Ryan Pomarico personally ended Brat summer.
It’s very likely that you’ve never heard of ian, so let me give you the worst possible first impression. While many musician’s styles have been positively described as “effortless,” for ian, that’s an insult. Nothing about the project signifies “star.” He’s a TikTok algorithm glitch come to life. His hair is tousled like someone at his high school just gave him a noogie. His wardrobe is made up entirely of gray sweatsuits, as if he’s completely pushing the limits of how little a person could care. His face always has this look as if he doesn’t want to be here, which is the same face I make whenever he comes on my phone screen. His music is soft boiled and flavorless. It’s the answer to the question: what if an unseasoned chicken breast selected from a glass case inside the Piggly Wiggly tried to rap?
Ian O’Neill Smith has been called many things by many people. Pitchfork said that he “absorbs Black influences while marketing himself as if he doesn’t.” In an oblique allusion to the Atlanta rapper, Tyler, The Creator claimed that (presumably) ian is “making fun of” real trap like Future and Gucci Mane. On the other end of the spectrum, young kids who really loved his mixtape Valedictorian have called him “next up.” These are the same young, post-Covid rap listeners who bump nothing but Travis Scott, Playboi Carti and Rich Amiri – many of them unaware or unbothered by the questions of authenticity brought about during the rise of Post Malone or 6ix9ine.
Like the episode of Atlanta, ian leans into all the tropes of being a white rap avatar. With the same schtick as Lil Dicky, he uses his whiteness as the entirety of the joke. Whether he’s pedal boating, playing basketball or sipping espresso, he’s always wearing the same crew necks and unbothered expression. These bland, clean-cut images are juxtaposed with Lex Luger and Young Chop type beats that sound like they’ve been run through an AI simulation. Every TikTok is a video of him rapping lyrics like “the way that I’m driving this Wraith, they ‘bout to put me on suicide watch.” He leans into familiar and stale internet memes while cribbing production, slang, and themes from legends like Chief Keef and Gucci Mane. This complete reliance on established tropes is what he’s trying to pass off as a “style”. In the AI world, they would call ian a prompt.
The “From The Block” video for “Figure It Out” is perhaps the best evidence to why I find him so insufferable. Rappers like Lil Wayne and Scarface made “the block” a common theme in broader American popular culture; you can see their influence in the videos that the platform has done for artists like Offset and Big Scarr. But because it’s ian, his “block” is, of course, presented as a backyard feast in a ritzy neighborhood. The gimmick is taken a step further by putting on a stereotypical Atlanta trap rapper vocal effect and speech pattern. As he raps about getting “the trap jumping”, people in his extended family are passing around potatoes. It could not be more clear that he is just cheaply copying what black rappers have been doing for decades while adding nothing new to the formula. It’s just a white reskin.
Didn’t we already get enough of this when Iggy Azalea – who is Australian – was rapping “first things first I’m the realest” with a fake Southern drawl on “Fancy”? Wasn’t it corny to reference Clueless while spitting bars about being in “the murder business”. While someone like Lil Baby writes from a place of experience and therefore paints a more realistic picture, people like Azalea and ian can only generative-fill the life they rap about. It’s an insult to rap music in general, and conveys the false idea that it’s only disposable “party” music and easily replicable.
Ian’s appeal to the youngest rap generation is obvious. He’s self-aware, tapped into meme culture and makes playlistable music that vaguely sounds like RapCaviar staples such as Ken Carson, Yeat and Travis Scott. His newest single with Yachty called “Hate Me” is his best song and it’s still a throwaway. Yachty used to receive similar critical scrutiny to ian, in that he was seen as mocking “real rap.” But over the years, he’s definitely taken the craft more seriously and has become something of a tastemaker and secret weapon for artists like Drake and City Girls. It’s also worth noting that Yachty is from Atlanta, signed to Quality Control, and was raised by an acclaimed photographer who once took classic images of Outkast. His connection to the culture is indisputable. And while Yachty sounds comfortable in the lane he’s created for himself, ian relies on rap signifiers like blunts and cars while utilizing his signature autotuned Diet Future vocal chain. His hollow chest puff of a verse posits him as someone who will “die” for this and who “ain’t never gon’ buy [his] way in.” Rich words coming from an industry plant being shuttled around by burly men in big SUVs.
ian was discovered by Akon’s brother Bu, who has a subdivision under Columbia entitled “Bu Vision”. Bu has a long history in the industry from being one of Kanye West’s managers to developing acts like T-Pain. While ian had some popularity before being discovered by Bu, a sudden spike in interest correlated with ian’s breakthrough single “Figure It Out”, which happened to be one of his first releases as a signed artist. Aided by boosted marketing, the single’s popularity beget the aforementioned performance video and a Lyrical Lemonade music video. Cole Bennett’s conglomerate launched Juice WRLD, Ski Mask The Slump God, Babytron and now ian, as a talent to watch.
Before being called up to the big leagues, ian had consistently dropped similar-sounding lo-fi trap on DSPs since early 2022. As he progressed, the sound definitely became more crisp and his voice started to really develop the simulation fakeness it exhibits today. He spammed the streaming services for two years with a total of 27 songs, gaining enough streams and followers to attract minor notoriety. As a major label A&R, it’s Bu’s job to discover the sounds that young listeners gravitate towards and amplify them, so the partnership made perfect sense.
Their marketing strategy works in a world where channels like Lyrical Lemonade are the new tastemakers. Once upon a time institutions like The Source, XXL, and urban terrestrial radio stations decided what hit and what flopped. In the last generation, the blogs had a say in what was hot. So did The Breakfast Club, and WorldStarHipHop. While imperfect in their own ways, these platforms generally exhibited some sort of quality control. Look at what happened with YK Osiris back in 2019. He was put to the test by being placed in the same XXL Freshman cypher as DaBaby and Megan Thee Stallion and looked like a fool. Fast forward to 2024, YK is rightfully mocked for having only one hit song.
Ian no longer needs to hold his own in a cypher alongside more talented contemporaries. He no longer needs to get put in the hot seat by someone brash and uncompromising like Charlamagne Tha God or Joe Budden. He should absolutely have to face the noise and prove himself as all rappers have had to do in the past, including his collaborator Lil Yachty. The mechanisms put in place to weed out the fakes haven’t entirely gone away, but they’ve all but lost their power to make or break new talent. We now get non-hostile, friendly internet based outlets like On The Radar that help promote and package song snippets and personas into clips. I love a lot of their content because many of the rappers are talented. However, it sometimes helps generically produced products like ian be easily put in front of the new media class, the streamers.
Unlike journalists and broadcasters, most streamers have no background in discerning between good and bad art. They’re often incentivized to prioritize connection with artists over criticism. Did we really think Kai Cenat would talk shit about Drake’s new album For All The Dogs after filling his room with puppies and talking to him throughout the stream? There is a sycophantic and symbiotic exchange where the artist gives the streamer mainstream credibility, and the streamer acts like their music is worth listening to. Their job is to give quick and canned reactions that are usually nudged in a certain direction by the marketing team of the artist.
Ian’s high school lacrosse player appearance coupled with his grafted on “gangster” lyrics is perfect for someone like Kai Cenat to yell “yoooo” at. Reactions from popular streamers are of great value to artists because they drive new listeners directly to the artist’s social media and DSPs to run their numbers up. If people like Kai are “impressed” by such low brow, minimal effort, what reason is there to make a detailed, compelling track or album? Being conceptual and digging deep takes time and critical thought. The internet moves fast, so putting out similar-sounding and rushed pablum with flashy videos is the best way to capitalize on the moment.
Somehow, ian isn’t even the worst offender in this grotesque trend. For that, there’s Lil Mabu, a white rapper who understands these cynical marketing tactics at the most base level. While not much is known about ian’s upbringing (hence his supposed “aura”), Mabu is an open book. He comes from a rich family in Manhattan and graduated from a $60,000 a year private high school called The Collegiate Academy. He broke into the mainstream by running the same schtick as ian but to a more extreme degree. After being labeled as culture vulture for songs like “Trip To The Hood”, he then proceeded to link up with legitimate drill rappers like Fivio Foreign and DDOsama to bolster his credibility. The result is a continuously shark-jumping, terribly executed gimmick that suburban kids cannot get enough of. Well, except for the song “Oppy Day;” I think even his biggest fans hate that one.
Mabu seems to fully understand his position as the “hated white rapper”. It’s a curse where attention is easy to acquire but respect is much more difficult to earn. Hence, the focus on disrespect. He knows that when he makes TikToks of fake guns falling out of his pants or a song called “Teach Me How To Drill”, that he’s assuming the role of the heel. From a marketing perspective, it’s undeniably genius, but it’s not art. It’s reactionary garbage. He’s using age-old rap braggadocio to say “fuck everyone I’m the best” and then relying on everyone (drill rappers in this case) to do the innovation for him. Mabu and his producers can never come up with a novel concept because all he’s doing is recycling signifiers and tropes. Eventually, the scene around him will dissipate and he’ll either have to grift somewhere else or fade away. Him and ian are not long term investors in rap, they are day traders.
While Mabu makes worse music and is a more objectionable figure overall, he and ian serve a similar function. They both fly in the face of what it has historically meant to be a rapper. NBA Youngboy, Lil Baby, Key Glock are all artists of different scenes that have one thing in common: they started with nothing, and created an entirely new wave with pure hustle, determination and charisma. They are products of their respective regional traditions, but they expanded upon it through new melodies, slang, and stylistic evolution.
To me, ian and Mabu are a byproduct of these artists in the same way excrement is a byproduct of nourishing food. All the elements of originality that make the real rappers worthy of praise are stripped away, and what we’re left with is hollow shell posturing over even hollower “trap” and “drill” production. Without people “trapping” or “drilling,” the music that they make ceases to exist. Yet, these white interlopers are hidden from that danger by their security guards in a similar manner as the streamers who never have to leave their house.
Of course, industry plants aren’t new and mainstream white rappers on their face aren’t even the problem. As Tyler, The Creator mentioned in his recent interview, Eminem and Mac Miller are widely embraced and celebrated. The difference between them and the Mabus and ians of the world is that the former camp earned respect displaying artistry in the face of substantial hate.
Despite being loved by frat bros, Mac Miller’s studio debut Blue Slide Park was absolutely trashed and picked apart by critics. He eventually began to grow and attempt to find his own sound and cut the gimmicks; the end product was almost universally lauded. Eminem infamously sold 1,000 copies with his first record Infinite and had to fight constant criticism even after he blew up. But as he continued to press on and drop classics, he became known as one of the greatest to ever do it. He had to prove himself. And through the adversity he faced, he gained the respect of peers and enemies alike, from his mentor Dr. Dre to his biggest hater Benzino.
I saw Yeat have a similar upswing, going from “white Playboi Carti copycat” to having his production style copied by big names like Quavo. That’s because all the man does is make increasingly freaky and influential rap music and play shows to massive crowds. He’s not making TikToks and putting on a persona, he hides his face and lets his catalog do the talking. I don’t see such a future for ian. He’s a TikTok influencer first and foremost, and that’s why the music is secondary. He is not pushing a sound forward, he’s regressing it by stealing flows and production from 10-20 years ago.
Ian and his team found a loophole. They skipped over the part where they need to prove that he is not a caricature of whiteness stealing from black artists. But the truth is that’s his sole appeal. In an atomized media climate where the old guard has dissipated and fallen out of favor, fakeness is incapable of being stopped in its tracks. To succeed, even the most talented artists need to have some sort of extra-musical virality, but in an information-saturated ecosystem, it means that hollow marketing often triumphs over sheer talent.
The problem doesn’t merely lie with ian, but with all the new mechanisms that determine success. As long as monthly Spotify listeners and TikTok plays are the main determining factor when it comes to signing artists, we’ll be served with artistic ephemera that appeals to the lowest common denominator.
What I worry about is that the ian’s of the world will continue to thrive and products like him will continue to be spoon fed to the general public without objection. That means that it’s even more crucial that respected artists like Tyler, The Creator and the remaining critical publications call out cynical and phony actors as they bubble to the surface. Cheap virality must be fought with sincere criticism to balance the scales and ensure that products are not mistaken for art. It doesn’t necessarily mean that the audience will immediately follow, but eventually, they might figure it out.
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