The thing about mythmaking is, it’s a lot cooler when other people do it for you. Except for maybe when it’s a state attorney aiming to send you to prison until Barron Trump’s re-elected president. Staring into the judge’s eyes during Young Thug’s RICO trial a few years ago, a Georgia state prosecutor was doing just that as he told a fantastical tale of Thugger’s crime boss alter ego. It was an opening statement fit for Spike Lee’s The Slimefather starring Denzel Washington: “This is the most of them. This is the one that you see the shadow in the back of the room. He’s the one directing traffic. He is the one that we’re all afraid of. He’s the one that’s King Slime.”

If you were looking for the exact opposite of a phrase like “Live Laugh Love,” it would be, I Don’t Like Shit, I Don’t Go Outside. Released 10 and a half years ago, Earl Sweatshirt’s melancholic sophomore album title is the anti-Annie — a bleakly abrupt way of saying, the sun won’t come out tomorrow, and even if it does, I’ll be too busy brooding and watching The Wire Season 4 to notice. The tracks themselves are similarly dire, with singles like “Grief” sounding like a bottomless pit where you can barely hear yourself scream. His latest LP, Live Laugh Love, is the sound of someone who’s long since found the resolve — and the wisdom — to climb out of it.

At some point years after folks like Q-Tip, Pharrell, and André 3000 first embodied it, the term “genre-blending” became the most annoyingly vapid descriptor in my inbox. Gradually, a compound adjective that had once been reserved for people like Lauryn Hill or Kanye became lifeless boilerplate copy for any shitty artist who listened to Nirvana once and decided they were “more than just a rapper.” For every Doja Cat or Trippie Redd, there’s 10 or 11 who are a few flops away from becoming either an IG model or a morally ambiguous streamer. The thing is, “blending” suggests control, and you can’t control something you never really grasped in the first place. But sounds are a lot easier to corral when you create them yourself. As his own primary producer, Jim Legxacy flaunts the deft, improvisational control of Jérémy Doku. The producer-rapper swirled disparate sonic elements for his breakout 2023 album, homeless nigga pop music, and he makes the mix even more seamless — and more expansive — black british music, a mixtape that oscillates between textures and feelings with an impressive dexterity that defines the best artists.

In case you somehow didn’t remember or didn’t read up, here’s some CliffsNotes: Slick Rick is that nigga. Always has been. In the off chance you did forget, he uses his new track “I Did That” to serve up a heavy-handed but sincere reminder. Flaunting all the imaginative flair of his own Wikipedia page, Rick uses the throwaway interlude to list his accomplishments in a series of undeniable one-note summations: “Icon fashionista. Storyteller. I did that.” It’s a collection of mic-drop cultural imprints from a figure who no longer needs to tell you. If Rick still did require an introduction, Victory, his first album in over 25 years, would do the job pretty well. Defined by wit, breezy soundscapes, and the same conversational agility that made him a legend nearly 40 years ago, the LP sees Slick Rick in cruise control of all his preternatural gifts. While there are some lame detours, it’s proof that, in spurts, he can still take you on an indelible journey.

For all his vaguely quirky medieval imagery, Zukenee’s music is grounded in the more recent past. Hailing from Atlanta, the rapper who calls himself a Slayer — an alias and aesthetic that probably triples as a lifestyle or even quadruples as a philosophy — would’ve been either an idea or a mischievous lil’ squirt when I heard Trap Muzik, Trap House, or Trap Or Die for the first time. But his tracks pull straight from the 2000s: a collage of blunt rhymes, jumpy synths, and soft, Zaytoven-esque piano keys that could’ve soundtracked that lo-fi Reggie Bush highlight tape 22 years ago. It’s all a reminder that, bad as I want to, I can’t cop a $5 foot long and or touch the rim anymore. Less existentially, it’s the core of Slaytanic, a compelling new mixtape from an artist crystallizing his sound. Adorning trap music ephemera with interesting vocality, some welcome eccentricity, and splashes of distinct writing, Zukenee remixes the past for something new and intermittently electric.

(In the most decisive, unironic voice possible): It takes a certain level of intelligence to understand Playboi Carti. To me — ahem, a seasoned music critic you should never doubt because I’m always right — his talent’s always been as clear as his flawless skin.

If you ask any rapper, basically ever, they’re underrated. No one gave them their props for inventing that style everybody uses. They paved the way for your favorite rapper to do that shit they do now, and also, they’re your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper. And they’ve got the biggest dick, which really isn’t talked about enough. They can be rap legends who don’t crack enough top-five lists for their liking, or the talented underground wordsmith who won’t be respected until they suffer an untimely demise. In nearly all cases, regardless of merit, the general sentiment is this: The world doesn’t fuck with me enough. It’s a tale as old as Sugarhill Gang, and, though he’s nowhere near as entitled as those vague rapper composites I just listed, Saba continues the tradition on his new track “Acts 1.5,” where he begins a literally dizzying stanza with an honest career summation: “I’ve been slept on and stepped over, the less noticed.”

