It’s been 26 years since Slick Rick, one of the genre’s greatest storytellers, released his comeback LP The Art of Storytelling, following a jail sentence that more or less shelved the trajectory of his promising career during the lion’s share of the ’90s golden era.

That’s not to say he isn’t cemented among the greatest to ever do it; it just means that with one undeniable classic, two rushed efforts recorded while out on bail (and a subsequent stint on work release), capped off by a fourth album that dropped just before the turn of the century, Rick has been largely absent from hip-hop’s evolving narrative.

For an entire generation, he’s more “the guy who made ‘Children’s Story’” than the mind-bendingly clever MC who inspired your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper.

But with Victory, he returns not as a nostalgia act, but as a craftsman with something to say. Self-produced for the most part, the project finds Rick curating a surprisingly fresh tapestry of sounds that span spry loops, island-tinged rhythms, and streaks of ’90s house. Interspersed with skits, it’s an enjoyable—albeit incredibly brief—listen at just over 27 minutes.

Things start off strong with the Giggs-assisted “Stress,” before Rick slides into the upbeat “Angelic,” co-produced with Parker Ighile and Dirty Harry.

“Landlord” is a classic Ricky D track, with the MC lamenting the struggles of collecting rent from deadbeat tenants in properties he owns across New York. It carries all the humor and detail of storytelling staples like “The Moment I Feared,” set to a smooth island groove that demands replays. Meanwhile, “So You’re Having My Baby” stands out as a personal high point—Rick’s trademark crooning bookends a dark, Billie Jean-esque narrative. Not groundbreaking, but the brooding, piano-driven beat is quietly hypnotic.

“Documents” is one of the album’s clear standouts—a cinematic, espionage-laced cut that finds Rick weaving through a covert mission with the kind of detail and character work he’s known for. Nas delivers a smooth, layered verse that balances bravado and elegance, with lines like “Connected like Clarence Avant / Respected like Stringer Bell and Barksdale Avon.” It’s sharp, stylish, and a reminder that Rick’s pen still cuts.

Even so, things feel brief. And while it’s better to leave early than overstay your welcome, after more than two decades away, something a bit more substantial might have hit harder.

The album’s most powerful moment might come in the form of “I Did That,” a mid-project spoken-word piece delivered not over music, but beneath the soft rush of ambient water. It plays like a reflective interlude—part memoir, part mission statement.

Rick catalogs his impact with precision and pride: “Sampled over 800 times, kid—I did that.” From Wallabees and platinum ropes to The Great Adventures and The Art of Storytelling, it’s less a flex than a living archive. And when he closes with “The poet, and the visionary. We did that,” it feels earned. Not just a callback to what was—but a quiet declaration that the Ruler still is.