I’ve never been much for lyrical rap. While I respect the pioneers of the 90s and contemporary fire-breathing kings à la Kendrick Lamar, my heart is pure turn-up savagery and gratuitous swag. Hip-hop, for me, operates the way Harry Potter does for the rest of the modern world. It’s fantasy on an elementary reading level, and they’ve got the wands on bussdown. Wingardium leviosuck-this-dih, bih.
Hip-hop’s constant evolution is arguably the most vivacious of any genre in recent years. It barrels like a freight train through pop culture with novelty at every stop, providing rockstars and DJs enough inspo to draw from (read: rip off) any time they hit a creative block. We’ve reached an interesting time, though, where artistry is not necessarily reliant on skill. It’s now a multi-medium channel where MCs serve less as conventional rappers and more as hypemen for themselves. Lyrical sophistication dips as image takes the forefront, and social media exposes viral grandeur with fashion at the epicenter. We’re no longer here for your hyper-masculine Timbs and Bronx crack dealer narrative. We want colored hair and incoherent shouting and futuristic outfits that defy the gender norms we’ve outgrown. It’s the age of the fearlessly fluid black man, and designers are brilliantly tapping rappers to represent them on the runway and within the digital sphere.
My favorite protagonist of this paradigm shift is Playboi Carti. It’s undeniable that since Magnolia dropped (and consequently became my top Spotify play of 2017), he’s had the floor. Purists stomp their feet in frustration at the rise of this clout caricature, baffled that Lil Jon’s “what” ad-lib has made a comeback in arenas beyond Atlanta strip clubs. Mainstream rap fans are confused and uninterested, turning a blind eye (er, deaf ear?) while tweeting sincerely hopeful #thoughtsandprayers for the old Kanye to return. The rest of us, though… we just milly rock along to the exquisite production and structureless rhymes. We’re riding this dirty sprite wave on a surfboard waxed exclusively by Pi’erre Borne, understanding that Carti’s place within the culture is anything but dumb luck.
Playboi Carti surprise-dropped his debut album, Die Lit last Friday at midnight. Luckily I was making my way home from a gala after-party, tipsy with just enough gas left in the tank to peep it before bed. This project doesn’t just deliver—it bangs on your door, serves you a hot slice, and comps your meal. Carti’s in his prime, marrying hazy, sonic delights with bass-heavy bangers and all-star features for a good-til-the-last-drop experience. He sticks to the same guns that came out a’blazin’ on his eponymous first mixtape, but doubles down on the firepower. Middle of the Summer sounds like an extension of Let It Go. Poke It Out captures new female fans who’ll be mouthing “Playboi… Barbie… rrrrrrr” over Instagram story for the next three months. Shoota, featuring his PIC, Lil Uzi Vert exudes youthful jubilance. Infectious braggadocio peppered with words like “bestie” make the listener feel the saccharine energy of goofing in the studio with your *equally-extra af* homie. Old Money and Mileage remind us that he’s a master of simple repetition; and though the feminist within seeks lyrical condemnation, he charms his way around it through boyish inflection. You can practically feel him flashing a coquettish grin. The album commands a room, saying, “this is your summer soundtrack, and you’ll either survive the heat or Die Lit.”
Playboi Carti’s prominence is characterized by a quirky, enigmatic personal style. Working under fashionisto-rapper A$AP Rocky, he’s carved his path accordingly. He’s been covered by GQ, W, Vogue, and more for his striking position at the intersection of hip-hop and fashion with brands like Raf Simons and Balmain filling his closet. While the birthmark on his face draws an obvious comparison to the late A$AP Yams, I prefer the label “rap Cindy Crawford.” Carti represents the here and now of tastemaking. He’s like the cool kid in school who rocks one-of-one thrift store drips and babbles philosophical stoner bullshit during detention. You’re never quite sure what he’s doing or talking about, but it happens so effortlessly that you’re mesmerized. The juxtaposition of his presumed immaturity and eye for luxury creates an essence that would not surprise you to see him eating gushers one minute and playing tennis at the country club the next. His signature type style, marked by lowercase letters and randomly-placed symbols *+ 🙂 has become the native language of his online presence. He’s a visionary in his own right, and it’d be pigeonholing to merely label him “rapper.”
There’s something exciting about music that reminds us not to take ourselves so seriously—music that bleeds into other artistic platforms and shows that to make it in hip-hop, you don’t have to have seen some shit. And even if you have, you don’t have to lament. Playboi Carti serves as a colorful deity sent from the future to bridge the gap to what’s next. And whether you’re with it or not, it’ll make you pay attention.
Listen to Playboi Carti’s album Die Lit on Spotify: