The Great Rap Hope

"When my parents came here, they didn't have anything," he says. "We barely get by now. My parents got to work two times as hard 'cause they're not from this country."

Ayo, for his part, says that he was shocked to hear that his son had a burgeoning career as a rapper. Friends would alert him that they heard Wale on the radio or saw his picture on the Internet.

"He denied it for so long," Ayo says. "He said it might sound like him, but he's not the one. A couple of times, he was singing on the radio. [My friends] called me right away and I said, 'Hmm, that' s him.' He said, 'No, Daddy, trust me, it's not me.'

"That means he doesn't want to tell. Most of the time, I know he's in his room, playing his songs."

'Dear Self . . . Make It Jam'

I will plug until the beat is gone . . .

We're all here, getting this money

-- Wale, "Pimp Hard"

Hip-hop has gotten stagnant, stale, stuck, Ronson says. But in Wale, he sees the skill and charisma of a Jay-Z or a Snoop Dogg. Soon, the producer says, they'll knuckle down in the studio, spending a good three months cranking out Wale's debut CD.

"Honestly," says Ronson, himself a musician and turntablist, "I think he's dope -- anywhere that I am, I know my show will only be better if he's onstage. There's something very like hip-hop 'bout him, in his swagger, but there's also this really sort of intellectual, smart side to it and a sense of humor."

That sense of humor is evident right now, as Wale flits around the Allido studios, where Ronson-produced platinum records are on display. He's cracking jokes, teasing Kleiman about his belly and then smacking his own nascent pot, promising that when it comes time to film his video, he'll be sporting a six-pack.

Then it's time to head into the recording booth. He takes a swig of Red Bull, then eyes to the sky, mutters a prayer of sorts: "Dear self," he says, before dashing into the recording booth, "please do good. Make it jam."

Inside the recording booth, Wale stands alone with headphones on, reading lyrics from his Sidekick sotto voce.

"I'm probably going to mess up five times," he tells the sound engineer, Derek Pacuk.

He begins. Stumbles. Holds up a finger: "One." Starts and stops the rap again and again, ever the perfectionist.

"I wrote this yesterday in like six different places, on the train," he says, gesturing with his Sidekick. "I'm sorry I sucked. Thank you for your patience." It's the sort of practiced self-deprecation that frequently crops up in his speech.

The next day, he's rolling through Largo in his beat-up Nissan Pathfinder with Jay Promo at the wheel; Wale is riding shotgun. Sneakerman Dan's in the back, piping in. Their conversation runs toward all things Wale: future clothing deals, lyrics, tours . . .

Hopes are high. But many a promising rapper has tanked, even when the stars are seemingly perfectly aligned.

They're listening to tracks that Wale recorded in New York the day before, songs that the rapper will eventually dump onto his MySpace page. They're playing guess the reference.

"I sag it like Dan Tanner . . . ," Wale says, breaking it down. "Like, who played Dan Tanner? Bob Saget on 'Full House.' "

"I got Bob Saget," Dan insists. "It just took me a minute."

Then the car swells with the sound of Wale's rapping about $300 jeans and lunching at Mr. Chow's with Jay-Z's manager.

Wale stops the music again.

"You know what I'm talking about?" he demands. "Pay attention. Closely."

Because, someday, just maybe, millions will know every word.