Rapper Of The Month: Yeat (Feb. '24)

Written By: Anthony Seaman            

 Despite being line for line one of the only working rappers so linguistically challenged that any of the bubbling IG model-rapper hybrids could sound poetic, Yeat has been the star of February. Yes, Kanye and Ty Dolla $ign wasted our time with a blockbuster train wreck, YL and Starker continued their hot streak, Little Simz synthesized a warehouse party into an EP, and Icewater Vezzo keeps running plays from Newberry to Monroe, but none of them continued doing what great rappers do; force us to ask questions. Despite speaking in elementary level declarative statements about his lack of sobriety and property ownership, 2093 as a whole forces curiosity. Is there where rap is going? Is this the first new age rapper that exploded during the pandemic who attempted to create a big tent statement album? Is releasing an album in waves instead of the now more accepted standard to deluxe combo going to be the new normal? If this really is the future, are we sure it's one we really want to live in? How long until this artist follows the path of every fame junkie in his peer group (regardless of artistic discipline) and begins selling us products for other corporations so he can follow through on his newest persona; the Psycho CEO?

            Whenever a pop star announces an accompanying short film with their album it’s an egotistical dud that falls flat emotionally for the sake of ticking higher on social media metrics. 2093 is one of the few records that deserved a pocket emptying multi-media rollout. A short film, an art installation, hell even a PC game would push many of the points home. Y2K nostalgia, the birth of a new rap boundary pusher, a budding fashionista with an actually interesting aesthetic, and, dare I say, the next one to hold the crown once Drake finally gives us some breathing room. Creating a perfect system that makes your eyes go wide and your jaw drop so often that you never have time to focus on the shortcomings of the lead artist is a Travi$ Scott move turned contemporary hip-hop staple. Say very little, and let all the moving parts around you do the talking. Without any real accompanying videos or content at the time of this article, something feels missing from the 2093 experience. We still get Future, Lil Wayne and Drake lighting up their features, an uncredited Childish Gambino interlude, orchestral strings all acting as big swings the bit crushed Soundcloud bred party boys of his ilk have never even sniffed. It's another notch in his belt holding himself above the Slayworld collective that Yeat was affiliated with for many years before gaining larger notoriety. The crew has from their solemn corners guided the sound of underground hip-hop the last few years, but star status has evaded them all thanks to criminal issues and scandalous allegations into sexual misconduct. Keeping his nose clean while feverishly chasing more ambitious soundscapes has allowed the collective's fanbase to focus more on Yeat, while bringing in an exponentially growing crowd of onlookers in the process. 

            Hip-hop artists who have mattered the most pushed the envelope not just with the sounds on their CD’s but in the context surrounding the record's release. In this young decade few stars have toyed with world building quite like Tyler The Creator while the Kendricks and Drakes and Futures of the world have rested on not creating worlds but rather leaning into certain fashion pieces or hairstyles to contrast from one shameful “era” to the next. Now showing his face in public proudly and leaning into (shockingly interesting) AI B-role content, the Portland raised studio rat has materialized something you can feel to match what he lets us see. The anxiety of what the future might hold is played upon in faux news clips and crop circles doubling as album promo. On the cover he’s dawning a leather trench coat fit for a Gotham madman. Greens, grays, neon yellows all work in unison to show a real concentrated sci-fi pastiche that his beat selection has always alluded to. With turban or digitally altered skelton to hide behind, he’s looking onward to a kingdom dying right as he’s taking the throne. Production choices have always felt a step removed from the modern coil in a world where hackers know the truth but the government hasn’t targeted their demise quite yet. 2093 is what happens when those hackers are all deleted and all that’s left is to join the enemy for survival. Our hero numbs himself to assimilate into a story where this machinist world feels normal, burning out any last specs of his humanity to hold pride in his successes while rarely reeling from his shortcomings. Charisma isn’t a superpower in his lexicon, and that’s what makes this operatic expansion of self more interesting; the more removed from reality he sounds the farther into his creation you dive. He’s the only rapper who can pull off apathy without forcing you to cringe. His soul has been de-rezzed into a test tube and locked away in a vault never to be felt again, making his vessel the perfect avatar for the sounds of dystopia. 

            For two straight weeks Yeat topped the Billboard charts, slow dripping all 28 tracks over a weekend with some only being available for purchase through his website. No single has taken off the way “Out The Way” or “Poppin” did on previous albums, but that seems intentional. The focus isn’t on increased stardom, but if it comes this time around it’ll be on the merits of an artistic risk from a young innovator looking to blaze his own way.

