Duality is one of hip-hop’s most rewarding themes. It presents the artist as a flawed and complex human being, gray in a spectrum of black and white. It allows the same artist to lay out their values and darkest urges as equals, forcing themselves to analyze both with thorough care. For some, the right path can be difficult to discern. Temptations can prove devastating. DMX knows that better than most. Fans of his debut album It’s Dark And Hell Is Hot understand his struggle, his ability to stay fixated on the Lord’s light. Songs like “Damien,” itself a masterclass in horrific storytelling, brilliantly outline DMX’s duel with evil incarnate. Yet that story unfolds in a traditional sense, one man’s encounter with the devil’s physical form. On “Stop Being Greedy,” that same conflict occurs from within.

There are two parallel manifestations of conflict on “Stop Being Greedy.” One comes courtesy of Dame Grease and P Killer Tracks’ instrumental, which alternates between two segments. The first, slightly mysterious yet relatively benign; the second, a hellish descent reminiscent of The Exorcist’s “Tubular Bells.” DMX uses both backdrops to bring his proverbial “angel” and “devil” to life. Like in “Damien,” his voice plays a pivotal role in fleshing out both perspectives. The former is almost approachable in its delivery, higher-pitched and even slightly tentative — only prone to react when provoked. The latter is the epitome of savage, a violent growl liable to snap in a violent fashion. As both the instrumental and cadential elements combine, “Stop Being Greedy” becomes somewhat of an emotional roller coaster.

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“I don’t like drama, so I stay to myself, keep focus with this rap shit and pray for the wealth,” he raps, his light side shining through. “I want the money, just give me the honeys with big asses, the most expensive champagne you got in big glasses.” His ambitions are basic, simple, admirable if a little shallow. An introvert dedicated to pursuing a rap career. Yet dark X returns immediately thereafter; “with a vengeance” is an understatement. “I’m broke so I’ma bash his head wide open, beggin’ me to stop, but at least he died hopin’,” he snarls, providing one of the most brutal punchlines of his career. “Didn’t get his wish, and now he’s a dish for the pack / two glowin’ red eyes, everything else is black.” The two sides couldn’t be further from one another. Yet somehow, X sounds more comfortable embracing the violence; it’s the reason why those sections are the payoff, while the lighter sections are the set-up.

“Stop Being Greedy” also benefits from having a few notable interpretations. As established, it can be seen as two sides of a man’s desires. His desire to thrive and excel in his environment, earning rap game success and material dominance. One of his earliest lines is most telling: “But when it gets dark, it’s like a n***a’s having dreams.” The first segue into the “darker” version of himself, these moments can be understood as light X’s nightmares, his fears that his devilish impulses might sabotage everything he’s earned thus far. Another interpretation is one viewed through the lens of foreshadowing. After all, this is the same album in which “Damien” walks away victorious, having secured X’s soul for his collection. In that case, “light” X is point A and “dark” X point B. The journey is linear, and his inner demons ultimately seize control of his destiny. While examining It’s Dark And Hell Is Hot as a conceptual whole, this interpretation explains how songs like “X Is Coming” can coexist alongside “The Prayer.” The story is not being told chronologically.

Remaining one of DMX’s defining works to this day, “Stop Being Greedy” highlights many of his strongest artistic assets. His ability to establish and develop different aspects of his personality. His mastery over cadence, an underrated aspect of emceeing. A brutal pen game, one that respects the gravity of violence. And most importantly — a complex character, unafraid to present his flaws and succumb to them. There’s a reason he’s considered so widely regarded in the pantheon of hip-hop greats. Whether you’re rooting for X to defeat his demons and gravitate toward the light, or eagerly beckoning him to embrace Damien like an old friend, “Stop Being Greedy” presents both paths as equally ble options.

It’s difficult to imagine what prompted DMX to discredit Lloyd Banks in such a public fashion. Considering that the G-Unit rapper has been widely recognized as The Punchline King, it’s fair to assume that his bars have left an impression. Many are quick to cite early cuts like “That’s What’s Up” and his breakout “Victory Freestyle” as a testament to his lyrical prowess. With the bulk of his reputation having been cultivated on the mixtape circuit, which in itself encourages bars over structure and substance alike, it was initially difficult to assess Banks’ potential as a solo artist. Yet that changed with the release of his debut album The Hunger For More, an album that boasted classics like “On Fire,” “Warrior Part 2,” and arguably the greatest track of Lloyd Banks’ career in “Till The End.”

Though high caliber punchlines were expected on a Banks LP, “Till The End” unearthed additional depth in the young emcee. That of a storyteller, capable of conjuring striking images and emotional impact, never once diluted by an expansive three verse structure. A far cry from his mixtape material in subject matter, Banks retains his clever vernacular and imaginative control over language. “Nobody dead knew they would die before they woke, they probably started off a beautiful day with weed smoke,” he raps, opening the haunting reflection on a bleak note. “Out of last night’s pussy, the murder that she wrote, cold sweating from a nightmare, mind on a C-note.” Themes not unfamiliar to rap fans, the perils of a young hustler’s dangerous lifestyle; mirrored in many ways by mafioso rap, Banks understands how disloyalty speeds up the inevitability of death.

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Paranoia is another major theme in “Till The End,” and Banks’s second verse slowly expands the narrative to reveal some of his grievances. Like many young self-made men, Banks moves with a chip on his shoulder, both inspired and frustrated by his doubters. It’s a timeless reflection of the street cycle. Even those closest friends can fall prey to the trappings of jealousy and envy under the right circumstances. Given the track’s ominous opening — that of a violent drive-by shooting — there’s a constant sense of tension permeating throughout. It’s a testament to Banks’ ability to become one with an instrumental, his morose retrospection fueled by Eminem’s haunting lullaby. “The confusion of jealousy and dishonor will spin ya,” he warns. “But then nothing hurt worse than when that gunpowder’s in ya.” It’s something he himself grapples with, taking solace in achieving victory with those he deems kin.

