
Playboi Carti’s Whole Lotta Red Turns Rap Loud and Rough — and Mostly Pulls It Off
A wild, discordant swing at remaking a voice's sound arrives 24 tracks strong, urgent yet burdened by its own bulk.


A wild, discordant swing at remaking a voice's sound arrives 24 tracks strong, urgent yet burdened by its own bulk.

An album that promises exposure and delivers it, wavering between clamor and quiet confession from a voice unwilling to be one thing.

A tenth album of vast repetition and grief — ideas of true weight, marred by excess that mars the whole design.

A wide-ranging rap record moving through soul, jazz and pop, never sitting still, never losing its rap base across sixteen tracks.

A record of swelling strings and bare confession, from stadium address to lone diary entry across many tracks.

A record of Run the Jewels 3, wherein El-P and his partner rage against power, their chemistry never keener nor more resolute.

A grim, spare demon of Atlanta rap arises full-formed, its ad-libs a low murmur, its silence a terror never once apologized for.

A theme park of guest verses and shifting beats, this record turns spectacle into song, matching its own bluster at last.

Mac Miller's Swimming: a steady, candid record of staying afloat, thirteen songs deep, closing the loop it opened.

A tale of fourteen songs, wherein a man of rhyme tells of the doom and destiny of his own soul and country. A precise, singular work.
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