A few weeks ago, Macklemore released Gemini, his first independent studio album since 2005’s The Language of My World. As a native Seattleite, I’ve talked and written about Macklemore extensively everywhere from college classes to my terrible, now-defunct independent blog. At this point, I feel as if writing any more about him is somewhat of a fruitless exercise. You know how I feel. I know how I feel. Fans of Macklemore will always want more Mackle-ing.
Yet, for some reason, I always find myself taking time out of my busy schedule of listening to Lorde and NBA YoungBoy to let The Mack’s smooth beats Mackle all up into my ear canals through the $7 Panasonic earbuds I take terrible care of, accidentally destroy, and subsequently repurchase from Amazon on a monthly basis. Macklemore isn’t for me, and he never will be for me, but he is for some folks. Some folks that aren’t so good, but also some other folks that I think are pretty swell. Anyway, instead of writing a review (writing is hard and no one reads the actual text anyway), I decided to just give readers what they really want (a rating) and devise a list of people who might enjoy Gemini so you may easier decide whether or not to purchase it from The Wal-Mart.
Gemini is an album for:
People who follow Neil DeGrasse Tyson on Twitter.
Your cousin that’s so old he’s basically your uncle.
People who use the term “mumble rap.”
An acquaintance who offers up their phone for music at a party, and the only rappers in their library are Chance the Rapper and Amine.
Your Facebook friends who donated to Kony 2012.
Your Facebook friends who pleaded for others to donate Kony 2012, but never actually donated themselves.
Your rural cousin who decided to expand her musical palate beyond Twenty One Pilots.
College freshman who play “Home” by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes on acoustic guitar in the quad.
Your friend who only listens to rap that “requires a certain degree of intelligence to appreciate.”
People who use the TouchTunes app on their iPhone to play J. Cole at a dive bar.
People who don’t know who Boosie or Scarface are, even though they are referenced on this album.
Your aunt who lives in Seattle and posts pictures of the Space Needle on Instagram.
People who ask, “is their coffee as good as Starbucks?”
People who don’t know who Stringer Bell is.
People who loved Idris Elba on Macklemore’s 2016 deep cut “Dance Off.”
People who watch Last Week Tonight with John Oliver.
The guy in your English class who said he “struggles with [his] white privilege” on a daily basis.
People who love “Bad & Boujee” by rap singers “The Amigos.”
Reddit default-sub top-commenters.
People who are intelligent enough understand the subtle humor of Rick & Morty.
Your friend who pesters you about eating organic food and knowing where everything you eat comes from.
Your same friend who took some “fire molly” they bought from a stranger in a headdress at Coachella.
People who have seen every episode of How I Met Your Mother.
People who don’t like red onion on their salad.
Your friend who uses social media to validate their happiness even though you can see in their eyes that their facade of a relationship is slowly crumbling as we speak.
People who miss the old Kanye.
People who don’t miss the old Drake.
Your divorced father trying to relate to you too-little and too-late.
That “hip-hop head” who loves Travis Scott but “doesn’t get” Future.
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By Sounds Purple Staff — 6 months ago
Editor’s note: a previous draft of this article was accidentally published missing the entries for “I Do” and “Heatstroke,” which have since been added.
The release of Young Thug & DJ Carnage’s “Homie,” the ferocious lead single off their collaborative EP Young Martha (slated for release September 22nd), has everyone trying to determine the origin of Thugger’s part-DMX, part-Louis Armstrong impersonation. Diehard fans were quick to pinpoint a snippet for an unreleased remix of Young Greatness’ 2016 breakout hit, “Moolah,” and while that lo-fi teaser is definitely the most Thug has ever channeled Satchmo’s beautiful rasp, other fans are just as right to look to “Harambe” as the most formal introduction to this relatively new vocal technique.
Now, we say “relatively” because, if we dare to strain our collective memory a bit, this aggressive Super Saiyan Thug can actually be traced as far back as his breakout mixtape, 1017 Thug. Before giving it the proper rollout this past year, Atlanta’s foremost innovator has been quietly perfecting this delivery at his own leisure. And, as you will see below, the natural progression is apparent.
Don’t believe us? Here’s a quick timeline of the “Harambe Flow” as we see it (feel free to tweet us any crucial additions we may have glossed over).
