DETROIT RAP WINGS
Veeze, the 7 mile stalwart, is heading to the vaunted title of best rapping alive. Eminem, on the other hand, is rapping for reasons that are unclear.
THE MINUTE that Veeze, in a grainy whisper fit for the new Mad Max movie, tells you — this listener included — to “young nigga, pop your shit” on his new single “Pop Yo Shit”, it would behoove you to start walking up to random women on the street. The 7 Mile pop star, the Detroit rapper of the moment, is back. Only don’t say that it is vengeance; that would mean that he is inflicting musical pain and sardonic strife onto us because of past slights. It is more like he is back with compulsion, because for Veeze, who took a four year break between 2019’s Navy Wavy and 2023’s Ganger, the time is now to separate himself from the weaker emcees, the mid Detroit rappers, and the beholden-to-radio rappers that cult followings like Veeze’s are rendering unimpressive. I have no respect for rappers who don’t want to be competitive because the crown is always for the taking, despite Kendrick Lamar’s best efforts this spring. The rap game is like the drug game, and if Marlo Stanfield taught artistic negroes anything, it is that a closed mouth will not get fed. Veeze, while he acts as laconic as a California surfer, seems to understand this: every rap fits the small pocket like a Mahomes pass; the flow waits for negative spaces to open up.
Ganger was a huge hit with the rap heads, the kind of cramped but baroque raps that Veeze specializes in was something that the message board kids absolutely die for. Whatever strands of hip-hop of the past twenty years you respond to, Veeze has that — the drill of Chicago, the skittish Michigan street rap, and even Lil Wayne’s traditionally irreverent rapping — within his music. “GOMD” is a song with a mission statement that functions as a minor hook, but it doesn’t have bridges or any melodies — it’s freewheeling but delicately rapped. Surprisingly jubilant, Veeze raps with glee about shopping in Miami, copping Matty Boy, and visions of enjoying lean straight from the refridgerator, it’s a song that would even get your classy woman to dance. “OverseasBaller '' is swag rap on steroids made by Victor Conte. “Baby do you want to fuck? You ain’t gon eye me to death”, says Veeze, leering at a woman in the club. “Lick”, which, at first, sounds like an autistic kid perfecting his xylophone, is a mid-2000’s commercial rap song before the Detroit rap drums come in, and it’s disruptive because it gets at what makes Veeze infinitely compelling. The kids don’t always understand their own history, and an old head would argue to the point of an aneurysm, that they need to. Veeze, however, is the kid that studied the history test and not only passed with flying colors, is currently showing the teachers how history is also the study of how the past will be en vogue again. “LICK” would not be out of place on a late 2000’s rap mixtape. Furthermore, Veeze often sounds like he could be in a Rap City basement, forcing Big Tigger to take some lean with him.
“Pop Yo Shit” advances Veeze’s old soul and new style mentality, with a cheeky and amusing music video that takes place in London, and stubbornly patient flow that rewards rewinds so you can learn the slick lines over again. “Young nigga gettin’ some wet ass head/This bitch brainstorming”, he raps. Veeze is entering the chat, and he won’t leave it. I welcome the Veeze era, and sincerely hope he wants it to happen. It’s exactly the kind of song that he’s excellent at. He’s a cobra, an asshole with an unmistakable charm. Violence is to be alluded to, but not overly talked about, like Jay-Z (“Young niggas got switches, they dont rap, they drill shit”). He’s got an exceptional ear for street-level beats, voice, and cadence; he’s got a moxie that would help the Pistons be a better basketball team. The rap game wouldn’t be the rap game, in all of its hyper-competitive and disgustingly fun glory — if kids like Veeze weren’t dreaming about taking it over, turning it on its head, and re-making style into their own image.
THE BAR IS IN HELL, and perhaps Detroit old head Eminem shouldn't get too much credit, but his new song, “Houdini” isn’t as miserable as his previous singles (see: the miserable and artistically moot “Walk on Water”). It’s somewhat charming: he calls his kids brats, and talks about him being a bigger prick than a cacti. The songwriting, which has been a problem ever since Marshall decided to white wash his albums with stale rock beats instead of making Dre and Alchemist produce everything, is better here: it’s actually a little melodic. Unnecessary double layered voices, corny R. Kelly jokes notwithstanding, Eminem is getting back to what once made him the Great White American Hope. His humor on this new song, set to be the first single on his new album The Death of Slim Shady, is back, and the flow on this song is tighter, more irreverent than the stale militarism he showed on albums like Revival and Recovery. While the jokes are more dad-ish, his daughter Hallie Jade Mathers just got married (!!!!), at least he is not self-serious and moody. Em is light-hearted here, and although he won’t win white allyship awards for the Megan thee Stallion joke he spits (“If I was to ask for Megan Thee Stallion if she would collab with me/Would I really have a shot at a feat?”), the line is pulled off better than Drake’s double entendre.
Still, the rap game is not made for Eminem anymore, and it’s still a bummer to see this extra washed-as-much-as-your-Williamsburg laundry room old man even try to compete for the kids' affections. It’s easy to forget how good he used to be, with verses like “What the Beat” coming at a perfect time in American pop culture. He was just white enough to stop a Middle American calm, and the versus were tight — seriously, he was a yoyo on a string on his best days — enough to even have a hotep begrudgingly nod his head. He was always keenly aware of the hypocrisy around him, something that he can’t quite pull off now that he is currently a very rich man who lives in a big mansion, and is seemingly involved with every music documentary that you see on HBO. “Houdini” takes the old school Em — the irreverent one that would never hesitate to make fun of clean cut celebrities and scandalize them — but he doesn’t quite get there because life is different. How can you shock us when the previous President was convicted on bribery charges? A bribery that took place when he realized that his affairs with a porn star would become public. It’s the Unforgiven part of Em’s career: he’s old, washed, and will soon have grandkids that need him, but there isn’t anything else for him to really do but try to revitalize his legacy because it’s been made fun of with a sad amount of gusto.
The empathy that I have for Eminem has its limits, but it does exist: he’s someone who intently ground away with emotional vigor, in a career that he desperately wanted to be great at; he’s incredibly sincere, exemplified by his very gracious speech during his induction in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The kids could use his guide on how to rap about their personal lives without cliche, to rap well at a live show. He’s more than the painful-sounding music he has released in the past sixteen years. In The Dark Knight Rises, Arthur tells a emotionally wounded Bruce Wayne that Gotham needs his resources, his mind, his economic freedom — not his body. Eminem is in the same boat.