Vintage Review: Rhythm-al-ism

Score: 4.5/5 | Released: November 24th, 1998

Written By: Anthony Seaman

            West Coast hip-hop in this era was viewed as a monolith; it was a bunch of South Central born, jerry curl dawning, 40oz sipping gangsters with itchy trigger fingers living by an antiquated code of territory and respect. The early 90’s snapshot of what Boyz N The Hood portrayed and Snoop Dogg smirked about was the first and last impression much of the world absorbed. In actuality of course, it was much more diverse. The Bay had hustlers and pimps with little Blood and Crip talk, while Dre, Snoop and 2Pac were expanding the West Coast song book into something more musically, stylistically and spiritually complex. King Tee and Paris provided underground alternatives that dug into their respective niches. The Dogg Pound were more traditional lyricists. Nate Dogg was dissolving the borders between rap and R&B, and the fabric of every beat owed tithes to George Clinton and Roger Troutman. Whatever any rapper did, they were graced with a sonic playground more pristine and sophisticated as any music the world had already been exposed to. While Dre was the genesis of this high bar being created, producers and session players like DJ Pooh, Daz Dillinger, Warren G, Johnny J and QDIII were crucial (and uncredited at times) in the creation of Dre’s records and the overall California ecosystem. Nestled in the fervorous biome of this time period was DJ Quik. He was a street legend off his homemade mixtape The Red Tape, elevated to rising star off his debut Quik Is The Name, and solidified into California lore off a sea of production credits along with his follow up albums Way 2 Fonky and Safe + Sound. By the end of 1996 Quik had trounced MC Eiht in a beef that had bled into the real world, making Quik rethink his entire aesthetic. He was viewed as another Blood rapper in the West Coast monolith with his own slick comedic sheen, an oversimplified title he despised. All the work he had done arranging, playing, producing, mixing and mastering his own records as well as songs for 2Pac, Tony! Toni! Tone!, and Adina Howard was being minimized due to the perception of his homeland. After the death of friends and collaborators 2Pac and Eazy-E, the beef with MC Eiht, and the murder of his personal assistant by his nephew, everything needed to be reset.

            Being a local DJ and record collector trained his ears to what makes people move, and his quest to perfect his own type of funk has been nonstop since. In any interview Quik is swift to name his biggest musical inspirations; Curtis Mayfield, Zapp, The Ohio Players, Prince. Dense and jazzy funk music was his north star. To entertain was always his mission. Quik himself has stated that Safe + Sound was when he hit his stride as a sound bender. Live session players were orchestrated by him as he crawled under every mixing board he could find to tweak the wires until everything was to his liking. Rhythm-al-ism was a dive in the deep end of everything he truly loved without the weight of a hardcore hip-hop persona restraining him. Carrying the responsibilities of an MC-producer hybrid means in which you can show your emotional range in more shades than anyone around you. All the sadness can be compressed into melancholy chord progressions, the anxiety of scheming your way home every night in a tightly-wound rhythm section. Unexpected strikes of genius are tucked in different sections of every track. The liquidy warble of guitars (word to the God, Robert Bacon) and synths on the opening of “No Doubt”, the talkbox on “I Useta Know Her”, the dropouts on “Speed”. “Whateva U Know” is a jazz club dressed from floor to ceiling with velvet and fresh flowers hiding a king sized waterbed center stage for Quik to make his female companions dreams come to life. There’s a nonlinear freedom weaved into every decibel from intro to outro. There’s enough of a variation to keep your head swiveling, guided by a steady diet of low end bass lines that nudge you forward. 

            With his lyrics he transports himself to environments where looking over his shoulder is unnecessary; grown folk house parties, backyard reunions, late nights with a rotating cast of lovers. The subtle quirks that made him stick out were flamboyantly pushed to the limit; breathless flows (“Rhythm-al-ism (Intro)”), tipsy two-step classics (“We Still Party”), clear eyed retellings of his own life (“I Useta Know Her”), and adventurous takes on other genres (“Bombudd II”). Quik’s delivery is bouncy and confident, but never as much as AMG or Suga Free, who act as dynamic sparks in the frayless tapestry of guitars and drum breaks. Whenever the spotlight hits his greased ponytail, Suga warps from man into maniac yelping from one disrespectful anecdote to another. Snoop and Nate Dogg act as foils to his unhinged blasts easing so deep into the fabric of the “Medley For The V” beat they nearly disappear. There’s even a moment where yearning for childlike innocence (as much as Quik’s horny ass could muster) is given a place to exist on the sultry “Thinkin’ Bout U”. Never plainly stated but peace of mind was Quik personal white whale. In interviews he’d spoken about the stream of tragedies surrounding every major moment of his life. On “You’z A Gangsta” you hear the annoyance with the extracurricular situations that have saddled alongside his fame. Murder, nefarious plots from family, equipment theft, label issues; he could never catch a break. With that at the forefront you see how becoming one with a studio to create a dream world where the liquor never stops and speakers always knock made him feel the most alive. 