Yet perhaps the damage has already been done, leaving behind unhealable scars. Even though Nate Dogg’s chorus is a comforting presence, it’s hard to shake the nightmarish foreshadowing of the opening moments. It’s not clear when death is coming for Banks, but rest assured that he knows it’s coming. And sadly, as he knows all too well, the ending is often bloody. Especially for a man who continues to carry his principles forward. “Keep my, mind on my money, and my head to the sky, I never really smile much, if you was here you’d know why,” he confesses. “There’s frustration and fire if you look in my eye.” Even amidst success, it’s difficult to discern whether Banks is even willing to accept happiness. Though he proceeds to rattle off many of his personal accomplishments, be it achieving desirability as a bachelor or commercial success as a rapper, he still cannot bring himself to smile.

Inevitably remains one of the driving themes of “Til The End.” It hangs over Banks like a guillotine blade. The fact that success is only a pitstop on the overall road, a road that is not straight, but rather circular in nature. For him, it begins and ends in the hood — the place that built him up as a man only to plant the seeds for his eventual downfall. Perhaps, as complex as it may seem, there’s a strange sense of comfort in knowing that. It would explain why Banks opted for such a tranquil instrumental, one that might otherwise evoke feelings of peace. The song packs even more impact knowing what transpired within G-Unit, a group torn apart from within, not unlike the topics explored in his lyrics. The authenticity with which Banks renders this range of themes, his cadence equally weary and wistful, makes “Till The End” stand as one of his crowning artistic achievements.

There are some songs that will always remind you of a specific time in your life, perhaps even a place, a person, or a routine you once had. Music is eternally stamped with the era of your life in which you discovered it, it’s impossible to untangle the two. Wiz Khalifa’s “B.A.R.” is one such song for me, as it once acted as my daily soundtrack for my walk to and from university classes. Circa 2009, it was my first introduction to the then-budding artist, Wiz Khalifa. I remember thinking, that’s a strange name, not knowing the deeper meaning to it. I remember pressing play, after my brother had sent me a link for B.A.R., unaware of the project I was about to dive into, or even what “B.A.R.” stood for, yet. I pressed play, and was immediately immersed– the song of course, is the title track for the mixtape of the same name. It’s the title track in particular that remains one of Wiz’s most important songs in his come-up, determining a sound and direction he would explore to even further depths on his groundbreaking mixtape to follow, Kush & OJ.

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B.A.R. wasn’t Wiz’s first mixtape, by any stretch. Wiz’s catalog is heavily documented across the internet, from his debut mixtape to his debut album, each of these arriving prior to the release of B.A.R.B.A.R., however, was the project that allowed Wiz to reach a larger audience, outside of Pittsburgh, and gain traction across the blogosphere. This was a time when DJs were prevalent and having certain DJ names attached to your mixtape would allow it to spread further– DJ Rockstar and DJ Ill Will were two of the biggest names at the time, and no doubt their co-sign of B.A.R. helped usher in new fans.

B.A.R. wasn’t some sort of sudden revelation that Wiz loved smoking weed, either, he was already immersed in a marijuana lifestyle and all that entails. His joint effort with Curren$y, How Fly, cemented this fact prior to B.A.R., as well as his solo Flight School mixtape– both a subtle (or obvious) nod to his favorite hobby. Still, B.A.R. is the most important marker in Wiz’s catalog, as the pre-Kush & OJ release that essentially served as a warning that this weed-loving, laid-back artist was about to take over the game, all by his damn self, too. Flight School, Show & Prove– every project prior to B.A.R., really– Wiz was still figuring out his sound and how to be uniquely himself. Thus each proved a mixed bag, often borrowing or replicating other sounds, and not necessarily offering anything distinct in the grand scheme of things, that is, until B.A.R. This mixtape was clearly different, something we had never heard before. That’s why it’s such an important notch in Wiz’s discography, perhaps even more so than Kush & OJ, at least from the perspective of establishing a style. It’s one that seems to be under-appreciated too.

The opening track is the best song on the 18-track mixtape. It wouldn’t sound out of place on Kush & OJ either, indicating it’s hazy style. In fact, Kush & OJ’s opening record followed a similar path and concept, with “Waken & Baken” offering a light, airy musical intro as Wiz’s vocals glide along, guiding your smoking experience. “B.A.R.” solidified Wiz’s penchant for this type of atmospheric, closed hi-hat-riddled production. Wiz’s vocals are literally “floating on” too, dissipating into the musical ether while the sounds of a lush electric guitar echo in the background (a sample courtesy of Pink Floyd).

“B.A.R.” is, then, the trademark Wiz sound– if Wiz’s sound could be captured only in the span of one song, it would likely be this. It has all the attributes we’ve come to love from him: a nonchalant flow, an ambience that’s built around light percussion and hi-hats, and lyrics of a stoner who is simply loving life and all the good things coming his way. It’s an easy message and sound to get behind, and one that Wiz has remained loyal to until this day.

There isn’t a self-respecting rap fan out there who doesn’t hold Lil Wayne in high esteem. Not only is the man widely considered to be one of the deadliest lyricists on a competitive basis, threatening to decapitate even his own signees on wax, but also one of the most stylistically versatile. Though his forays into different genres have not always seen glowing reception — 2010’s Rebirth remains an interesting sidestep into the murky waters of rap-rock— his bold creativity is nothing short of admirable. It’s likely one of the main factors behind his universal appeal, a fanbase made-up of myriad demographics for an equal number of reasons.

Quick though die-hards may be to cite his esteemed lyricism, some of Weezy’s most successful chart-toppers find him operating in melodic territory. Few managed to sustain universal interest like Tha Carter III’s lead single “Lollipop,” originally released on March 13th, 2008 — a little over twelve years ago. It has been certified 5X platinum by the RIAA, though it’s highly likely the numbers have expanded significantly since it was archived in December 2009. In the year of its original release, “Lollipop” became the crowning achievement in ringtone rap back when that was still a thing. To this day, it stands triumphant as the most successful single of Weezy’s career. It might also be one of his least lyrical. Considering how much of Wayne’s appeal stems from his “best rapper alive” mentality, the staggering admiration of “Lollipop” is curious to say the least.