“2 Cups Stuffed” (2013)
Quite possibly the earliest instance of Thug going ape shit, “2 Cups Stuffed” is a roaring tribute to properly served lean. From “Two guns up, Ferarri SMASH” on in the first verse, you can hear what appears to be a proto-version of the so-called “Harambe Flow.”
“Chanel Vintage” (2014)
Future’s probably to blame for Thug’s aggressiveness on this one. It seems like the only way to match his elder counterpart’s enthusiasm was to take it to the next level himself.
By the time Thug’s voice starts unraveling on the intro to Rich Gang: Tha Tour Pt. 1, it’s pretty clear to everyone listening that something otherworldly is taking place. It’s not the deep growl he’s developed as of late, but it’s in the same vein of emotive explosiveness.
“Keep it Going” (2014)
You know you’re pushing the limits when you have to remind yourself mid-verse that you’re gonna lose your voice if you keep screaming. Just like “Givenchy,” “Keep It Going” takes its time building to a riveting climax, but is also perhaps the first instance of this inflection in a fully tangible form (though, as you will see, it would continue to get more pronounced and exaggerated as times goes on).
“Spaghetti Factory” (2015)
What was originally leaked as the “OG” version of Travis Scott and Young Thug’s “Skyfall” collaboration, “Spaghetti Factory” has a dark, almost murderous vibe. The brooding aesthetic is matched perfectly by Thug’s fluctuating aggression throughout the track.
This instance is obvious from the jump, with Thug’s gruff delivery encapsulating the hook as a whole. In some ways it seems more like a direct precursor to last week’s “Homie” than any other track on this list.
“Don’t Know” (2015)
This underrated cut off of Slime Season 2 features a balls-to-the-wall breakdown mid-verse that sees Thugger declaring: “I’M A LEVEL-FIVE GOBLIN!” He comes through with the ferocity of at least 50 of said goblins and stretches the strained delivery for the next four bars with the utmost conviction.
The unpredictable stream of consciousness of “Drippin” sees Thug takes his lyrics and his vocals in a dozen unexpected directions. One of those direction is a straight up war cry, followed by unnecessarily aggressive declarations of his unparalleled authority in the fashion world.
“Guwop Home” (2016)
The sweeping ode to his mentor, “Guwop Home” serves as a crash course of all the neat little tricks Thug learned in Gucci’s absence. One of these weapons in his arsenal just so happens to be a warm, raspy croon that he employs on the main section of the chorus.
“I Do” (2016)
Shortly before “Harambe,” there was “I Do.” This awe-inspiring feature shows Thug at his most militant and his vocals entirely match the defiance found in his lyrics.
The most formal introduction to the now trademark roar, “Harambe” sets the tone right off the bat with an unfiltered shout of “MAFIA!” to open up this punk jam. In terms of vocal delivery, “Harambe” draws as much from the post-hardcore genre as it does from traditional rap in the vein of DMX and Mystikal.
“Youngsta” was overlooked because it was on a Blac Youngsta project before he really had any traction. However, it was the perfect followup to the tone set by “Harambe” a month prior and showcased just how flexible Thug could be with this newfound voice.
“Cop Me A Foreign” (2016)
What was clearly a solo Thug song before he gave it to his newest YSL signee, Gunna, “Cop Me A Foreign” sees the YSL President effortlessly bounce between measured lows and unhinged highs before settling into a deep, rolling intonation.
“Bit Bak” (2017)
The most recent instance of this delivery prior to the release of “Homie,” “Bit Bak” was supposedly the first single off of Rich Gang 2. Just like “Lifestyle” once introduced an entirely unheard of vocal style to the rap community, “Bit Bak” goes out of its way to highlight the impressive spectacle of yet another Young Thug innovation.
Thug’s performance on “Heatstroke” was one of the most captivating turns on Calvin Harris’ star-studded album, Funk Wave Bounces Vol. 1. “I’m tryna talk to you darlin’,” he pleads with a gentle twinkle in his voice before bellowing “Do you hear me?” It’s this sort of range and control that makes Thug an inimitable vocalist.
