Image via Fetty P Franklin/Instagram
Steven Louis is festive, with or without the festival.
I planned on using this opener to recap Rhyme Fest LA, a day-long old-school celebration Saturday at the Coliseum. I was going to write about my first time seeing DJ Quik — an artist I’ve grown to love and truly appreciate across eight years of PoWing with Jeff. I was going to write about the new single from Supreme Clientele 2, which Ghostface surely played as part of his headlining set. I was going to highlight Murs, who admirably donated his performance fee to the Immigrant Defenders Law Center. I cannot tell you about these proceedings, though, because the festival ran out of press, vendor and family wristbands. I was not the only one stranded outside gate 16. Here’s to the woman holding her full audio/video set-up, on assignment for Dead Prez, who had been patiently waiting for two hours. And here’s to the guest in a floor-length catrina dress with sugar skill makeup and a FUCK ICE tiara. I hope both of them made it to the other side. Alright, now to the new music, no wristband necessary.
Throughout much of the 20th century, Washington Heights was Charlotte’s only viable neighborhood for Black families. Racial covenants and prevailing segregation made most of the city unlivable; Washington Heights, named after Booker T., stood as a bellwether since its 1913 founding. The area has since been subjected to predictable, grubby intrusion. Part of it was destroyed to build a freeway ramp in the 70s, and California-based Kenwood Investments acquired commercial strip properties in 2020. Fortunately, it also has a new standard-bearer in Fetty P. Franklin. Charlotte’s ascendant has a lot going for him — the flow is a slow drip of liquid cobalt, the delivery spins mixtape Young Dolph with early Trick Daddy, and the bars are sneakily hilarious. Mr. Franklin brings his Pyrex to the talent show, and he plays Tetris on I-85. He ciphers with his shadow in moments of solitude, then suggests his lady should bag and sell her unmentionables. He’s clearly favored around the neighborhood, and he looks to be fast-tracked for national attention. “You can check my resumé, I ain’t never had a job, but…” is one way to do it.
Another Washington Heights repper, under very different circumstances. I’m really digging Lord Sko’s work this year, though I still think he’s too young (20?!) to be this nostalgic. The Manhattanite was an infant when Jay Z broke his retirement with a Budweiser ad. Yet look at him harnessing unprocessed Reasonable Doubt energy two decades later. The grainy camerawork and wide-angle staircase shots are precisely 1996. This video would leap into the oncoming subway in support of Anthony Mason. This video has perfectly-preserved steel-toe Lugz boots. This video took a very brief but well-intentioned interest in Ross Perot’s Reform Party. Sko is a sharp rapper who is clearly grateful to be here, but he doesn’t fall back on excessive earnestness. He’s not trying to trick folks who own The Album on secondhand vinyl, but preserve and extend something he feels connected to, even from far away. The beat (by Nef) is a lint roller gliding through Grand Bazaar, a silver bottle clanking between the metal and fiber optics. New York City ages its young and refurbishes its many former glories.
Another well-rapped and sincere revival, this one dispatched from the other side of the country and with more critical life experience. A pair of OGs in G-Len and June Dawg set up camp together on Figueroa, and they’re anything but bashful about their affiliations. The Denver Lanes are nowhere near the Rocky Mountains. The party in question has but one dress code and one bellowing onomatopoeia. And the 2pac flip is clean and airy. Len rocks a burgundy polo after beating a case in Torrance, which of course rhymes with the 110 exit off Florence. Of the two, he has a tighter handle on his raps, but June balances out with the requisite rasp and soldier’s stance — he compresses lines like prime WC. There are plenty more parties in L.A., it turns out.
In which Dem Franchise Boyz’ iconography becomes unisex. Maybe it always was? StlShorty raps as if she’s going to leap out of the frame and smack headphones out of our ears. Her energy is primed and controlled, rising and weaving atop the crunk crust. “WhiteTee Remix” is straightforward — Shorty’s peers want to fight her, while the city’s hustlers want to wife her. It still totally works as a shot of caffeinated grain liquor. This makes me want to stand on top of various surfaces, both public and private. I’d keep my shoes, too. Really, I’d put on a second pair of shoes. Our lead here is the first likable person to wear a Cardinals hat since Curt Flood.
Evidence is one of Los Angeles’ greatest sleepers, with more than 20 years of wobbly soul chops sourced from his grey kaleidoscopics. The Venetian worked on The College Dropout (“Last Call”) and on a half-dozen subterranean classics (Hiero Imperium, Project Blowed, Rawkus, Dilated Peoples, Alkaholics, ALC Records). His latest full-length, Unlearning Vol. 2, is packed in with dank wisdom and Pacific storm clouds. This single with Blu and Conductor Williams stands out for its bleariness, as Evidence deconstructs mountains of his own making before paraphrasing Charles Dickens. “The best way to stay alive is don’t die,” he swears. We follow. “The best way to lose weight is not eat.” Yeah, hard to deny. The crossfade into Blu’s verse slips aged cognac into a well-worn Cadillac. There’s mention of an 87th letter, which we’ll do our research on. And there’s ash in the rainwater, which only matters if we’re walking with our head tucked down. There’s no secret to unearth below, and no appeal to be made above, just a bit less than nothing right in front of us.
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