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On paper, much of “Lollipop” is almost comically anti-bars; gallows humor that resonates all the more given its proximity to Nas’ own Hip Hop Is Dead and Jay-Z’s nail-meet-coffin anthem “Death Of Autotune.” Nearly sixty percent of the song’s lyrical content centers around repetition, with the late Static Major holding it down with the song’s iconic hook. The same man who once laid waste to a blistering mixtape run that many still revere to this day won hearts and minds with his wizened smut mantras: so I told her back it up like burp, burp, and I made that ass jump like jerp, jerp. Yet somehow, it all comes together to work in magnificent fashion. Perhaps because Wayne already proved his acumen as a lyricist, he was able to pivot into mindless frivolity without much backlash from fans. Lest we forget, on the same album “Lollipop” came from stand songs like “3 Peat,” “Mr. Carter” and “Shoot Me Down.” A little fun should not only be expected — it should be welcomed.

Listen, putting the bars of “Lollipop” under the microscope for analysis feels almost condescending. Simply put, the song is a celebration of oral sex, a topic that has been known to bring people together on a worldwide level — social distancing notwithstanding. Could it really be so simple? That “Lollipop’s” rampant success was simply sex sells in action? It certainly didn’t hurt the cause given that it was clearly designed for club-rotation, strip or otherwise. But we’ve long seen x-rated bangers come and go throughout the genre, with few ever coming close to “Lollipop’s” success. It stands to reason that Weezy’s musicality played a role in cementing the song’s appeal.

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The instrumental, produced by the tandem of Jim Jonsin and Deezle, centers heavily around the repetition of a truncated minor scale. As such, it has become easy jam fodder for a variety of different instrumentalists, with the song sounding especially punchy on the guitar. The band Framing Hanley’s emo take on the anthem has assembled twenty-two million views on YouTube, and countless others have ventured their hand at covering the banger. Blame it on the simplicity of the arrangement. Either way, it’s tempting to document “Lollipop” as one of Weezy’s earliest bouts of pre-Rebirth experimentation. It definitely stands as one of his earliest documented instances of autotune usage, a practice that would remain in his arsenal for the remainder of his career.

In fact, Tha Carter III feels like a major detion for Weezy in general, with the first installment being produced in its entirety by Cash Money legend Mannie Fresh, while the second found him working with a core that included T-Mix and DVLP. With the third Carter arriving on the heels of his legendary mixtape spree, Wayne was forced to contend with a since-developed macabre habit: bloodletting the instrumentals of his fellow emcees. Determined to prove himself as not only an elite lyricist but an artist as well, Wayne allowed himself unprecedented space to gamble with new sonic directions.

While some might look to Weezy’s minimalist “Lollipop” bars with a scornful eye, others might applaud his borderline surgical use of restraint. A solid quality in a genre where the threat of doing too much forever looms. Much like the track’s cleverest lyric suggests, “Lollipop” feels right when it should be wrong. If only because it managed to not only survive, but thrive in an era where hip-hop was deemed to be on life-support by critics and elder statesmen alike. 

The context surrounding J. Cole’s presence on 21 Savage’s I Am > I Was intro “A Lot” should not go unnoticed. One of the climactic chapters of his iconic feature-spree, the on-paper partnership between Cole and 21 Savage was almost as interesting in theory as in practice. There was an inherent statement made, an olive branch extended between two generations. Following the release of Cole’s “1985,” it resonated all the stronger. Not to equate Savage with Lil Pump, but it’s not as if 21 hasn’t found himself squaring off with veteran rappers dissatisfied with the direction of modern hip-hop. Lest we forget Bizzy Bone blowing dust bunnies off the blunderbuss.

Yet Cole, revered enough to secure a co-sign from DJ Premier on Gangstarr’s first posthumous single, willingly aligned himself with a not exactly “lyrically focused” rapper. Considering some of the names that preceded 21 during Cole’s feature extravaganza — J.I.D, Royce Da 5’9”, Wale, Rapsody, Jay Rock, Cozz, and Anderson .Paak come to mind — it was surprising to see him find common ground with the Savage Mode creator. It cannot be denied that a high number of fans actively consider Cole to be among hip-hop’s greatest lyricists. Prior to I Am > I Was, the same number would likely place 21 in a different sport, let alone league, than Cole.

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Inversely, the unique nature of 21 Savage’s self-made movement made him a surprising candidate for a Cole collaboration. First emerging from the shadows with a moody dose of trap horrorcore, 21’s vivid and gruesome depictions of his environment, he didn’t exactly scream social butterfly. Many casual hip-hop fans may very well have kept the monotone rapper at arm’s length, unable and perhaps unwilling to comprehend the vision. Not while the easier option would be full-blown dismissal. Yet 21’s Savage Mode quickly cultivated a gang of loyal disciples, many of whom appreciated the project’s conceptual merits and unapologetically murderous character. True, 21 found himself as the antagonist for those espousing lyrical values, but his distinctive style made him refreshing off the bat — if a bit of an acquired taste.

When Cole and 21 eventually crossed paths in late 2019, Cole was coming off a murderous verse on J.I.D’s “Off Deez.” One that all but cemented him as a technical elite, capable of adapting to even the most eclectic instrumental. A recent assist on Moneybagg Yo’s “Say Na” showcased a willingness to break character, if only to prove a point. In that sense, his triumphant duet with 21 Savage felt like the next logical step. A co-sign mutually granted by both participating parties; generational and stylistic gaps bridged over DJ Dahi and J White Did It production. Given that 21’s album title promised a celebration of maturation, the instrumental seemed to encapsulate exactly that. Grounded in Atlanta tradition, resonant 808s anchor a steady drum arrangement, over which a pitch-shifted soul sample pines for a simpler time. In other words, it’s the perfect meeting ground for both 21 and Cole to not only succeed, but thrive.

