all rapping fast and no play makes jackman a dull boy
some thoughts on jack harlow's latest attempt at being taken seriously and white boy swag
There’s really nothing more annoying than throat-clearing about why it’s been so long since your last newsletter, a veritable genre of Substack literature unto itself, so I will spare you all that and just say that I am really hoping to do more off-the-cuff thoughts here. I always bite off more than I can chew so I am attempting to keep it more simple. Here are some thoughts on Jack Harlow’s new album and Pale Kids Rapping Fast.
I’m fascinated by a certain moment of YouTube history, perhaps what we can periodize as the “Pale Kid Raps Fast” Era, a specific point in the late 2000s / early 2010s when the Internet was awash in videos of white boys in their rooms doing “chopper” flows. One of the main faces of this style was Watsky, he of titular “Pale Kid Raps Fast” infamy — I remember seeing his viral video in high school but did not become familiar with the extended catalog of Watsky until my freshman year at the University of Tennessee, when a kid who lived across from me in my dorm who dressed exclusively in Affliction branded clothing and carried a multitool (you know the type, like a dark timeline version of Landry from Friday Night Lights who got really into creepypastas instead of post-hardcore bands) played me some of his music off of a BlackBerry. Unsurprisingly, this guy thought he was too good for any other kind of rap and I think mostly listened to like technical metal and those generic EDM playlists people play Rocket League to, but he was the perfect target audience for Watsky’s blend of Bo Burnham-like smarminess and Aesop Rock-like verbosity. The last time I remember hearing about Watsky was when he showed up on a Lin Manuel-Miranda-curated compilation of rap inspired by Hamilton, and I guess he apparently set some world record for rapping for 34 hours straight, which of course he did.
That my memory of the white boy who introduced me to Watsky is so potent, practically dripping with Axe, speaks to a feeling I get when I listen to the music of the star of the upcoming remake of White Men Can’t Jump, Jack Harlow. Much like Timothee Chalamet, who you have probably seen rapping Nicki Minaj in a high school talent show or being knighted by Lil B, Harlow sprang same from this same lagoon of quirked-up white boys who loved to spit a hot 16, the ecosystem of Asher Roth, Hoodie Allen, Cisco Adler, “Thrift Shop,” Mac Miller before he smartened up, the first emergence of Chet Hanks as Chet Haze, and countless videos of suburban kids covering Tech N9Ne’s gratuitously masturbatory “Worldwide Choppers.”
In many ways, my own fascination with this aesthetic moment is not just because as a teen at the time I went to school with so many guys who fit this bill, but I was perhaps one of those guys myself (while also dealing with a lot of gender shit that started to pop off at that time but haha a story for another day…), who spent a good period of time in middle school listening to artists like MC Frontalot and “Optimus Rhyme.” I was a huge mark for early Childish Gambino and also unfortunately very briefly participated in what can only very loosely be described as a “cypher” group called, ugh, The Dead Rapper’s Society (I’m cringing harder than you right now). Some of you who have known me since ancient times may also be aware that for a brief period at the end of high school and the beginning of college I recorded a lot of very stupid rap songs under the name of “MC Vague.”
Even if Harlow’s pubescent work drips with the flavor of white boy swagginess that was so prevalent of the time, he is already in those early videos marginally more proficient than other YouTube bedroom rappers. But more than technical ability, what sets Harlow apart is an overflowing reservoir of confidence that flirts with arrogance. Even as his style has evolved, his budget has grown, and his flow has continued to sharpen, cockiness has remained Harlow’s defining trait, if not his entire persona. But as we all know too well, especially where straight white men are involved, outwardly performed confidence is often a cover for deep and needy insecurities, which is more apparent than ever on Harlow’s new album would-be bar mitzvah Jackman. (no longer a Jackboy, I guess, and also stylized with a period to let you know how serious he is and also to drive every editor literally insane, hence why I will not be using the period from this point forward).
Jackman is an almost textbook-level example of what we can call the Daytona Formula: Looking for instant critical acclaim? Worried that your fanbase is growing tired of a formulaic shtick you’ve ridden into the ground? Drop a project that’s 30 minutes or less and boom, everyone will say you’re back and they’ll herald the record as an “Instant Classic” before they’ve even gotten past the first track (if you can’t tell I thought Daytona was overrated as hell and Pusha T is like, a ChatGPT rapper at this point). It’s an understandable reaction to the incredibly-bloated deluxe editions we’ve been flooded with the past few years but at a certain point it starts to feel like the endless twitter discourse about movie runtime where it just starts to feel reductive and limiting instead of taking an artwork’s duration on its own terms. The 24-minute runtime, copious soul samples, and J.Cole-esque “Platinum With No Features” gimmick all add up to the album equivalent of dropping a freestyle to silence the haters and prove your authenticity; from the opening bars, Jackman asserts itself as evidence that Jack Harlow Has Something To Say.
