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In the thick of trap musicâs supremacy, Jamla Records is a Zanarkand: a desperate and sacrificial preservation of a previous glory thatâs now out of sync and out of favor.Â
Thing is, trap, snap, and drill are no longer insurgent movements, much as they were a decade ago. Trap is the standard sound and center of hip-hopâs gravity, with even pop musicians and network television dramas bowing to Atlanta's dominance. Quality Control and Zaytoven amount to goddamn tyranny of convergent tastes; an industrious hive mind buzzing with hi-hats that are almost as worn-out as all those âFunky Drummerâ loops of yestercentury. The fast evaporation of Migos is just one early hint that trap isnât a genre so much as a moment, and possibly a bubble: When does it burst?
When Kendrick Lamar asked Rapsody to spit a 16-plus on his divisive jazz fusion project, To Pimp a Butterfly, she upended his âComplexion (A Zulu Love)â with a cheeky fit of admittedly "conscious" rap. Sheâs not signed to T.D.E. or otherwise affiliated with Kendrick's clique, yet I doubt that Ab-Soul or Isaiah Rashad might have fit the bill on Butterfly as precisely as Rapsody does: Sheâs ambitious and imaginative, yes, but for the most part she writes realistic observations, recites words from the wise, and chants the modest optimism of a working-class striver. She's down to earth. She reveals herself only in doses of relatable confidence. No number of repeat listens to Rapsody's own Beauty and the Beastâthe album version of her EP from late last yearâwould educate your guess as to whether Rapsody even owns a car, much less whether itâs foreign or rare.
Rapsody builds on the 10-track EP with three additional songsâ"Don't Need It," "For You," and "Believe Her"âthat introduce a few strong R&B hooks into the mix. Otherwise, Rapsody is more so Joell Ortiz on the mic, a stream of compounded entendres spit to the rhythm of a polygraph needle. The real drums and wooden percussion of âGodzilla,â for instance, are the big and proper infrastructure of Rapsodyâs talk of God, squads, villas, killers, misters, sisters, âJay and Nas.â âDonât Need It,â the catchiest iteration of Rapsodyâs signature defiance (âI donât need your emo beats; all I need is soul and funkâ), is Beautyâs most breathtaking feature; while Rapsody canât claim Lauryn Hillâs knack for choruses, singer Merna supplies the requisite catchiness and lavender. âThe World,â the first of Beautyâs two Lauryn Hill flips, is scrappy and adventurous: âA hunger for wisdom from the Isles.â
We know the authorâs strengths before we can discern her true, specific self. On âThe Man,â she illustrates one householdâs poverty, honing in on a fatherâs spiral into emasculation and violence. Even when sheâs telegraphing her stature on âWho I Amâ and âComing for You,â thereâs no prevailing narrative of her own, or even a profile (her love for the Lakers and Kobe Bryant aside). She says as much on âWho I Am,â of all songs: âYou donât know me, but you know me,â which sounds like populism to me.
While thereâs little myth-making, Beauty is a work of brute strength and self-determination. Thereâs zero capitulation to popular taste. âForgive Me (Iâm Sorry)â opens with 30 seconds of pale trap mimicry, only to make way for the live piano and drumset as foundation for words of peace for Mike Brown and a defense of priorities and craft: âFunny how the ones selling records are the ones rapping for real/Future sold a hundred; Kendrick sold a hot mill/You do the math.â Not too proud to occasionally admit that sheâs jealous of Weezyâs disputed fortune, nor is she naive enough to be rapping in hope of some ludicrous payday to begin with.
As a spiritual preservation of Black Star and Rawkus Records and the like, Rapsody isn't throwback or reactionary so much as she's, let's say, classically trained. Beauty presents a rapper who is clearly capable of swimming in line with the current but would rather thrash against it. So unconcerned âwith Iggy and Nicki,â Rapsody is a descendent of Mos Def and Ms. Hill, and an insurgency peer of Kendrick, J. Cole, Jay Electronica, Ana Tijouxâcurious rebels and lovers with varying popular appeal but common cause in their antagonizing the values and mindset that culminated with âVersace.â Jazz and hot mic poetry arenât new to rap, but neither is gold. Whatâs next?
Justin Charity is a staff writer at Complex. Follow him @brothernumpsa.