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When he said I Am > I Was, 21 Savage wasn’t exaggerating. Where earlier releases seemed to bask in brutality, his reflection on “A Lot” feels world-weary, aged from the hardships and horrors of his past. “Penitentiary chances just to make a couple bucks, my heart so cold I could put it in my cup,” he raps. “Gang vs. the world, me and my dawg, it was us then you went and wrote a statement, and that really fucked me up.” His entire verse is a study in cause and effect, with 21 seeking to justify his cold demeanor as a side-effect of his violent environment. “My brother lost his life and it turned me to a beast, my brother got life and it turned me to the streets,” he raps, twin tragedies in one stone’s throw. “I been through the storm and it turned me to a G / but the other side was sunny, I get paid to rap on beats.” For the first time in a minute, 21’s stance steers away from his typical brand of nihilism in favor of optimism — cautious, to be sure, but optimism nonetheless.

The adage real recognize real holds true for good reason. In his introductory preface, Cole explains one of 21’s major selling points as an individual: the simple act of bringing his kids to the studio. For Cole, it proved to be a stamp of authenticity, one that reveals his principles and provides a framework for the collaboration’s creation. Though the pair have little in common on a stylistic level, their shared character traits add genuine quality to their partnership. As such, “A Lot” feels like it was crafted with care by two artists working in the same tangible space. It imbues the track–and by extension both men’s wisdom– with significance. It’s no wonder Cole is driven to speak candidly, delivering a verse that covers his own musical insecurities, his frustrations with the record industry, and his take on the slippery slope that is the court of public opinion.

Despite the stylistic differences, or perhaps because of them, “A Lot” stands as a truly great hip-hop duet. One written by two men at the height of their artistry, having survived years worth of hard-fought experience. Though their respective paths through life and music are lined with differences, few can credibly question 21 nor Cole’s authenticity as narrators.

Lil Uzi Vert has settled into the role of a generational talent. That’s not to say the strength of his catalog has ushered him there; such a verdict still remains to be seen. But few artists strike as whimsical a chord as Baby Pluto. Marching to the beat of his own drum, Lil Uzi has continuously stood ahead of musical trends. If anything, he played a pivotal role in creating a subgenre of melodic hip-hop, synesthetic in its display of parrotlike color. In the process he also happened to conjure a fantastical world around him, not unlike the reality-blurring fancies of a morphine-induced coma patient.

To fully buy into the movement one must first unlearn everything they have learned about Lil Uzi Vert. For many casual fans, who might have jumped on board following the breakout success of 2017’s “XO Tour Llif3,” the somber Luv Is Rage 2 closer became the definitive song of his catalog. Produced by TM88 and loosely chronicling Uzi’s mental space during his emotional breakup with longtime girlfriend Brittany Byrd. The alchemical formula behind the “emo” genre, which rose to popularity in the mid to late two-thousands. Perhaps more relatable to the suburban consumer than other hip-hop themes tend to be, “XO Tour Llif3” soared up the charts, its nightmarish Lewis Carroll-esque production scoring the road to seven platinum plaques.

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A song of such magnitude becomes an instant milestone in a young rapper’s history book. It didn’t take long for many to elevate “XO” to benchmark status, the bar future releases must surpass in order for artistic evolution to continue. As such, many fans were completely blindsided upon receiving the long-awaited Eternal Atake only to discover “P2,” a full-blown sequel. Tethered to the original by shared musical and thematic elements, Uzi’s latest closer was arguably the boldest musical move of his career thus far. One that showed a willingness to build on an existing narrative and revisit it with a renewed perspective. Suddenly, the similarities and differences become integral in understanding Uzi’s mind, a place otherwise guarded by cloudlike walls of fantastical imagery.

If “XO Tour Llif3” is Point A, and “P2” is Point B, it seems fitting to make note of any crucial differences. For starters, the first part is riddled with mentions of substance abuse, with Uzi openly calling upon Xanax as a means of easing the pain. “Please, Xanny, make it go away,” he pleads. “I’m committed, not addicted, but it keeps control of me, all the pain, now I can’t feel it.” Despite the song’s lyrics being otherwise focused on material dominance and polyamorous sexcapades, the aforementioned lyric makes his boasts feel closer to overcompensation than genuine flexes. Between the pained delivery and TM88’s haunting instrumental, it’s easy to analyze “XO Tour Life” as an emotionally devastating ballad. Even when he’s firing off lines that should feel celebratory, those darker elements keep the song within a stone’s throw of celebratory.

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While it retains several lyrical parallels to its predecessor, “P2” features no mention of substance abuse — overt or otherwise. Given that Uzi expressed interest in kicking his Xanax habit back in 2016, it’s no surprise to see him steering away from using it as a means of escapism here. The shift in perspective is evidenced within his cadence. Where “XO Tour Llif3” is a blurry, mush-mouthed, and pained — in other words, mumble-emo-rap– “P2” is blessed with clarity of voice. Dejected though he may sound, his newfound dedication to enunciation should not go unnoticed. Not only does it speak to his growth as an artist, as a more intelligible delivery requires lyrical refinement, but also as a man. Without overtly saying so, one might conclude that he’s no longer turning to substances to combat feelings of depression. It’s difficult to sincerely reflect on memories one does not remember to begin with, leading the emotional beats of “P2” to resonate on a much more personal level.

So what compelled him to continue the “XO Tour Llif3” narrative to begin with? As an update, it checks off a few boxes. He’s still struggling with his fractured relationship, still turning to materialism for therapy. “She left me right on read now, I’m walkin’ with my head down / I gotta keep my head high, I got a whole ‘nother check, not talkin’ verified,” he raps, pivoting from pain to pleasure in one bar. Upon suffering from emotional shortcomings, he immediately looks to his own financial accomplishments for validation. Yet juxtaposed against TM88’s sorrowful beat, the flexes feel hollow; is he trying to convince us, or himself? Even when he attempts to reclaim agency in the chorus, flipping “XO’s” iconic hook and turning it on his partner, it feels unconvincing. Blame that on the palpable sense of denial that seems to permeate the entire song.