            What hamstrings this album from being the top of Quik’s catalog is the very thing that makes it special; it’s too comfortable. On the production end a true explosion of creativity is investigated, but the lyrics return to the same rotation of sex and partying. An all-world level word bank makes it seem like things are more complicated, but at it’s core a warm refuge is sought. Do I want Quik to break down geopolitical theory like Paris? Nah, but his personal life and storytelling are at a level above anyone working in this time and for decades to come that leaning into his inner Slick Rick instead of giving space to every homeboy he can fit in a recording booth would pay dividends. None of the associate features are show stopping clunkers (a bonus point in his favor compared to 2Pac or Ice Cube) but Quik would rather play down the double edged star power he holds and spread it to his people. Playing the man behind the curtain brings a palpable joy to his rapping, letting him float through his personal dreamland unbothered by too many eyes nitpicking his every move. It may not be the globally adored classic that Quik Is The Name has become, but it’s the most representative of everything Quik stands for; the soul rattling beauty of hip-hop music.

Best Song: “You’z A Gangsta”
Best Beat: “Whateva U Do”
Best Moments: The countdown intro and the talkbox hook on “So Many Wayz” / Verse 1 and the twinkling chimes on “Hand In Hand” / Verse 1 on “I Useta Know Her” / That crunchy guitar lick on the hook for “We Still Party” / Pondering what a salmon croquette smells like for all of “We Still Party” / The reverse section drums under AMG’s astounding verse on “Speed” (a job, a man AND a retirement plan?) / Every Suga Free verse / El DeBarge on “Get Togetha”

Linx Go Live: The Circus Maxiums Tour

Written By: Anthony Seaman  

 

                Dreamchasers 2 was a seminal moment in the last decade of rap for a myriad of reasons. It proved that the cornrow-dawning Philly freestyle phenom wasn’t just a legitimization of the Maybach Music militia to the "real hip-hop" crowd. It built upon hits like “Tupac Back”, “House Party”, “Ima Boss” and “Fitted Cap” all of which had become anthemic staples in house parties and within the Skull Candy headphones of anyone with an internet connection. In this era only Waka Flocka Flame was able to create such an inherently destructive and freeing brand of rap music, and Meek was bringing it to everyone from the basketball highlight reel makers to the drive time radio DJ's. As opposed to Waka who was a regional megastar that caught a hit and a half nationally. Meek at this point in history was re-writing the code of what infectious high octane rap anthems could be like DMX had before him. On this historic tape was also the first time much of the world heard Travi$ Scott, the next man up after Meek to create those same stadium shaking tunes that will outlive most people reading this article. Dreamchasers 2 was downloaded over 2.5 million times in 24 hours, breaking Datpiff’s servers faster and longer than any tape by Lil Wayne, Jeezy or Wiz Khalifa. More people heard Travi$ Scott in those first 24 hours than the previous 20 years of his life. Over the next 16 months Travi$ would be announced as an official signee under Kanye’s G.O.O.D Music and T.I.’s Grand Hustle imprints, features would appear on records with Jay-Z, Pusha T and Diddy, and he'd clock 3 official production credits on Yeezus, all building to the release of Owl Pharaoh. He was the last Blog Era baby to jump off the porch, and like those of his ilk he gently weaved into both streetwear and high fashion scenes. There was a shift at his shows from the antiquated "put your hands up" motif to incorporating the cathartic moshing from hard core shows into hip-hop etiquette in a way only Insane Clown Posse saw returns on. All this built the lore of him being the rightful heir to Kanye as hip-hops paramount MC / producer / fashioinista / cultural boundary bender, which never truthfully came to fruition (although after Rodeo it didn’t seem TOO far fetched). Instead he became a grander soloist than Diddy, but less of an icon compared to Pharrell.

                We don’t call people sell-outs enough, and Travi$ became the exact consequence of that. Once Astroworld was released and praised by the world, he warped into an ethereal advertising figure ala Snoop Dogg, only doing so from the comfort of a dried out husk disguised as an actual human being. McDonalds, Nike, New Era, General Mills, Cacti Hard Seltzer, Dior, Fortnite, and a dozen more leave his legacy tatted up like a NASCAR vehicle. The late career carcass of Cactus Jack spoke in a factory set auto-tune, repeated the same set of ad-libs in the same predictable pockets on every feature as if he were a theme park automaton, and when he reached really deep to bring thoughtful perspectives into his content pool or drugs, partying, and not giving a fuck about “the rules”, you’re left with “Coffee Bean”. An attempt to bring at least a marginally traditionalist rap record into the operatic trap maximalism of Astroworld, where the kiddie pool depth of emotion is drudged up to a peak with the lines “your family told you i'm a bad move / plus i'm already a black dude". It’s a pathetic attempt, spawned from a true emotional place with the lyrical eloquence of a tantruming child. That's the real rager shit. Every feature outside of his album cycle became strategic to get his voice heard by the most people, just so he can fill their ear canals with nothing fresh or of any real weight. There was no reason for him to be in the same room as Major Lazor, Miguel, or Alicia Keys, but not only did it happen but we were forced to hear the results. His albums turned into marginally off-kilter compilation tapes of whoever the biggest names are in the playlist of someone who “really just listens to everything, except country of course XD”. What credibility as a "master curator" that was left was soon fully cooked after a NoBells article based around him leaching Kanye throwaways for Utopia hit the internet in 2023. The record was an absolute masterclass in word salads that completely brushed over any real turmoil that existed in his life or the greater world over the last 5 years. Every music video attached to Utopia are drab vlogs at spots located on the IG explore page of someone casually interested in cool architecture, and serves as a reminder that having access to cool places isn’t cool, it’s who you are in them that’s cool. 

