Art via Evan Solano
Steven Louis thinks every movie is a Christmas movie.
This column was a (stacked, handsome) backfield-by-committee throughout 2025. I took the handoff on 23 of these Rap-Ups, which let me share a lot of awesome music to our most informed readership. Trite as it is, the past 12 months zipped by in hyperspeed. For this last Rap-Up, Iâm unearthing 10 songs that didnât make the publishing cut but still stayed with me. I made sure none of this overlapped with our forthcoming year-end lists.
What a year for rap music. Max B finally made it out to freedom. OutKast finally got Hall-of-Fame recognition. Skrilla shocked the world; NBA YoungBoy sold out arenas. Earl Sweatshirt was asked to take his sunglasses off â the commenters were really upset about that one. And right at the two-minute warning, Nicki Minaj went Turning Point USA. As always, things were dumb in the macro and brilliant in the margins. Now to the music:
Plush and nimble, Live and Let Fly stayed in my rotation well past its May release. Itâs a midnight connection between Oakland and The Bronx, with a sleekness beyond either localeâs reputation. Thereâs tuxedo hedonism and drive-in theater vintage. On the albumâs standout, DJ.Fresh DJ.Fresh DJ.Fresh (itâs a Beetlejuice situation) gives our narrator a wax floor to slide across.
âThe âMoneyyyyyyâ came from watching these black exploitation movies. Iâve been watching all kinds of shit lately. Iâm into mob movies, all the Godfather joints, you feel me? Pam Greer joints, the Max Julians, the Dolommites,â Moos told me earlier this year. âMe and Fresh, thatâs what we on! Itâs Mission Impossible, James Bond, scuba diving with mermaids and flying off yachts. Shit like that.â
That last Fresh beat is just about weightless, but this one rattles the frame with neon thunder. âStill Frozeâ is music to space travel to. Paul Wall is iced up as ever, and let we forget, he sends us a push notification in plated platinum. This whole project is fantastic and thorough. Here, The Peopleâs Champ typifies his commitment in how he raps to the camera. âCaramel leather but the passenger mocha / wrapped like a Christmas gift, wide wheels pokinâ / my wrist make a statement, yeah itâs so well spoken.â Deny that if you dare. One day, folks will fly into Houston via Swishahouse International Airport.
Yaya Bey conjures Atlantis from Queens. Her music is a warm wind and a hypnotic longing, though much of the songwriting is outright hilarious (see: âeric adams in the clubâ from last yearâs Ten Fold). On âmerlot and grigio,â sheâs determined to change our mind if we just catch this whine. A most persuasive argument, as Father Philis calls the play-by-play atop giant steel drums. On the whole, do it afraid is a great album with a clear voice.
The Michelin Man is a limited excursion through the clouds. Itâs a natural pairing â Cookin Soul makes smooth and spacious backdrops, while ANKLEJOHN fills spaces to the brim. The D.C. emcee raps about meeting the gatekeepers at the gate, then slapping them with his open palm. Chris Rock mutters in the distance, which is where the potential rumpers retreat to. Why get our asses kicked when we can not get our asses kicked? This is updated Liquid Swords energies dunked in vape juice.
New Jerseyâs aughts revivalist and Steroid Era advocate gets triple-digit heat from his go-to beatmaker. The Papo-Subjxct pairing is reliably excellent. Together, they kettle off the BQE. Producer bottles up aching 80s R&B, then puts blowtorch to glass. Rapper anchors with grizzled, scratchy raps, then bellows âand-1â like rookie Kenyon Martin. Call 1-800-2004 on the flip phone for more info. This rubbery bass thunk shuffled me through some strange summer nights.
The queen of Alameda County and new-age thizzler has an exceptional sense of melody. She digs a true earworm from unassuming lo-fi on âKaori.â Her âwoah-oh-ohâ bellows give the hook its juice. And her careful tone modulations lift the Key Z Slap beat from sea level. As I see it, no West Coast rapper is consistent as Kamaiyah.
This makes me want to start throwing cars off the 10 freeway. The Bagchaser and the Mac Lord send up South Central with amphetamine sounds. Itâs not quite Nervous Music, but it still slinks and lurches in cold paranoia. Itâs not quite 10 Summers material, but it definitely goes in the warehouse function. The âsay you down to slide, right?â was rhetorical.
Iâve been all-in on LaRussell this year. âJust a Lickâ is my elevator pitch. With Mike & Keys on the boards, he serves top-down earnestness and barbecue familiarity. Vallejoâs breakout is obviously not Capt. Save-A, but he takes a real frontman turn on the chorus with his laughing-singing vocal bend. âThese bâ donât deserve me, used to ride dirty, shawty where was you when I was whippinâ I-30?â That was the fulcrum of a âfeeling myselfâ playlist that earned high usage.
Somewhere in Chicago, Kaicrewsade pets his cat from a swivel throne. He raps with a furtive, mischievous delivery that pops on more static production. Thereâs old Hollywood haze to hy noahâs beatwork, with its symphonic loop and reel-click percussion. Menace stretches out a novacane drip before Sade tightens the handle. Dirty Diana and Oscar Proud both make appearances.
Beverly Hills Hotel check-in type beat. Harry Fraud is a luxury concierge. Valee marinates his carrots. Mikey Rocks rhymes âcrash the whipâ with âstash the blick.â And Z Money shows us how long forever is. âTed, you bonehead, its color is the same as its name!â
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