With that in mind, it feels like “P2” is a critique on the culture Uzi seems to be celebrating. If everything is going so swimmingly, why is he choosing to close his album on such a sonically somber note? Perhaps he’s sending a message that not even success in the rap game can truly defeat the bad thoughts. Where “XO Tour Llif3” presented a landscape in which Uzi was forced to seek escapism from the pain, “P2” finds him wandering the streets in a reflective state, wondering where it all went awry. It’s important to note that Uzi remains driven by his failed relationship and no amount of rap money can remedy that. By choosing to bookend his previous two albums with this now-ongoing series, it’s hard not to look at Uzi as anything short of a tragic figure. One who wipes his tears with a stack of hundreds. 

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After admitting that he shed tears confronting the emotional scars left by his estranged father in the song “Breakdown,” J Cole says the following:

I reflected on my younger days
When it was just me and my brother and my mother played
Father, ’cause no other man bothered
Not even my biological, it never seemed logical
But I accepted it ’cause I ain’t know no better
Thought I was brighter than a Polo sweater
No pops was like Martin with no Coretta
So many things you could have told me
And saved me the trouble of lettin’ my mistakes show me
I feel like you barely know me
And that’s a shame ’cause our last name is the same
That blood type flowin’ through our veins is the same 

Jermaine’s words regrettably reflect a recurring theme in urban America and hip-hop. A theme he addresses on his multi-platinum single “No Role Modelz,” produced by J. Cole and Sonic Beats off his critically acclaimed album Forest Hills Drive. The absence of male influence and subsequent chain of events breed toxic hyper-masculinity in the form of destructive behavior and rhetoric. Rappers frequently spew malice-filled bars as a displaced mode of expression. Frustration boils over in facing an everyday reality; pivotal figures weren’t there to help navigate the web of social complexities that exist for life as a black man.

Proof of this theory can also be found in iconic lines from emcees like 2 Pacs in “Dear Mama.” “No love for my daddy ’cause the coward wasn’t there,” raps Pac. “He passed away and I didn’t cry, cause my anger wouldn’t let me feel for a stranger.” Likewise for Jay-Z, who on “Hova Song” shares the absence of his father as well: “Retrospect, ain’t been the same since I lost my dad/He still alive, but still f*** you don’t cross my path.” Jay-Z has been open about the love for his children, his struggles with fatherhood and the challenging relationship with his own father. With seemingly apparent enmity, HOV frequently mentioned his father in verses during the early parts of his catalog. Later, his music explored how the fractured relationship with his father may have compromised his ability to raise a child by planting seeds of doubt about the rapper’s capacity to truly love. 

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Like 2 Pac, J Cole and Jay-Z – many rappers have shared their stories. For better or worse, the matter of fatherhood has always been a fixture in hip-hop. Tracks about fathers tend to show us rappers’ most vulnerable and sensitive sides. Reflections on their father’s presence (and lack thereof) or the proposition of their own fatherhood understandably evokes great emotion. What’s ironic about this, is that the rappers themselves are unfairly labeled as role models and thrust into a position to speak to and for young men with arduous circumstances about them. This is a heavy weight to carry for someone admittedly broken, in part, by their past. Sharing their emotional bruises for the world to see while simultaneously acting as an ointment for the healing of others.

Cole might have shifted focus away from mainstream singles but he’s retained the same commercial success while continuing to deeply resonate with his fans. His openness is a tool that helps him connect with the masses. In a relatable way, Cole frequently addresses issues that affect the black community in his music. From the war on drugs to generational wealth and international conflict. One of the things I respect most about Cole is his commitment to expressing a message. Even with a fair amount of chaotic toxicity baked into this consciousness; I mean, he’s still human. Nevertheless, he uses music as a tool to inform and hopefully inspire change and doesn’t seem to take his platform for granted. Look no further than his Grammy-nominated 2019 single Middle Child for an example of this.

“Too many niggas in cycle of jail
Spending they birthdays inside of a cell
We coming from a long bloodline of trauma
We raised by our mamas, Lord, we gotta heal
We hurting our sisters, the babies as well
We killing our brothers, they poisoned the well
Distorted self-image, we set up to fail
I’ma make sure that the real gon’ prevail”

As Cole expresses in these lines, there is an undeniable connection between the absence of fathers, emotional trauma and men suppressing that trauma in ways that may be destructive to themselves and their communities. Not to mention unquestionably destructive to women in their proximity. He pleads for men to heal from these wounds. He speaks on men being raised by their mothers and hurting sisters because of a poisoned self-image. Cole’s struggle, like the struggle of many rappers, is tied to his tainted view of masculinity. Many times in hip-hop culture, manhood is reduced to a mountain of sexual exploits and the thought of women being expendable.

In “No Role Modelz,” J. Cole raps about his weakness when it comes to love. Though the true meaning lies below, on the surface he explores the duality of women in Los Angeles along with the overall nature of people in the city. Painting them as fake. This love-hate relationship and dichotomy of Cole’s stance for and against these things fuels the song. His disdain for frivolous women is juxtaposed by his thirst in pursuing them. As he says in the song “one time for my LA sisters, one time for my LA hoes.” Uplifting and degrading at the same time. This is all again tied together by his lack of a guiding presence or a role model in his youth. It is a battle Cole is trying to unpack and understand throughout the song. How to perceive and treat women. “I don’t want no bitch from reality shows, out of touch with reality hoes” and “don’t save her, she don’t want to be saved,” further speak to this idea.

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For some, role models come from male figures on television, sometimes even the music industry. In a reference to the 1990s sitcom Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Cole begins this song speaking about uncle Phil, a fatherly character on the show. He starts with this powerful statement, “First things first, rest in peace uncle Phil for real you’re the only father that I ever knew I get my bitch pregnant I’m going to be a better you.” Here Cole makes it known that the lack of a figure in his life led him to turn to other examples of manhood, even if they’re fictional. He reiterated that absence of his own father while aspiring for more from himself as a man. Yet in the midst of all this, maybe uncontrollably, he is pulled back into a toxic mentality – referring to the woman he may get pregnant as a “b*tch.” In part, Cole speaks to the undeniable domino effects caused by the absence of fathers in the home and community. Like many men who dealt with this upbringing, in theory, Cole wants to construct a better life for his own seed. He references the relationship he wants with women by mentioning both Aunt Viv from Fresh Prince and Will & Jada. “I want a real love, dark-skinned Aunt Viv love – that Jada and that Will love.” 