Finally, we have “Homie.” During a recent interview with HotNewHipHop, Carnage explained how he wanted to take everything we love about Thug and turn it up a notch or two. This apparently included the “Harambe Flow” and the results are nothing short of spectacular. It’s the most refined we’ve ever seen this delivery and is proof of just how far Thug has come in a relatively short period of time. We’ll find out just how far Carnage pushed Thug on the EP when Young Martha drops on September 22nd.
Did we miss anything? Tweet us at @SoundsPurp and let us know!Post Views: 2,520
By Taylor Rubright — 4 months ago
Aside from a handful of Labor Day weekends spent at Seattle’s yearly Bumbershoot music festival, the first rap concert I ever went to was GZA of the Wu-Tang Clan at a venue called Neumos on Capitol Hill. I was going with my friend Cole, and as 17-year-olds from different neighborhoods, neither of us were very familiar with our surroundings and neither of us owned a car. But we weren’t just going to let The Genius slip through our fingers, so we did what any rational person in 2008 would do: hop on a bus downtown and use our printed directions from MapQuest to find the venue on foot.
Being the naive teens we were and having never been to a non-festival rap show, we had no idea what “doors open at 7:00 PM” truly meant. By 6:45 PM, we had grabbed our tickets from will call, gotten patted down by security, and found our places in the crowd. We stood around waiting for the opener (a local act named Scribes, who I knew previously from having handed me numerous demos burned onto Memorex CDs at Bumbershoot, Folklife, and other Seattle music festivals) with the handful of people who got there as early as we did, many of whom had already crowded around the front of the stage hoping to reserve a front-row view.
On my way to the bathroom at one point, I noted a piece of paper that stated Scribes was not set to go on until 9:00, and GZA until 10. I disappointingly relayed this info to Cole, and we continued to wait and talk while the DJ spun about what you would expect from a GZA show: mostly 90s New York classics like Black Star, Biggie, Pharoahe Monch, Mobb Deep, and, of course, Wu-Tang Clan. Most people were standing around, bobbing their heads and rapping along, but there was one man who seemed to be really feeling the set. He danced nearly the entire time the DJ was spinning and was pouring with sweat an hour before even the opener was set to go on (later in my life I realized this man was probably on Molly, AKA The Artist Formerly Known as Ecstasy. GZA also seems like a strange choice of concert to roll at.).
Around 8:30 PM, the venue was starting to noticeably fill up with people–and blunt smoke. The DJ was still playing, and “Kick in the Door” faded out as the beat to the newly released “A Milli” dropped. For a quarter of a second, the room froze, and then boos from all angles of the venue quickly overtook the song. Clearly flustered, the DJ dropped the levels and stammered into the mic, “This is the KRS-One remix! You don’t think I’d play Lil Wayne for y’all would I?”
While I was, at this point in my life, more of a fan of 90s rap acts like members of the Native Tongues Posse and the Rawkus Records crew, I still liked a lot of the newer guys, most specifically Kanye West, The Cool Kids, and Weezy himself. Hyphy and other Bay Area rap artists like Mac Dre, E-40, and Andre Nickatina were also immensely popular at my high school, so I had also been introduced to that side of the hip-hop spectrum (looking back, I think I actually had a reasonably diverse taste in rap for a 17-year-old). I’d obviously heard people shit on some of the newer, non-traditionalist rappers before, but this was the first time in my life I had really encountered “real hip-hop” fans in the wild. Before that night, the notion that something is or isn’t “real rap” was foreign to me.
Fast forward to today: anyone who’s paying attention to hip-hop knows that Eminem recently released a collaboration with Beyoncé entitled “Walk on Water,” thought to the be the first single from his forthcoming album, Revival. It’s a sparse, somber, and stripped-down ballad about crippling self-doubt and self-mythologizing in hip-hop, conveying that Eminem feels discouraged about his creative process and that nothing he writes is good enough for his fans anymore. The song is actually fairly moving from a lyrical standpoint, but as a piece of music, it sounds more similar to a Macklemore-esque spoken word piece than the scathing, rapid-fire, celebrity-bashing single we’re normally used to from Eminem. In a lot of ways, it’s a sign of maturity, with Mathers choosing to vent his creative frustrations as a product of a different era of hip-hop rather than dissing the gaggle of new school rappers currently occupying the airwaves.
