The Rap-Up: Week of May 12, 2025

Image via YN Jay/Instagram

The Rap-Up is the only weekly round-up providing you with the best rap songs you need to hear. Support real, independent music journalism by subscribing to Passion of the Weiss on Patreon.

Steven Louis is the host of the No Jumper reading group.

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You thought this was a Peter Gabriel drill flip, didn’t ya? Don’t feel bad, that’s precisely why I clicked on it. Now that we’re here, let’s get comfortable. Brooklynite Kyle Richh is a deceptively fun rapper. I write that because a) barring out is explicitly not the point of this fuzzy caffeinated sample trap dominating New York right now, and b) Kyle Richh uses a lot of throwaway lines to fill out his schemes, because this is an exercise in rhythm stacking. Come for the “I love my shawty, don’t care if I’m toxic” and stay for the “I’m tryna get in her box, I’m boxin’,” I guess.

I’ll stop dissecting the work any further – your correspondent here is many things, and a dweeb isn’t one of them – and say that this is music to spill onto the Brownsville sidewalk to, something to yell through as your Knicks complete a second 20-point comeback against the defending champions/Top Opps. It doesn’t really need my promotion, racking up more than a million views in 10 days on YouTube. But I feel compelled to shout out the uncredited producer, Kay Archon, who’s otherwise been reduced to a most-liked comment of “Both Beats By Me💆🏾‍♂️”.

This Snoh Aalegra rework is galactic, and the “Hold Yuh” switch vivifies with allspice. “In Ur Eyes” is moody and shifty, a neon gust on a summer night, George Bailey lassoing the moon off the zaza.

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Another one that may not need my specific promotion, but another sample too tough to not share. Taking on Willie Hutch’s “Tell Me Why Has Our Love Turned Cold” is something of an unprovoked odyssey, given the already-perfect and eternally-canonized “Stay Fly.” But Big Boyy Fresh and Mannie IL team up to give the beat deep, crinkling, golden warmth. Guitar wails are enunciated in this version, making space for Key Glock’s pattering flow to turn shades of blue.

Behold: Cooper Flagg dancing on the club couches, one under each foot like he’s waterskiing, with a blinding Paper Route Empire pendant around his neck (“Cooper” in the GloRilla North Memphis accent must sound transcendent). Glockaveli (don’t fight it) customizes his bezel and shouts out the Brothers Grimm in his holster.

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Elsewhere in Memphis, rap’s most underappreciated step siblings spend a Kia down payment at Target. Starlito and Don Trip spike ’80s chug-rock on “Royal Rumble,” one of so many standouts from their fourth full-length in argyle sweaters. All the prominent WWE intros get medleyed here, and this seasoned duo is equal parts Steiner and Wayans Bros. The jean shorts have a pocket full of stones and the weapon of choice is folding chairs. “Might as well open up the safe for a boss,” indeed. Rhyming Owen Hart with Rosa Parks is a civic achievement of the highest caliber. Thank God for Mary Steenburgen and Richard Jenkins for sticking two together.

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Few rap deliveries can match the unhinged slinking of Central Michigan’s YN Jay. He does so many things here – gets into fistfights off the lean, watches human beings draw their final breaths, identifies the amount of money in play by how his phone rings, etc. Mostly, he traverses his city to drop Washington Post Pinocchios on all these shameless liars. Jay’s latest, Atlanta Night Life, is a bachelor party weekend on Peachtree.

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It feels like we’ve heard El-P exclusively spliced with Killer Mike’s garrulous, thundering raps for the past decade-plus. It’s a nice changeup to hear the game’s sludge-sipping curmudgeon against a monotone and wholly unbothered Boldy James, who rhymes “kinda like a big deal” and “driving with the fishscales” on the cool-out chorus. Real Bad Man’s production pushes out the wisecrackers and wiretappers in favor of Rocket Ismail and “The Black, Ghetto Mick Jagger.”

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“You know I waited nine years for you to hit me up,” Brooklyn’s Jaz the Rapper sneers at Funk Flex (born Funkerama Flexaroo). It was worth the wait. Our jetsetting protagonist types in “JFK” so often that she’s basically the Warren Commission. The way Jaz combines Foxy Brown, Missy Elliott, Lauryn Hill, Remy Ma … she is every woman, as if mimicking Whitney. There are solid, spirited references to both Ruben Studdard from American Idol and Babs Bunny from Making the Band. But the part I’m most struck by is her confession of working as a 9-1-1 call dispatcher. That may not be CO-level contentious, but it’s still an unusual past job for ascending rappers to hold, let alone admit to. Jaz introduces this part of her past to meditate on trauma – her rent was made on the other side of trembling, wailing voices, one after another. “Shit is crazy, I got suicide calls done / I was on edge and had to talk somebody off one.” It’s a challenging moment, and fear not, it also sets up for a punchline about Eric Adams and Turkish Airlines.

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