As much as the song was a smash hit, it is also a cultural and self-analysis by Cole. The effect of missing fathers trickles down into so many behavior patterns and social perceptions and then further onto those who are torn by those inherited traits. “No Role Modelz” captures the complexity of this issue like few songs have and does do while also being a feel-good party track. This is the genius of Jermain Cole.

Love has been one of, if not the, most inspirational themes in art history. Painters have spent painstaking hours rendering the details of their muses. Authors have penned tales and tomes on the great mysteries of romance. Musicians have spilled their emotions on wax, sometimes melodramatic but often sincere. It’s a force that drives creativity — even if said creativity stems from the absence of love. Hip-hop is no exception. Countless rappers allowed themselves to get sensitive about a special someone, even if it meant breaking a pre-established character.

Shaolin lyricist Method Man channeled Romeo energy on “I’ll Be There For You.” 50 Cent deted from the gangsta-rap playbook on “21 Questions.” Drake and his ability to find love in a one night stand formed the basis of many classic tracks. Ja Rule set the early millennium ablaze with his declaration that every thug needs a lady. Fabolous removed his punchline crown and placed it ever so gently on the floor. LL Cool J went from asking mama to knock you out to asking mama for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Eminem took a step back from murdering his ex-wife to reflecting on their complicated relationship. It’s almost fair to say that every rapper has explored the love song in one way or another — not to be confused with the lust song, a far more popular topic.

Though getting romantic might be unfamiliar territory, it’s not uncommon to see a given rapper staying within their stylistic comfort zone when doing so. That’s not to say the act of rapping is inherently less romantic than that of singing — it’s simply an observation that many emcees prefer to stick to the script, keeping their flow and cadence relatively familiar. Still, it’s hard to deny that some approaches can be more effective than others. Double-time flow over a hard-hitting drill beat might send the wrong message. In that sense, the music is as important as the lyrics. For Kendrick Lamar’s DAMN. standout “LOVE,” arguably one of the greatest modern love songs in recent memory, the instrumental plays a pivotal role in setting the table.

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Off the top, Sounwave and Teddy Walton’s production choice brings a distinct quality. The song alternates between the chords of F major and B flat major, a I to IV transition not often seen in hip-hop songwriting. For some context, a musical key is reliant on the relationship between seven chords, made up of tonal chord qualities. Often depicted in Roman numerals, the I, IV, and V are generally major; conversely, ii, iii, and vi are minor. In the most basic form, major is HAPPY and minor is SAD. While a I-vi progression might begin on a high note only to plummet into melancholy, a I-IV sits comfortably in positive territory. Though it doesn’t necessarily come to a decisive resolution, the wandering quality of the progression serves to enhance Kendrick’s detached whimsy. Enhancing the soundscape is the chosen synthesizer, atmospheric bordering on cloud-rap; the whole package is reminiscent of a high-school dance in the mid-eighties.

As he tends to do, Kendrick uses his voice as an additional instrument to build on the existing harmony. Contrasted against Zacari’s soaring falsetto, Kendrick’s unconventional cadence is endearing in its sincerity. He’s not looking to impress but rather to express. Many have correctly deduced that “LOVE” is a dedication to his wife, who he once described as his best friend. Rather than turning their story into an elaborately penned story, Kendrick instead relies on the narrative tools of ambiguity and inference. The end result is not entirely different from an inside joke, in which the meaning will hold a different meaning to the intended recipient. For the rest of us, it might be tempting to write his lyrics off as simple. Yet here the simplicity works in the song’s favor on a deeper thematic level. Where Kendrick is generally a layered writer, packing his bars with meaning and subtext, “LOVE” finds him reverting to the childhood stages. Anchoring his wistful verse around the recurring line “I’m on the way,” Kendrick lays out a series of personal snapshots in a fragmented stream of consciousness style. There are no larger than life declarations but rather small slices of life. “Remember Gardena, I took the studio camera, I know Top will be mad at me,” he raps, directly drawing on his partner’s nostalgia while indirectly sparking our own — those who have experienced similar moments will likely make their own connections accordingly.

So on this day ostensibly designed to celebrate romance, why not throw on Kendrick Lamar’s “LOVE” and see where it takes you? And if you still find yourself unmoved, there’s always plan B.

In late 2008, Lexus Lewis found himself penniless and with dwindling career prospects. A high school dropout from Suffolk, Virginia, the aspiring producer had been diligently pumping out Fruity Loops beats in his parents’ basement and cold-emailing various rappers, hoping that his work ethic would attract the attention of potential patrons. It wasn’t until he got word from Waka Flocka Flame, a lean, mean-looking Gucci Mane protege whose dreaded head popped up in the periphery of Brick Squad visuals, that things began to take off. What started as a steady back and forth over MySpace quickly snowballed into the circulation of hundreds of instrumentals and a subsequent in-person cook-up. By the time Lewis emerged from Waka’s WiFi-less Atlanta bunker, the bulk of what would come to be known as Flockaveli was ready for the masses. 

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Of the many songs concocted during those early studio sessions, none would prove to be as influential as “Hard In da Paint.” Originally housed on Waka’s fourth mixtape LeBron Flocka James, the track became a calling card for its creators and the thesis statement of Flockaveli. A snarling party conduit, “Hard In da Paint” offers an arsenal of unmediated simplicity where exuberance and the spectre of violence meld to create a symphony unlike any other. Luger’s production is as subtle as a heart attack, if immediately identifiable: turbulent, grim, and above all else, relentlessly loud. His timely decision to join forces with Waka was the equivalent of arming a juggernaut with a jackhammer and sending them cartwheeling into oblivion. Waka’s brusque demeanor was amplified when paired with Luger’s own seasoned bombast; their 2009 rap peers had the potency of watered-down milk in comparison. Such intoxicating congruence isn’t difficult to comprehend: the duo had a keen understanding of their strengths and were unafraid to give the middle finger to convention. “Hard In da Paint” was the kinetic culmination of everything Waka had envisioned on Salute Me or Shoot Me. It was an anthem from an antagonistic anti-hero basking in the mayhem.