However, in the inaugural episode of Rick Rubin and Malcolm Gladwell’s new podcast, Broken Record, Rubin states that Eminem is “frustrated” with “mumble rap.” And, well, of course he is: it’s only natural that an artist known for his lyrics would feel out-of-place in an era where style, vibe, and flow are king. Though 2017 isn’t without its dozens of capable lyricists, in some of today’s music, the emphasis seems to be placed less on what you say and more on how you say it. Even so, publications and fans alike have been quick to run with this notion that Eminem being frustrated creatively with this new era of rap is the same thing as hating it, with many traditionalists using it as some sort of validation of their rejection of a post-808s & Heartbreak world of rap music. But even listening to a secondhand account from Rubin, it seems clear that Eminem isn’t frustrated because these artists are successful, he’s frustrated because the way he raps isn’t necessarily en-vogue anymore.
The notion that only a certain style of rap is “real hip-hop” has been around since the conception of the genre itself—for many of its earliest pioneers, even recording raps in the first place was sacrilege, as it was meant to be performed in real time with a DJ. Going back to “A Milli,” though Lil Wayne is generally touted as one of the greatest of all time today, in the mid-2000s, he was not only an extremely divisive rapper, but an extremely divisive rapper who was also completely unavoidable. It’s no exaggeration that a new Weezy song dropped or leaked on an almost daily basis—from 2007-2009, he appeared on over 100 songs each year. While Wayne was massively popular, there was still a large portion of rap fans completely discrediting his merits as an artist. They threw everything at the wall, from Wayne’s supposed “poor lyricism” (meaning his more abstract lyrical style didn’t fit in the traditionalist box they’d cornered themselves into) to his southern dialect, hoping some sort of critique would stick and knock him down a peg or two. Southern rappers have always caught the brunt of such “real rap” criticism: even Outkast, one of the most universally acclaimed musical acts (let alone rappers) of all time, was once booed at the Source Awards. Nowadays, though southern trap music has made its way into pop as by far the most popular contemporary subgenre, it’s still referred to by many as “mumble rap.”
Using the term “mumble rap” is akin to calling electronic music “bleep bloop robot music.” It reduces a diverse group of artists into one negative generalization, and it shows a distinct lack of understanding of the genre. It’s a disparaging notion that, quite frankly, was probably somewhat rooted in racism in its initial use (even if most people who use it mean nothing by it at this point due to its more widespread use), as it’s a term that tends to be used to refer to southern black artists with thicker accents who use copious amounts of regional slang. There’s no denying that it sometimes takes a few listens to be able to fully understand the lyrics of certain rappers if you’re a new listener (Young Thug, Future, and Kodak Black, for instance). But more often than not, good Capital-A Art is art that rewards the audience upon subsequent listens: each one begs you to uncover a new layer, a background vocal you didn’t notice before, a hidden meaning in seemingly innocuous lyrics. The first time I hear a Young Thug song, I’m usually too enamored with the melody and the elasticity of his voice to take in most of the lyrics, and only upon further listening do I begin unpack his more freeform lyrical style.
Are there a gaggle of Atlanta rappers who all sound the same? Of course there are, but for every innovator in music there are always going to be hundreds of cheap imitators and average wave-riders waiting to hop on coattails. Music is and always will be malleable, and we should strive to embrace innovation even if it sometimes results in failed experiments. People need to take note of rappers like Juicy J, who seems intent on evolving with the genre and letting it flourish, rather than anchoring it in the past and consequently splintering its sphere of influence.
Maybe Eminem does think Playboi Carti sucks, and that’s fine, but I’m sure a considerable number of younger hip-hop fans feel the same way about the revered old head from 8 Mile. Everyone has their preferences and you don’t have to like everything—luckily, there’s always going to be a Conway and a Westside Gunn for every Young Thug and Future, even if they don’t currently have as much mainstream appeal. There’s great music to enjoy on both ends of the spectrum, and we should be celebrating the fact that hip-hop has become this diverse rather than trying to stifle creativity because not everyone wants to sound like Eminem anymore.Post Views: 748
By Patrick Pardo — 7 months ago
That’s a pretty f-cking fast year flew by.
