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A year after the release of Detroit resident Danny Brown’s fifth studio album, “uknowhatimsayin¿” the time has come to revisit a true master closing the loop on his hall of fame career. Especially timely is the album’s core theme: feeling misery for so long that it no longer has any power over you.
This year shook our collective faith in the world we built and the artists we entrust with our time. Rap’s shortlist (Kendrick Lamar, J. Cole, Drake, Travis Scott) largely refused to release work in a tourless era, while opportunists such as Griselda (Westside Gunn (), Benny The Butcher, Conway the Machine) jumped on the chance to unleash deluges of rushed and unremarkable projects to a starved audience. In Griselda’s case, this meant slapping eight different covers on the same milquetoast album and hoping no one would notice.
Child-prodigy turned transcendental mountain-man Thebe Neruda Kgositsile, better-known as Earl Sweatshirt, has long been trending toward more challenging sounds and concepts in his music. After proving that he could outrap the best of the best, Earl rejected fame and secluded himself in the shadows, both literally and musically.
Each fall, the hip-hop publication XXL releases their “Freshman Class”: a list filled with up-and-coming rappers who the editors believe will succeed dramatically in the coming year. Each year’s class is debated extensively or taunted ruthlessly, depending on their track record. This year’s list is among the strongest in years, and a shining light in the roster is Mulatto, a trash-talking battle-rap disciple playing an important role in rap’s sexual revolution.
Now that the world has grinded to an unsatisfying halt and artists are delaying release dates, marring what promised to be among the greatest years in rap history, the time is right to reflect on the largely ignored conflict in Memphis, T.N. between Young Dolph and Yo Gotti, perhaps the most bizarre footnote in the genre of the past decade.
As counter-cultural and independent as rap claims to be, it is still a hierarchical institution. One-hit wonders hope to land a salaried position in the form of a record deal, VPs try to ambush their competition for promotion and at the top of Mount Olympus sits the pantheonic council, led and domineered by Zeus. The office of Zeus, elected by rap’s free market, is of paramount importance to the shape and sound of rap.
It’s here. It’s actually here. After announcing and promptly disregarding multiple release dates, Lil Uzi Vert finally released his sophomore album “Eternal Atake.” Since announcing the project almost two years ago, Uzi has tortured his fanbase by systematically provoking hype, dashing it and placing the blame on his label. He created controversy, controlled it and ultimately used it purely to his advantage. In what may be the most ingenious album rollout of all time, Lil Uzi Vert fully developed the legend and legacy of “Eternal Atake” before anyone even heard it.
As the wily mammal slunk around in shielded caves during the great Dinosaurian Genocide, so too did drill music bide its time, watching with psychotic satisfaction as the apex predator of its day was burnt alive. Also like our quadrupedal ancestors, it’s triumphant reemergence from the shadows and subsequent dominance was all but inevitable. Drill is reborn, dancing on SoundCloud’s grave.
Now that rap has overtaken rock as the most profitable genre, it is reasonable to view hip-hop as its own economy. The genre itself operates on a modified boom and bust cycle. There are booms, which see expansion culminate in a peak, and busts, in which rap contracts into a trough.
Jahsen Onfroy, or XXXTentacion, had one of the most interesting careers in all of rap music. From the moment he burst onto the scene with the aptly-titled attention-grabber “Look at me!”, he was lauded and vilified. He came to embody the SoundCloud-circa-2016 delivery and attitude, in all of its brash irreverence.
In January 2018, Migos dropped all 106 minutes of “Culture II.” The new album lacked the hazy sincerity that elevated its predecessor to classic status. In its place was ceaseless bragging. Bloated tracks piled on top of each other like bodies during the Black Plague, and rap fans began to realize how insufferable “filler” albums are. This inflamed an ongoing debate over proper album length. It is a brutal war between laborious brevity and commercial indulgence.
To many, the term freestyling immediately inspires a vision of the XXL Freshman yearly cypher, prompting nostalgia of Kodak Black’s trouncing of whoever picked that “lil sorry a** beat.” To others, it recalls pleasant memories of nights spent spitting inebriated punchlines with friends. Professional freestyles, rapped by established acts, often take a backseat. However, a subculture has developed around them, one which, when navigated with poise, can endlessly expand your rap library.
The news is alight with stories and videos of law-abiding immigrants snatched away by Immigration and Customs Enforcement in front of their loved ones, families ripped apart and pregnant women blasted with fire hoses. They are taken to detention centers, where they either apply for asylum or wait to be deported. These facilities are shrouded in mystery and concerningly under-regulated.
The SWAT van parks and eight burly agents file out in silence. The last one out brings the battering ram. They shuffle up the stairs in unison and line up outside the door. The signal is given and the door is blown off its hinges. From there it’s boot camp all over again. Everyone has their own job, everyone has their own route, but they all end in the back room. Weapons drawn, they carefully approach the monster in front of them: 14-year-old Kevin, who has spent the last few hours listening to every “Yandhi” leak he can find.
There is no way to adequately explain what happened in the 1990s in New York. Rap, just getting its footing as a genre, exploded into a beautiful and raging fire. The English language was torn apart, reconstructed and repurposed dozens of times by dozens of titans. Each act was a character in a sprawling tapestry.
As he lounges in his throne room atop Mount Olympus, being fed molly-coated grapes by someone he pays to have the exact voice and mannerisms of Alfred Pennyworth, Jordan Carter — the figurehead of Playboi Carti — reflects.
Hark! O ye slatts and slimes, welcome to your safe space. In a culture that condescends upon contemporary rap as an art form, enjoying it in jest, or even genuinely as a guilty pleasure, the true fans are ostracized. But no longer! The tides are turning, and being involved and interested in music no longer requires years of music theory classes, nor will it ever again.