The title of Drake and PARTYNEXTDOOR’s $OME $EXY $ONGS 4 U is supposed to be an exercise in self-referential fun: i.e., “You know us for making sneaky link soundtracks and — surprise — that’s exactly what we’re doing, so we’re going to phrase that concept as straightforwardly and casually as humanly possible.” It’s kinda funny. But the sterility of the music undoes the joke; it’s not an ironic punch as much as an apt description for a collection of tracks that are as disjointed as they are indistinct. They might as well have called it, These Are Our Sexy Songs — Here You Go. While $$$4U delivers on some of the sexy, it’s usually got all the charm and imagination of missionary with the lights off.

One of the world’s most endearing ironies is that sexy drill … well, sexy drill usually just isn’t that sexy. Really, that’s almost the point. The genre’s name even sounds like a self-parody. Its practitioners are typically in on the joke, too. Cash Cobain can make you remember that time y’all were gone off that Henny, but we all know he’s about to rhyme that with “I’ma eat on your pussy like Dennys.” Smooth as he sounds, Bay Swag’s an undercover fuck boy in a disguise he just copped from a bodega. Chow Lee’s Sex Drive album cover is literally just him fucking a girl on the side of the road. It’s all more crude than seductive — rambunctious fun rather than Casanova romance. With spurts of lucid earnestness and an angel-kissed tonality, Wolfacejoeyy’s latest album, Cupid, is a spiritual remix on the concept.

From the moment he popped out for a guest verse on Future & Metro Boomin’s “Like That,” 2024 belonged to Kendrick Lamar. After declaring and winning a war against Drake — and landing a couple #1 singles in the process — that much was clear. But Kendrick wasn’t the only rapper who came through in 2024, even if all his press and outright dominance makes it feel that way.

In the history of annoying journalism clichés, no one’s ever embodied a “rapper’s rapper” as much as Freddie Gibbs. When he’s not sharing vivid D-Boy recollections or laughing at fallen enemies, he’ll make time to own it. Otherwise, critics like me will prescribe it for him, noting a gravelly baritone that emits intensity and the way his omni-directional flow agility is a perfect conduit for bars that can be as quippy as they are poignant. By my count, he’s dropped at least three fringe classics — Piñata (2014), Bandana (2019), and Alfredo (2020). A sequel to 2017’s You Only Live 2wice, the new You Only Live 1nce isn’t one of his best, but it’s still Freddie Gibbs, so it’s great almost by default.

It would be easy to call out GloRilla’s Kirk Franklin feature as the moment she got back to her church choir girl roots. But that would be ignoring her core function as a minister for disaffected baddies. Since breaking out with “F.N.F. (Let’s Go)” a little over two years ago, Gloria Hallelujah Woods has wielded repetition and hard-earned life lessons to preach the word of GloRilla, a rowdy ’round the way girl who knows too well the virtues of getting money, ratchet ass friends and, above all else, staying “fuck nigga free.” It’s a gospel that’s made her a fringe superstar, and it’s as potent as ever on GLORIOUS, a propulsive debut album that mostly lives up to its name.

Technically speaking, Big Sean’s not releasing his debut self-help book until January, but his new song “Typecast” feels like an earnest head start. There, he flexes his self-attributed knack for words of wisdom: “Could build a damn positive affirmation gallery.” It’s a boast and a product description for Better Me Than You, a competently constructed but bland album that too often confuses generic therapy speak for depth. Thematically, the dad raps are a sign of maturation from a skillful yet mischievous rapper who once bragged about being 10 feet tall when standing atop his own dick. But intentions and themes aren’t replacements for effectively leveraged imagination, and artistically, personal evolution doesn’t mean much if your songwriting skills don’t grow with it.

In an age where rap icons are either literally pissing on their Grammy trophies or using their own victory speeches to figuratively shit on them, Denzel Curry stands out as one of the few young spitters who’d actually love to have one. From the beginning of his career, he’s showcased a knack for engrossing aesthetics and an affinity for ostensibly challenging big-picture concepts — a constellation of highbrow connotations usually needed for clueless awards show committees to treat rap like a legitimate art form. By his own account, these are the folks Curry has always looked to impress. “I tell my fans all the time: I’m not doing this just to do it, I wanna win a Grammy off this hoe,” he told Miami New Times two years ago. “But it feel like I don’t get recognized for what I do, even though I’ve been doing this for a long time.”

For an MC whose big shot came through battle rap, there’s a profound irony in Eminem’s greatest opponent now being himself. Since releasing his great but not-quite-classic fourth LP, ​​The Eminem Show, in 2002, Em’s faced off against his own worst impulses as steadily dented his legacy with awful albums.

Chief Keef has always marched to the beat of his own 808s.

Typically speaking, college kids aren’t seasoned marketers or astute culture journalists. They don’t use Chartmetric to assess the career trajectory of their favorite rapper, and when they describe what does or doesn’t work for their faves, they aren’t trying to win a Pulitzer Prize. And unlike me, they’ll probably never have the ability to do so anyway (JK, JK). But what they do have is the benefit of unfiltered instinct, and if you hang around them for long enough, you can get the sort of raw, plainspoken insight that’s seldom gleaned from a boardroom or an editorial meeting.

Peter A. Berry is a former XXL staffer who’s been a writer-editor for close to 10 years. An aspiring tortured genius, he’s a lifelong rap fan and lover of all things dope, and if there’s a way to write about something, he’s typically game. Tap in with him for Say What’s Real, a monthly hip-hop column about all the most notable releases from the underground, the mainstream, and somewhere in between.