Within that “year” between channel.ORANGE and Blonde, Jay-Z and Kanye West became fathers, Dr. Dre and D’Angelo released albums, and J. Cole went platinum without any features. Then, it finally happened: four years of insurmountable hype was met with four promotional tools: a library card, Woodshop 101, Nikes, and a magazine; symbols that represent a coming of age of some sort. Now here we are, one year after Blonde’s release, and Frank Ocean continues to demonstrate his esoteric growth as an artist in ways that are practically an extension of Blonde itself.
Every time you listen to Blonde, it almost feels like you’re somehow listening to it for the first time again. When the untouched vocals on “Nikes” finally materialize it’s as if Frank never left. Those four years of near-silence melt away, and you forget about when he said he had #two versions #july 2015 #album 3. You forget the fact that you waited all day Thursday for him to finish painting those boxes only for him to leave for the week. You forget that Time Magazine lied to you. It puts you right back to a particular moment, whether it’s when channel ORANGE came out or when you heard your first Beatles song. It’s an album hell-bent on nostalgia more than Frank’s 2011 release that literally has the word in its title.
Blonde is a combination of the old and the new. “Pink + White” is the Frank you’ve come to love since his emergence with Odd Future. “Self Control” seems vaguely familiar, but you can’t put your finger on it. It amazes you that a song like “Pretty Sweet” that utilizes a children’s choir can coexist on album that has Yung Lean backing vocals.
“Nights” copies the formula that made “Pyramids” so intriguing, and the rhythmic change happens exactly in the middle of the run time of not only in the song itself, but the album as a whole. Before the shift in tone within “Nights,” Frank uses his vocals in a more optimistic tone. Here’s a guy that has everything in life to look forward to, and even with warnings from his beloved mother he intends to experience everything life has to offer.
“After 20 years in, I’m so naive
I was under the impression
That everyone wrote they own verses
It’s comin’ back different and yea that shit hurts me
I’m hummin’ and whistlin’ to those not deserving
I’m stumbled and lift every word
Was I working just way too hard?”
The second half of Blonde is a reflection on everything that shaped Frank—it’s a lot more pessimistic—and “White Ferrari” is the perfect song to put you on that road of reflection. This half of Blonde retroactively starts to make a lot of sense when you can contextualize and compare both his post-channel.Orange and post-Blonde outputs.
Between channel.ORANGE and Blonde, it seemed like time was running out for Frank: there was the pressure of topping a critically acclaimed debut, the growing distance between the members of Odd Future, as well as all the regular pitfalls that come with celebrity stardom. These burdens led to his disappearance and re-evaluation of what exactly he wanted from his music career. By ditching Def Jam and forming a partnership with Apple Music, Frank is allowed full creative control of his music, leading to diverse singles like “Chanel,” “Lens,” and “Biking,” all accompanied with alternate versions that signify a previous artistic battle Frank faced as a singer and rapper. His progression as an artist and the jarring amount of new music Frank has put out post-Blonde emphasizes a renaissance for him as an artist. Frank is as equally elusive as he’s always been (releasing singles on unscheduled radio shows in the middle of the night), but now he seems to be on the road to master his craft and has no intention of stopping.
When the final falsetto on “Seigfried” hits, it hits hard. The vocals trail off and you’re left wondering about that person that he would do anything for, but then “Godspeed” comes in sporting the optimism found on the A-side of the album. “Futura Free,” perhaps the most revealing track on the album, blends together Frank’s ocean of past memories with his little brother’s bright optimistic future that he possessed in the first half of the album.
“Remember when I had that Lexus, no
Our friendship don’t go back that far”
As a listener, you’re happy. You remember the come-up leading to the mystery that would later be Frank Ocean, but it’s over. He’s the same guy that would freestyle with Tyler and Earl in 480p YouTube videos. Frank’s ability to stay true to his roots and keep his friends close are the reasons his and The Weeknd’s careers went so retrograde. Frank will always be the guy that gets it, that gets you. Blonde will be the album that you will remember during both the most trying and the happiest times in your life. Rather than ending the album with his own voice, Frank ends it with his brother, Ryan Breaux’s. By ending the album with his younger brother, he’s re-insinuating the idea of the wide-eyed youth that he and all of us once were. No one is the same person throughout their life and it’s always interesting to reflect on how you have grown into the person you are now, and for this reason, the album is not only for Frank, it’s also his gift to us. That’s why you don’t care that it took four years to make—you’re too busy remembering everything that this album reminds you of.Post Views: 770