Recently, in casual conversations, I’ve been asked for my opinion about the October report that “No Rap Songs Are in the Billboard Hot 100’s Top 40 for the First Time Since 1990” more so than my thoughts on any particular rap album or song from this year. I never gave anyone the “Yeah, this rap shit is dead” answer they seemed to be looking for, but the question did make me have to think about what gets me excited about rap these days.
Immediately, I thought about regional scenes, but I realized it wasn’t just that—it was the marginal and almost undetectable ways these scenes have changed over time. How did Philly street rap get to the point where the underwater raps of HappyDranker make sense? Why do all the DMV beats sound like a cargo train running over rusty tracks? Catching these little tweaks and advancements is what makes me lose my shit.
I admit that is pretty unglamorous and dorky. It’s probably way cooler and more social to be like, I like the Clipse album because the brothers helped shape my childhood, dress fly in middle age, and I can rap along to “So Be It” with my friends. But I do seek out that feeling, too; a lot of my favorite albums from this year were elevated in my mind by some sort of live performance or from the thrill of shootin’ the shit about them in a park, at a bar, or over the phone.
I remember when it clicked for me how much I love the No. 1 album on this list. One day, I played it for my friend as we drove around Brooklyn, trying to sell him on the creativity of the project with the intensity of one of the brokers in Boiler Room for no real reason. When he hit me with a song link and the “Nah, he’s going crazy” text a week later, the blast of endorphins I got made me understand the communal connection so many rap fans are desperately looking for.
Below is a list of my favorite rap albums of the year—from Chicago revisionist drill to Mexican plugg, from new age L.A. g-funk to ATL Christian trap—almost all of which make me want to talk my friend’s ear off about them.
32. / 31.
M Row: M Row / Mari B: Every Opp
If M Row was born in the Upper West Side 100 years ago, he’d be writing crime novels instead of New York drill. The story on the intro of his self-titled mixtape could be ripped from one of Chester Himes’ seedy Harlem noirs: He pulls up to the club and one of the dancers happens to be a girl he hasn’t seen since high school, she puts him onto a scheme about robbing the safe of a big time gangster she’s messing with, but, of course, none of that goes as planned. It’s a playful narrative energy he sustains throughout the project, adding some fantasy to a drill scene that is often too based in realism. On the other side of the coin is Mari B, who brought the subgenre back to its stripped-down, lurking in the shadows roots. As belts whip and turbulent Jersey club drums roar, Every Opp sounds like the last few seconds before Godzilla tears up the city.
