Art via Evan Solano
Steven Louis is the executive producer of Punk Goes Crunk: A Live Experience.
“What’s one more year of the struggle?,” ATL’s latest breakout asks himself as embers leap out from his guitar neck. Destin Laurel says he remembers all that came before this first-and-goal present. He watched his mother take late shifts at the hair salon, while he hustled candy to passersby after school — Reeses, no recess, in his words. He sat with tough questions and bolded whispers about his father, but also about The Father, because faith and poverty is quite a gauntlet for any young mind. He was idling outside the 285 Flea Market (Decatur, with affordable grillz) and at McNair (East Atlanta, alma mater of Gucci and Nudy and Rich Homie Quan). As expected, Destin now brings those that were there with him from the beginning, dislodged from those past grays. This triumphant lead single was directed, edited and co-produced (with Sahara) by the 21-year-old melody-stacker. He brings in church choir vocals without overextending the music or forcing a brute catharsis. He fits a lot of feeling into three minutes and four seconds, but it never feels like a lot.
Bostonians say things in hilarious and insane ways, so, here are my preliminary guesses for how to pronounce Dorchester:
“Doorshustur,” all rolled together“
Dort-chester,” harshest of Ts smacking like brand-new brake pads
“Douuuhhhr-chestah,” held with the intensity of a thousand Southies; they made like eight new Wahlbergs for this occasion
“Garciaparra,” exactly as it looks
I care about Dorchester now, because I care about BLUEHILLBILL, who alliterates like a gold-fronted Nabokov. Here, he uses a coaster for his cognac, and sends Polynesians to pluck pepperonis off his pizza. Scott Storch beats get Scotch Tape clips, and so forth. Bill — sorry, BILL — has a 90s-style squawking delivery, but with a tight handle and a commitment to clever penmanship. “Keep holsters when I’m under attack / under a tack, like a poster” is a brilliant opener, and I’m prepared to fight anyone who says otherwise. Grubby Pawz is a great producer name, and he made a great beat to match. “Blue Hill” is pronounced however Bill wants it to be.
LA’s ICECOLDBISHOP is as talented and magnetic as any of the city’s ascendants. Generational Curse is one of the best formal debuts of the past decade. He still gets overlooked, though, probably because he’s selective with his drops and comfortable riding solo. “Thumbtacks” is exemplary of what he does best — barring out from the shadows, molding space with rubber flows. Danforth, a rising engineer coming off Don’t Tap the Glass sessions, makes a crawlspace of a beat for Bishop to stop-and-go through. He promptly gives [P-Word] of the Year honors to … that [p-word] he caught in traffic driving a Kia. ICB is the jabber with the knife and the physical therapist seen afterward. He’s a battler and a Blade Runner. “Yo shit weak, I ain’t diggin’ it sorry / I fell asleep at your listening party.” This despite the baddies congregating around that very listening party!
The baddies linked up with these guys after that snoozer of a listening party. What do we call a posse cut for crooners? It’s not a riddle. I’m leaning toward “float-a-thon” right now. Well, here’s the latest float-a-thon, reminding us that Los Angeles can lead the league in neon smoothness as well as blowers-out grime. “DIP” is all black silk with a fluorescent purple glow. Compton’s Wallie goes first, running up bags on a Wednesday, surrounded by robotics and plasma. Vocally, he clears out the most space and tests the height of the ceilings, like a leadoff hitter with home run pop. Ty (South Central, lest we forget) flies closer to the ground in the second verse, as he tries to figure out whether the bottom he’s caressing is surgically-augmented. In 2012, someone would’ve called this ass-thentication (or ass-urance?). Blxst comes through as the cleanup hitter, clearing the table and cruising between his collaborator’s dual frequencies.
One of the underground’s most important artists comes up for some universal (yet much needed) messaging — a lifetime of love and work can be nullified by one microfiber of mistrust. Tony Shhnow’s “Think Again” is an open call to observe Yasiin Bey’s “Speed Law,” to sublimate pride or at least give it a second thought. Mike & Keys, the production duo once known as The Futuristiks, is in the middle of a fantastic 2025 after pacing LaRussell’s run. For this single, they construct a hovering Grand Prix circuit (yes, I am picturing an original Mario Kart track), buttressed with fuzzy bass and segmented by snare flutters. Director J.D. Miyagwa uses top-down camera angles and late-afternoon shading to advance what would’ve been a straightforward stick-up story. Shhnow is truly essential in today’s self-sustained rap movement. He gives us frequent but tasteful drops, with experimental flows and wide-ranging guest work. He often commits to storytelling rap but he’s never corny or lazy with it. The staples are recognized — “it was all good a week ago,” “riding candy paint, nothing sweet though” — but they’re retrofitted rather than shoehorned.
In which Slick Rick’s “Children’s Story” gets a campy but charming “battle of the sexes” rework. Swim and Jada are the two rappers comprising PARTYOF2, and the usual teammates pretend to go at each other in this aptly-named “Friendly Fire.” Jada evokes ‘Pac on “Hit Em Up,” then laughs about how damn near everyone can rap and sing these days … well, except for Swim, who can just rap. He counters with a joke about ghostwriting all of the duo’s verses, then asks when Jada last went to therapy (HIPAA???) and where her Zoloft is (HIPAA!!!). In rebuttal, Jada recommends that we check the Zelle receipts, which would reveal how she pays for Swim’s stuff. It is not Murda Mook vs. Hitman Holla, but it definitely is creative and endearing.
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