Opener “Common Ground” is already getting a ton of fake-deep praise from navel-gazing male critics for its alleged “Control”-like expose of culture vulture media pundits, in a kind of weird sadomasochistic relationship: the more that white bro rap writers are criticized by an artist, the more they seem to love it. In the context of the entire album, it feels less like Jack’s beef is with the actual culture vulturing of gatekeepers, and more that the gatekeepers have not embraced him; mocking them, while presented as a kind of intellectual critique, is more like a macho power-play aimed at earning respect through humiliation than an actual Calling Out.
By the time you get to “It Can’t Be,” it’s obvious that the whole thoughtful and introspective shtick was a Bait And Switch, as Jack pivots from criticizing white writers for their privilege to brushing off accusations of his own privilege. I remember when Dirty Sprite 2 came out, someone I follow on Twitter criticized the song “Slave Master” because of how overwhelmingly white the audiences at mainstream rap shows can often be — even if Future is well within his rights to use that kind of imagery, it’s difficult not to imagine him performing that song live and a crowd full of frat daddies gleefully singing along to “I got a new whip like I’m a slave master.” It’s obviously not a one-to-one parallel but a similar image came to mind while listening to “It Can’t Be,” a nightmarish vision of rich white kids driving with the top down and yelling “It must be my skin, I can’t think of any other reason I win” at the top of their lungs. Feels like a very dark and dangerous energy is being unlocked here!
The lack of features is supposed evidence of Harlow’s drive and dedication, proof that his bars are forceful enough on their own to carry an entire project, but it ends up feeling a little like an echo chamber. Even though features and guest appearances are often just a hollow business transaction, the fact that literally nobody else’s voice is foreground on this album makes me wonder how the message of “It Can’t Be” would have landed on the ears of other artists.
For the last decade, if not longer, men exploring their petty insecurities through rap has been de rigueur, evidence of a rapper’s supposed vulnerability and authenticity. But with time it has begun to feel more like narcissism, as casual chauvinism, delusional thinking, and outright egotism is passed off as “interesting” and “real.” It’s started to become like that post-FTR type of “new sincerity” wrestling promo where everyone from Shawn Spears to Bray Wyatt tries to get over with the crowd by opening up about what a hard time they’ve been having recently and they love their wife and kids blah blah blah.
That doesn’t mean that I want rappers to stop talking about their mental health by any means, it’s just a matter of “real shit” versus egocentric paranoia. Juxtapose fellow Louisville comrade EST Gee with Harlow: one descends into the depths of despair, talking about how he admires a friend who took his own life and silenced the voices in his head, while Harlow remains preoccupied with the voices of naysayers. To me it just feels like whining: he’s already made it, and while he might be the butt of jokes or the subject of critical think pieces, the “haters” have done little to stop the locomotive of Harlow’s success.
These kind of Drake-esque “6PM in New York” type tracks where the author surveys his kingdom while also trying to maintain touch with his roots might work as a book-end or a reflective interlude but as an entire album it just starts to feel like I’m being subjected to internal monologue of a guy who went to therapy and instead of actually unpacking his shit just learned the right words to say to make it look like he’s unpacked his shit. Much like Kendrick’s misguided stab at trans allyship “Auntie Diaries” just made me think about how I would rather be listening to a trans rapper, Harlow’s allegedly thoughtful hand-wringing over his friends’ mistreatment of women on “Gang Gang Gang” just made me think about how I would rather be listening to a woman rapper.
I am just, more than anything else, tired of pretending like quarter-life crises of masculinity, especially when they come from a white guy who doesn’t really have much to complain about, are at all interesting or novel or clever, even if it comes over self-serious boom bap beats instead of chart-baiting millennial pop samples. Like his 2016 debut 18, Harlow appears shirtless on the cover of Jackman, as if we should consider ourselves blessed to catch a glimpse of his relatively average physique. Maybe he’d be less insecure if he got his gains up but until then, dude, just put your shirt back on: metaphorically and literally.
Also for no reason at all here is a video of Jack Harlow getting a chiropractic adjustment.
What I’ve been doing recently:
Been on the gaming beat a little more than usual, making my debut at Kotaku with a really interesting look at Fortnite as a new frontier of music licensing, featuring some industry perspective, and an investigation of the surprisingly hardcore Guitar Hero modding community.
For the Los Angeles Times, I highlighted some of the incredible Japanese indie talent who worked Mania Week this year, as well as diving into a little bit of Los Angeles wrestling history and exploring the city’s unique position between Japan and Mexico—spoke to the literal GOAT Dave Meltzer and my punk rock baby boy MAO from DDT for this one!!
Also I started a new Twitter account called @weirdlastfm where I post weird stuff I find on Last.FM.
More things coming soon many irons in the fire!!! Thanks for reading as always :)