Art via Evan Solano
Steven Louis will cease or desist, but not both.
Max B just wrapped his 16-year bid behind bars, an incarceration that recast him from fallen star to folkloric totem. He two-stepped out of New Jersey’s Northern State Prison on Sunday morning, time officially served for an armed robbery that he wasn’t present for. So, guess what he did with his first afternoon of hard-earned freedom? No, not that … they don’t sell those anymore. And nooooo, not that … take your freakiness over to a Condé Nast comment section. One more guess? Damn, you nailed it on the third try, he went to Browns-Jets at the soggy and blustery Meadowlands. Going from a jail cell to a Jets game is too on the nose for Ray Romano’s Atlantic City residency, yet there he was, appreciating Gang Green in an all-black YSL fit.
The Silver Surfer returns to a deeply uninspiring New York City rap world. Its upper level is dominated by cut-copy drill tracings and teenage crypto-scammers. His contemporaries are sounding irredeemably washed — 50 Cent is a crank now, while Jim Jones is completing internet tabloid bingo. His progeny isn’t faring much better — A$AP Rocky, self-described disciple of waviness, is functionally just a famous husband at this point. Max B exercised his crinkled, croaking melodies while in lockup, though the outside promo left a lot on the table. His pen is certified until the end of sound (there ain’t no competition, owwwwww). And he’s already set for a live slate to hit the ground in sprinter’s stance. Much will settle out as the moon shines and the tide pulls. For now, fans are vindicated and loved ones are relieved.
Three decades after award show boos spliced Chonkyfire with rock and roll, André Benjamin and Antwan Patton are rightfully enshrined in music’s highest hall of fame. “OutKast made it possible to imagine experimenting on the biggest stage,” Donald Glover said from the podium Saturday night. “They made every experiment sound like a destiny.” The induction medley is worth it for those moved by their work, which is to say, any living thing with a central nervous system. Big Boi is still intergalactically cool once the microphone is coiled. Though Three Stacks sat the performance out, fellow ATLien shapeshifter J.I.D. covered admirably — and softly, as if he played piano in the dark. Janelle Monáe, original Idlewild incubator, did an acoustic cover of the divorce song we turn up every wedding with (“Hey Ya”). Tyler, The Creator went scorched earth on a rendition of the millennium war cry (“B.O.B.”). And it was a full-on Dungeon Family potluck on stage once the speeches started up.
Our readership will get the most from 3000’s closing words, though. “Great things start in little rooms,” he said, tearing up and looking to fellow honoree Jack White. “We started in a little room.” It was the first verse of “Elevators,” born out across 30 years of spots off in the light and lights off in the spot. Here’s your evergreen reminder to support an artist in a little room some time soon — and to bump Stankonia, which turned 25 this weekend.
Project Blowed ambassador All City Jimmy is a singular force in the Los Angeles underground — a liminal stretch of the San Andreas Fault, or an Octavia Butler protagonist with plated gold fronts. His latest reconfiguration casts him as winking showman of El Rey sleaze. “Boy Toy” is a quick-hit banger with brisk pace. Snares crash as screams are chamberized. It’s a pixelated statement of self-possession, one to be muttered into crystal hot tub waters. Jimmy says that his concubines have borderline personality disorder, but those in search of a true soulmate are better off ordering on Postmates. Is Postmates a dating app now, when did that happen? This is lone wolf music to gloat over, litmus parchment to set the real from the lab-grown. Who said battle rappers don’t get b words? Liars said that.
Down in San Diego, JOJO2FADED raps with a precision that belies his name. Madmat and H Street link up to serve a gold-spoke Impala beat, sunshine soul beneath matte finish. “Pull Fancy” works because it’s so familiar, Daygo by way of South Central. It has staying power because of the delivery’s freshness, and because the 405 freeway stays perpetually heated at 80 degrees Fahrenheit. “Proceed with caution how you walkin’, I got critical aim” tumbles out with waxed menace. Jojo is gliding and grinding across 2025, with three full-length projects out this year. Notice how the bottom of your jeans bag up with each successive listen.
This is the future we’d be living in, nay, thriving in if that So So Def time travel program wasn’t axed by the Bush admin (look it up). “Den” sounds like Young Dro hurled into hyperspace. It’s phonk and crunk, and there’s margarita salt on the mink coat sleeve. Several lifetimes later and Atlanta is still velvet roped for the cosmic. Replace NAFTA with Mexiko’s WeTransfer link.
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