer Jam that year), which called Nas out over his sales figures, his street cred, and his flows. Jay ended Nas' career over the course of five minutes. But a funny thing happened: the jabs woke Nas up, and he returned fire with fire, penning the track, "Ether." Nas sounded like a new man, throwing vicious barbs right back at Jay, turning this into a war of words that consumed New York radio, and caused fans of both to take sides.

Nas went on to wow critics and fans alike with his follow-up albums Stillmatic and God's Son, and by the time 2006 rolled around, a more grown-up Nas and grown-up Jay had reconciled on and off-stage. The friendship evolved into a partnership too, as Jay (then president) signed Nas to the legendary Def Jam. Today, Nas is at his creative peak, having released perhaps his most celebrated album yet, full of grown man rap, Life is Good, which debuted at the top of the Billboard charts.

Dr. Dre's 20s looked like this: was a founding member of N.W.A., the originators of gangsta rap; put out an era-defining album with The Chronic; formed the seminal rap label Death Row; helped shape the career of the legendary Snoop Dogg.

Just as his 30s were beginning, Dr decided to take a humungous leap and give that all up. He severed all ties to his past and started his own label, Aftermath Entertainment, where his first release—a compilation album titled Dr. Dre Presents the Aftermath—was anchored by the single, "Been There, Done That." The cover art was firebomb's smoke. It was a kiss-off to the type of rap he made famous; unfortunately, neither critics nor fans were ready for this new Dre.

In what amounts to nothing short of a miracle, Dr. Dre soon ended up with a demo of a young, white rapper from Detroit who called himself Eminem. Em provided Dre with a new avenue to explore music, and the results were even more historic than the N.W.A.-Death Row days. Dre has gone on to oversee Eminem's success, 50 Cent's career, The Game's debut, Kendrick Lamar's emergence, and at one point, the rebirth of his own solo career with modern classic, 2001.

And interestingly enough, his career has perhaps been eclipsed lately by the omnipresence of the headphones that bear his name, Beats By Dre.