Though it now boasts an indelible legacy as a trap classic, Flockaveli wasn’t initially heralded as such. The album’s auditory assault of an entrance, in conjunction with a title often misconstrued as being in bad taste, ensured that Waka and Luger’s stardom was not without controversy. Waka in particular was lampooned for being regressive, a comic figure that rattled the backpackers, elitists, and snobs. He eschewed traditional pop-rap songwriting, instead opting for gravelly, jab-like aggression and a coarse vocabulary that infuriated detractors. NPR even went so far as to name him “the leader of hip-hop’s tea party movement” in a politically-referential indictment of the times.

And yet for all the hand-wringing and ridicule, Waka paid little mind to the didactics thrown at him by those who questioned how digestible his “shock tactics” were long term. He had no interest in kowtowing to authority figures who belittled and mischaracterized, and waved aside needless sophistication and expectations of technical versatility to make room for his brand of apocalyptic escalation and endless barrages of gunshots. Lines like “When my little brother died, I said, ‘Fuck school’” were delivered as scattered retorts to critics, while tracks such as “F**k This Industry” were decidedly more overt in their intentions. 

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Flockaveli doesn’t hold a match to the ambition or complexity of, say, Kendrick Lamar’s Good Kid, M.A.A.D City, but its impact on trap music canon and the much larger trajectory of the genre is impossible to overlook. For starters, Waka’s debut was a novel realization of ad libs as a sort of lyrical punctuation. Growls often overshadow the main vocal track and words are strung together with chaotic abandon, each threat snapping into place like a hollow-point puzzle piece. Waka’s confrontational patterns of speech pinball from one Luger-assembled synth to the next, preserving momentum for the ricochet to follow. On top of that, there was something resoundingly tribal that listeners responded to when Waka “fever” first breached the public consciousness. Yes Waka was charismatic, but his personality on wax left a uniquely compelling imprint, his voice tumbling through the motions of quick syllabic skips and scrawling vowels. His penchant for barking onomatopoeia was superimposed on steamrolling one-liners (“Front yard, broad day with the SK”) and bits of thought leadership (“I’ma die for this shawty, man, I swear to God”).

With the triumph of Flockaveli, trap’s once unpolished infrastructure gradually gave way to internet visibility and a sort of lived-in, real-time documentation that quickly broadened its accessibility. Were it not for the breakthrough of Waka Flocka and Lex Luger, it seems highly unlikely that others like Chief Keef, Young Chop, and the Glory Boyz would have graced the national spotlight in the way that they did (it’s worth noting that Sosa repurposed and further popularized Waka’s token, all-caps “Squaaad”). 

Waka and Luger’s ascendance wasn’t so much the product of frustrations with the hip hop establishment as it was a newfound fulfillment of the commercial bility that simmered above Atlanta’s concrete jungle. When viewing hip hop in its current, most popular form, the family tree connecting Flockaveli and its centerpiece “Hard In da Paint” to the predominant sounds of the past decade becomes that much more evident. Not only was it was the ignition point for Waka and Luger’s respective careers, but it was an era-defining moment in which contemporary hip hop burst asunder. Club caverns and radio airwaves became breeding grounds for those disciples hoping to pastiche Waka’s magnum opus, while Luger’s operatic proclivities would find their way onto tracks for Meek Mill, Rick Ross, Kanye West, and all manner of beat packs. Luger was a cult figure who grew into a godfather of adherents and eventual inheritors, and Waka was a curator of bedlam who harnessed a power that cut right to the core of rap’s raging intensity. “Hard In da Paint” remains a blunt force masterclass in trap fatalism and a trail-blazing single that distilled the gangsta rap ethos into its purest incarnation. 

On a rather unsuspecting Mario remix, Lil Wayne delivered Drake’s favorite Weezy verse of all time. The song, “Crying Out For Me,” was initially released as the second single from Mario’s album Go, which despite mostly favorable reviews, didn’t necessarily do anything exciting on the charts. The single, likewise, peaked at #33 on the Billboard Hot 100 when it dropped in December, 2007. The remix, which featured Lil Wayne and alternately Busta Rhymes, was released a few months later and remains one of those in-between-records that, despite being an “official” release at the time, never truly found a home, whether it be on streaming services or an album. Wayne has plenty of songs like these, especially from the year 2007.

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‘07 Wayne was during the peak of his ”Best Rapper Alive” era, which resulted in The Leak EP– as well as many other leaks which did not receive such a formal release (VIBE did a list of the 77 Best Lil Wayne Songs of 2007)– and culminated with the release of Tha Carter III in 2008. It was this acclaimed 2007 run that truly helped build Wayne’s reputation, and equally, helped him become such a dominant force on the Internet. He was prolific in a way we had yet to see, and in a way that the Internet, we now know, is made for. That is to say, the Internet requires constant fueling, a constant stream of ‘new,’ and Wayne whether or not he intended, ensured the Internet always had something new from him. A freestyle, a leak, a guest verse. There was also less hip-hop fodder to compete with at the time, too. Becoming a rapper overnight was not yet a thing, Soundcloud was only founded in 2007 and did not have the notoriety it currently does. Generally-speaking, hip-hop had not yet fully taken over pop culture’s dialogue in the same way it has presently, but even so, Wayne was well on his way to pop culture stardom. 

There are many fan-favorite Wayne songs that make up his 2007 run. There’s “I Feel Like Dying,” there’s “Prostitute Flange,” there’s “La La La,” there’s “I’m Me.” His verse on “Crying Out For Me” is not usually among the discourse. However it’s an important marker in Weezy’s style. Wayne’s has a history of lyrics about his sexual exploits, so lyrics about a girl are not necessarily new territory. However, a whole verse detailing a rather mundane if not awkward conversation with a girl, littered with one-word text-responses, is. 

