Review Summary: New Atlanta's prince, and his loyal subjects.
In my former naïveté, modern rap showed no luster, no pizazz, and no apparent value. If and when it was digested, it was all in jest; admittedly, I used to be the type to stoop to the low of listening to something ironically. At age 16, I was reviewing albums and expressing my opinions openly on the internet, not at all very enamored with trap as a genre of hip hop. The vapid lyrical content from hip-hop's commercial elite made the listening process a bit strenuous, while beat makers continued pushing the same club banger over and over again for the sake of selling records. The climate of rap back when I was a younger young-in wasn't much different than it is now; people are still trapping, people are still rapping, and people are still rapping while also acting like they’re trapping, all the while not actually trapping (y’all know who you are). Authenticity seems to have reached a high point in its relevance to hit records, but oddly enough also not as fans and pundits alike can't discern who’s “really out here doing it.”
A big contrast between 4 years ago and the present state of the genre lie within the introduction of different tropes (sex-positive feminism, anti slut-shaming rhetoric), the level of production quality in relation to budget, the technical ability of up & comers; the modern emcee has access to resources like Rap Genius, where anyone, ranging from the average listener to the recording artists themselves, can annotate lyrical content. Influences are wide in range, and the more adept of the newer generation tends to stray away from age-old swag grabs and intellectually unacceptable lyricism, substituting it out for unique content, new cultural references, and innovating the English language as a whole. Make no mistake though, this hip-hop renaissance has been on the cards for some time. These new ideals are running wild within the minds of rappers, old guard and new guard alike. The genre staples from the “mid-naughties” artistic surge (e.g. Kanye West, Lil Wayne, Drake) are still making music consumed wholeheartedly by the masses, while some select young guns are taking risks, some shooting and never missing.
In a culture of bar-raising and one-upping, there’s one self-described asshole taking the debauchery of previous genre innovators and maxing it out. Arguably the face of New Atlanta, Awful Records resident patriarch Father is finding some of the freshest takes on the party-line "meme-ery" that has encumbered the genre. Young Hot Ebony is Father’s idea of the “new way to do it”, flexing a nihilistic, cynical and overtly sensuous approach to flow, lyricism and instrumentation, all while handling artistic responsibilities completely on his lonesome. Breakout single “Look at Wrist” is as infectious as it is potent, sporting a backing track that’s equal parts club-banger and lyrically enthralling. The Roland TR-808 is Father’s landscape of choice, and his use of the ever-famous textures derives from the artistry of Dirty South rap in a way which contradicts the industry banger blueprint; He focuses more on the interaction between lyrical content and musical stylings, and in the process he creates a completely unmistakable sound. It’s somewhat astonishing how natural he sounds inside these dissociative, syncopated and often uncomfortably intimate settings. Father sits inside the pocket all day, every day with his music, never trying to be something he isn’t. Father is New Atlanta’s allegorical depiction of the function, fit with a humorously wry set of punchlines and sample usage as in good taste as it is blatantly sarcastic. This is a conceptual divorce from struggle rapping as a form of keeping it real, while still satisfying those who seek reassurance from the familiarity of subject matter.
2 years after the fact, Father has three more projects, all of which still exist within the paradigm of his snide, trap-derived vision for hip hop. Songs like “Please Stop Making Fake Versace”, “Everybody in Club Getting Shot”, and the brand-spanking new single “Why Don’t U” are continuing where this tape and the Lil Diddy EP left off, all on the same *** *** that Father wants to be on with his music, contrasting only qualitatively. Admittedly it’s hard to compare his projects with one another, as they’re all so undeniably significant and unique to the current canon of rap; this tape separates from the rest in its coherency and consistency. Homie gets a little lyrically redundant sometimes, but it’s in the spirit of creating a unified project (all of the iterations of bitch ***ing would make for a dangerous drinking game). Along with the relatively short runtime of 27 minutes, Father’s apathetic hedonism morphs and twists, switching narratives from outward to inward throughout. This constant shifting of focus in particular makes the mixtape successful artistically, and any opportunity to vary the content on the tape is taken. Young Hot Ebony has the interesting effect of being equally rewarding to the listener regardless of how it’s taken in. Each of the songs themselves can hold their own when isolated as well as fit nicely in the tracklist, which is very reflective of Father’s multiple roles in its conception. Father has an artistic versatility that allows him the luxury of copping any and every stance, whether it be his trap shenanigans (Dame Fuego, Look at Wrist), his affinity for sex and drugs (Why Can’t I Cry $$$, Young Hot Ebony), etc. He plays the role of leading man and supporting member seemingly simultaneously, having the maturity required to step aside and let his set shine because it’s not just Father that Father is advertising, it’s “Awful clique” as a whole.
Speaking on the guest appearances, each and every feature executes their part exceptionally well. iLoveMakkonen on “Wrist” spits some scalding hot bars that feel like a small divorce from his usual simplicity (Super Chef Makkonen might sprinkle serotonin, be careful what you rollin’ cause my wrist so god damn potent), and Key raps some of the most memorable bars on the album (I ain’t from the Chi—this Atlantastan & I hurt my ***ing wrist tryna fist *** your bitch). 180’s features Richposlim’s technical ability on the mic (See also: Young Hot Ebony Remix), while Ethereal’s verse on “Dame Fuego” shows that hip hop isn’t the competition it’s been made out to be, never really trying to outdo Father and instead crafting a set of lines that meshes really well with Father's verse.
Ultimately, the rap game has changed; some arguing for the better and some arguing for the worst. This new breed of emcees doesn’t really care about what the hip-hop heads think; they’re just doing their own thing entirely. Whether traditionalists want to knock Father for his apparent lack of technical ability or his happy go lucky, life-of-the-party narrative, the thing that absolutely no one can strip from Father is his ingenuity: his lyrical maneuvering between synonyms and slang terms, his instantly memorable hooks and one liners; everything displayed here is uniquely and undeniably his own brainchild. Father isn’t taking responsibility for the successes of his homies, like many group leaders before him; he’s just pumping out jams and doing his due diligence for the art form. Perhaps it’s correct to argue that rap as a genre is heading south, but it’d be more correct to argue that it’s always been south: Dirty South that is. Father and the Awful clique crafted a standout album that dares to be unique in an otherwise overpopulated and oversaturated climate; he doesn’t care for the comparisons or props or the masturbatory fanfare that comes with being in the rap game. Among a convoluted mass of Soundcloud and internet rappers, Father and friends carve out a special niche for people sick of the norm.
