freelance writer; assistant editor at Farrar, Straus and Giroux/FSG Originals. Interests include queer lit, the Lakers, parks, David Attenborough, Pimp C, and cashews.
On Sunday, the first night of Hanukkah, an electric menorah flickered phosphorescently in the lobby of the Sixty LES hotel in New York. I was waiting for 21 Savage, who was upstairs in his room. A night after sitting front-row at the Alexander Wang show (next to Teyana Taylor and Sophia the robot), 21, arguably Atlanta’s most popular hip-hop export since Young Thug, was getting ready to sit front-row again, this time at Versace’s pre-fall show.
Stripped of the raw desperation that once made his rapping so gripping, Stay Dangerous, YG’s third studio album, spends most of its 15 tracks toasting success, repping for the gang, and picking apart women. It’s fun and flashy and club ready. But for YG, an artist we’ve come to expect the unexpected from, someone currently standing at a career-defining intersection, Stay Dangerous is an exercise in predictability.
It’s a sticky July afternoon and I’m sitting in the air-conditioned lobby of the Crosby Hotel in Soho, waiting for the designer LaQuan Smith.
Across the street, a line of prepubescent kids snakes around the block for a clothing drop, their faces sweating in the midday sun. LaQuan struts in, and the first thing I notice is his confident stride, not unlike the models he casts in his shows. It’s a quiet assurance, a subtle radiance, a powerful sensuality.
I was alone in an Australian hotel suite meant for a honeymooning couple. Restless, lonely, and desperate, I turned to Grindr and agreed to meet L., a toned, buzzcut-sporting townie living 20 km away from the hotel, at his house. I was a stranger in a foreign country, completely on my own, compelled by something I simply couldn’t ignore.
“Why do we fall down with innocence?” Jorja Smith wonders on the opening title track of Lost & Found. The 20-year-old English singer’s deeply personal debut is full of impressionistic questions like this, yet she never demands easy answers. Her approach to seeking self-knowledge is compassionate and patient, demonstrative of a keen intellect and rich with precocious wisdom.
Chicago MC Mick Jenkins has always been something of a rap hermit, emerging when he feels ready and dropping sprawling projects of baritone philosophy and freeform wordplay. When he broke out in 2014 with the contemplative mixtape The Water (S), Jenkins seemed to exist outside of the general rap universe.
In Jeremih and Ty Dolla $ign’s multiverse, there are no hangovers. There’s no heartbreak and no bills to pay, no line at the club and no cracked iPhone screens. It’s a Truman Show of epic, hedonistic proportions, where the sun is always about to set and the night always beginning to buzz—the biggest issues are girls who play hard to get, bras that take too long to unhook, bottles that don’t come quick enough.
“Got a bag and fixed my teeth, hope you hoes know it ain’t cheap”—"Bodak Yellow"
It’s not a boast you hear every day. And that’s what makes it one of the most memorable lines on Cardi’s B’s chart-shattering breakout hit, “Bodak Yellow.” On the one hand, it’s a typical rap flex: I have money and I’m using it. On the other, it’s an exceptionally vulnerable, even mundane admission of humanity—she’s bragging about dental surgery, not a car.
Trouble was 23 when he broke out in 2011 with “Bussin,’” a gun anthem intense enough to spark nightmares. The video, with its close-ups of back tattoos, war-grade weaponry, and stone-faced gangsters, feels like an A&E drama condensed into a compact three-minute song. It’s the type of clip you watch once and never forget.
It was the day before Sydney Mardi Gras, and the First Nations crew would have to rebuild their float. The industrial silver pylons, installed like telephone poles on the bed of the hiccuping Isuzu truck that doubled as their stage, would need to be ripped out, shortened, and reinstalled.
Three years ago, the producer and singer Lorely Rodriguez capped a steady rise to indie pop almost-stardom with Me, her precocious debut album under the moniker Empress Of. Contained and sharp, it layered diary musings over self-produced electronic flair, winning the bilingual performer praise and a guest spot on avant-pop artist Blood Orange’s Freetown Sound.
Ella Mai was back in New York, and she wanted a bagel. Specifically, she wanted one from a spot somewhere near Times Square, which, on a sweltering, humid afternoon, was the absolute last place I wanted to be. But her next press stop was located somewhere in Midtown anyway, so I got in the air-conditioned SUV for the ride.
My brother’s name is Hayden. He’s the most beautiful, hilarious, and audacious person I know. We always “knew” he was gay, as much as anyone can “know” something about another person, while I grew up free from any and all suspicion, mostly on account of who Hayden was emerging to be.
“Black women are tired,” the rapper Junglepussy recently told Dazed. “Like, we have to do so much, and you really want me to tell you how to treat me like a decent human being? No!” In fact, Junglepussy spent much of her explosive first two albums, 2014’s Satisfaction Guaranteed and 2015’s Pregnant With Success, telling men to how do exactly that.