So I met this shawty the other day 

I got her number called her up like: “What ya doin’?” 

She say: “Nuuu’in” 

I say: “What’s good?” 

She say: “Not much?” 

I say: “Guess what?” 

She say “What’s up?” 

I say: “I think we should hook up”

She say “uh” 

I say: “What?” 

She say: “But..” 

I say: “But, why you stuck?” 

She say: “Fuck!” 

I said: “Who?” 

She say: “Not you”

 I say: “Then who?” 

She say: “You know.”

“I know what?” 

“You know who” 

I say: “I do?” 

She said: “You do” 

I said: “I do”

And that’s the end of the transcript. What transpired from there, we can only guess. One thing is for certain, the verse does not end in, or include a, sexual escapade, which would be the norm for most Wayne verses of this variety– at least the ones that begin in a similar fashion.

Wayne employed this method in future verses, and even tried it out to lesser effect in verses prior to Mario’s remix, but none compared to the length and detail contained within this particular verse. This lyrical template wasn’t usually about Wayne getting shut down– quite the opposite. 

As early as his debut album, with the song “Kisha,” he was going into the he-say-she-say of relationships in a conversational, story-telling manner:

Got a early call from Kisha, Kisha wanted me to meet her

She said she thought it was time to make the relationship get deeper

Said cool then I’m gon’ beep ya

What would be a good time to reach ya

She said what about ten but l thought eleven would be sweeter

Cuz she wanted me to see her, said I needed a teaser

On ‘07 era Tha Carter III leak titled “Lisa Marie,” Wayne reveals another bit of dialogue with a lover:

I told her I would write a rhyme about her and it would be sweet

I said I need the perfect track, she said, “That’s deep”

On the 2013 song, “Itchin’” Wayne goes into even more detail of the back-and-forth relationship-centric dialogue, with a hook that’s entirely based around it: 

Yeah, I told her take her drawers off and she says I ain’t wearin’ none

I asked her, “Who this pussy for?” She said “Ransom”

And when she says “I Love You”, I say, “Shut up, take this dick”

She treat me like a God and tell her man she atheist

And then he calls with all that bitchin’

“Who is this?” She busy, call her later

There are plenty of other examples we could cull from the countless songs in Wayne’s career, however they are often found within the context of one or two bars only, collaborating with the rest of the lyrics in whatever strange way Wayne has deemed fit.

She said she eat her vegetables so she stay alive

So she slobbed on my knob

Like corn on the cob 

He raps on “Gettin’ Some Head” off of Dedication 2.

The fact that the verse on “Crying Out For Me” allowed us to see a vulnerable Wayne (for all intents and purposes), a Wayne who could not get the girl (at least not immediately and not to our knowledge) is revealing in itself. Drake is often credited for bringing emotions into the fold of hip-hop, he is a rapper who wears his emotions and his vulnerabilities on his sleeve. Drake’s favorite Wayne verse is essentially the most Drake-y Wayne verse there is. So that may not be surprising in and of itself. However it does tell us something when it comes to influence, as low key as it might be. 

It’s interesting to piece the threads of influence together when it comes to Wayne. Wayne is credited for a lot of things openly: the use of cough syrup and prescription pills, auto-tune (but yes, T-Pain too), odd-ball metaphors & wardrobe choices, an entire generation of artists in the vein of Young Thug; it could even be argued that Wayne influenced the whole idea of prolificness as a means to fame. The blueprint that 2 Chainz used in a lead-up to his own success was the same one Wayne followed circe ‘06/‘07: releasing an insane amount of music and collaborating with any and everyone. It’s a blueprint many young artists still imitate: Russ did it when he dropped a song every week on Soundcloud for two years straight. Wayne addressed his hard-working nature in a 2007 XXL interview as well, shrugging off claims of oversaturation– around the same time 50 Cent referred to Weezy as an “industry whore” because of all the music he was out there collaborating on. Despite the many credits Wayne has received for his overall influence on hip-hop , he’s not necessarily credited for anything on rap’s emotional spectrum, which is of course becoming more and more woven into the fabric of the music. 

Clearly, this Mario verse is also not very emotional. It’s too brief for that. However it still must springboard from an emotional well, the same one that has created a whole genre of heartbroken-rap-love songs. The verse arrived when rap was still much more focused on bravado and getting the girl rather than stories of the opposite. We can’t claim that this verse is the sole influence and only reason behind Drake’s emo approach, but we can imagine that it’s certainly a factor, especially by his own admission. “You really just rapped about an awkward, confusing conversation with a girl that actually would happen? Just because I’m a conversational artist, so to get that verse off, and tie it off at the end,” Drake says in awe during a VEVO interview discussing the verse.

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Things finally came full circle when Drake and Wayne collaborated on “HYFR,” and Drizzy was able to flex his own text exchange in a very-clearly-Wayne inspired manner. Recorded for Drake’s 2012 album Take Care, the song is about romantic entanglements both past and present. Drizzy adopts Wayne’s “Crying Out For Me” blueprint but fills in the missing gaps– the story itself is more detailed, the text messages are more elaborate.

And we never talk too much after I blew up

Just only “hello” or a “happy belated”

And I think I text her and told her I made it 

And that’s when she text me and told me she prayed it 

And that’s when I text her and told her I love her 

Then right after texted and told her I’m faded 

She asked what have I learned since getting richer

The song is one that centers around blocking out emotions rather than dealing with them, though, as past trauma from relationships re-surfaces for both artists. “Interviews are like confessions,” in the sense that they are revealing, they are telling– and right now, neither Drake nor Wayne wants to confess or deal with these emotions beyond a temperate and rather useless “Hell yeah.”

While we cannot credit Wayne as the main force behind the love-scorned-rap movement, we can credit his influence on Heartbreak Drake and we can trace the lines of influence, as faded as they might be. Somehow: it all goes back to Drake.