Tity Boi) on “Get Out the Bed,” the first proper track of the release whereby he seems to finally reconcile the two energies he’s been struggling to synthesize: of crossing-over and of laying-low. “Fell off, came up, fell off, came back up,” raps 2 Chainz (f.k.a. JEFFERY contains multitudes, and we are lucky enough to experience them. He “aim at your fuckin’ fam” and howls on the verge of tears at the devils inside of him on the ballistic “Harambe,” two tracks before blissfully harmonizing with Wyclef Jean at the aural equivalent of a pool party on Saturn on “Kanye West” (f.k.a. The hi-fi production standard cushions the tracklist’s see-saw between pop anthems and subdued trap bangers, unifying the diverse moods and mindsets at Jeffery’s disposal into some logical universe. “Guwop” lays out an imperial palace of synth wisps and sequenced arpeggios for Offset and Quavo guest spots to demolish. TM88 delivers the future reggae of “Wyclef Jean” and the double-time eruption “Future Swag,” and Thug chews them both to pieces. Beats by perennial MVP Wheezy transplant the massive low-end and rolling hi-hats of trap into expanses of ambient texture, draped with curtains of detailed synth shimmer and clouds of electronic vapor. The towering hooks of “Webbie” feel like “No Way” 2.0: every syllable dripping with melody, supernaturally tumbling out of our hero against a gentle piano arrangement flecked with 808 bass. “RiRi” smears its namesake’s stuttered “Work” cadence into a throat-shredding falsetto. By now, Jeffery can balance these tactics with confident earworm choruses that carry just as much weight. The pyrotechnics that we crave remain: momentary sing-song hooks threaded into head-spinning double time verses, on-a-dime flow reversals, unhinged ad-libs shouted with chipmunk glee. Thugger levels up the grab-bag freestyle trappings of his Slime Season series and distills his wild card delivery into some of his most groomed crossover jams to date. No, My Name is JEFFERY comes packed with the viral factors that make a Young Thug album release into a cultural event, but the music speaks even louder than the Alessandro Trincone dress (*prayer hands emoji*). It’s free, but most notably, it’s freeing, a reminder that sometimes message can transcend medium. It’s remarkably univocal, yet studded with virtually unknown guest spots. It’s cool like Miles Davis, yet it still feels like a birth of something. Scope this Noname tape tho: smooth as Georgia Anne Muldrow, weird as Erykah Badu, COHESIVE as Kendrick. Bringing far away voices together has somehow made cohesion a perceived artifact of classicism, but in reality, FREE music is still an inferior good. And it’s even ingrained in this mixtape game too everybody’s out there hustling their products like they NEED exposure, but come review season, everybody’s hiding under this guise of amateurism as an excuse for why it doesn’t sound more cohesive. – Soe Jherwoodĭamn, contemporaneity got me bummed, because it’s always been like every artist is either an aspiring inventor marketing some new hybrid we didn’t ask for or a naïve archeologist digging up bones of other people’s saints for profit. This ain’t a meeting of two unilateral forces the collaborative spirit of I.B.TREE doles out enough soul for everyone. Fortunately, I.B.’s beats and Tree’s distinctive voice mesh together so nicely that anyone can jump in. I.B.TREE, his latest project with producer and fellow Chicagoan I.B.C.L.A.S.S.I.C., isn’t as cluttered-sounding as Tree’s own work behind the boards, the “impeccably entropic sense of syncopation” switched up for a more traditional approach to beatmaking. A relentless ambassador for Soul Trap (which could probably be traced as a precursor to the stylings of TLOP or Coloring Book), Tree’s brand of soul chops, trap kits, and an inimitable rasp is downright infectious. But when he raps “I’ve been in my ways since about 20,” you’d better believe the world-weary determination in his voice. Or maybe you’ve never heard the guy at all. Maybe you hopped on board after last year’s Trap Genius. Maybe you’ve been fucking with Tree since the Sunday School tapes.
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