                The only constant that has stayed true in Travi$’ whole career is the legend of his live performance. The quality of how the performance will be run and the safety of it has always been up for debate (proven by the dozens killed and injured at his shoddily prepared Astroworld Festival in 2021), but the legend of his shows had only grown up until that point. There was 2015's Rodeo tour featuring Young Thug and Metro Boomin at their early apex’s, Astroworld's official tour that had Sheck Wes, Gunna and Trippie Redd as openers, as well as resume opening up for Kendrick Lamar, Rihanna and The Weeknd on their headlining runs. Stage production limitations have been pushed to breaking points with his active roller coasters and flying animatronic eagles. Stage divers were (previously) welcomed as accents to his lurching pounces up and down the risers. Yet with mixed reviews to Utopia, his target demographic in large part aging out of their angsty teen cycle with a pandemic and controversy muddled 5 year period in between that limited creating a second generation of fans, and just overall economic inflation, Leg 1 of the Circus Maximus tour was a bit of a bust. Half empty arenas, canceled dates, and single digit resell prices showed a possible end to his reign. For nearly a decade he was the face of youthful misguided negligence, and actual tragedy finally boiled over and made it all real. This all made Leg 2 of Circus Maximus so interesting. I wasn't planning on going to a funeral for the career of an era-defining artist, but the hole is dug and the casket is open for him at any moment.

                Anyone who has been to a show at Amway Center (calling it the KIA Center is a Downtown Disney to Disney Springs conundrum i'm still fighting) knows the deal. It's easier to park in the garages in the downtown area or the free-after-6PM spaces around the lake than to do actual official arena parking (and is half the price at least). Crossing through the I4 overpass will lead to greetings from a duo of busking gentlemen, honks from above, and bootleg t-shirt salesmen. The gates were meant to open at 8PM, but arriving at 8:30 still greeted me with a block of standing bodies that covered the barricaded road in front of the venue. The largest crowd i'd ever seen outside of a festival was barred from entry. A typically easy security process instead took 30 minutes of shuffling through the swath of Cactus Jack attire and guys with dangly earrings. It was striking how many people here were about my age or just slightly younger. High school kids were scattered in tight bundles but it was date night for everyone between 22 and 28. What would a Travi$ show in 2035 look like? No matter how good the upcoming A24 movie is, the idea of Travi$ ditching live shows for good to prance around with Harmonie Korrine and Spike Jonez just doesn't fit his character. Does he evolve into a Bruce Springsteen character (always raucous but with a deep enough bag to which his aging fans can stay seated to protect their lower backs) or is he a fountain of youth like Iggy Pop (rarely headlining a country wide tour, but a festival mainstay; the headbangers stop chasing him around the country, instead going to where the headbangers will for sure be at)? Sardined in the line outside you have no choice but to hear conversations around you. Phone calls to friends already inside, lovers quarrels, kids trying to buy weed, all par for the course. "Did you hear that Kanye is here?". My ears perked up. A crew of guys finally connecting greeted each other asking about what seemed impossible. I shrugged it off. No way. I entered the building, strolled the second promenade looking for merch (realizing it was a failed task by the second loop around past the Papa Johns with JJ Redick still on the wall) soon going to the first promenade on the same mission. After hunting it down and sweating in the crowded line, I heard it again. "Did you see that Kanye is in the building?". This time from a kid in front of me very clearly getting hit on by two girls, gripping the conversation for dear life. We've all been there. But this being the second time in 15 minutes I heard this tale be spun I was locked in. "Here check it out". A blurry snapshot from Scott's official Instagram stories showed a bulky character in a mask entering the building with the Yen emojis and a stock bar as the only message. That could be an old photo, a security guard, or Travi$ himself spotting his appearance on the cam and taking a photo for himself. It still sparked the next conversation; "What would you want him to play if he was really here?".

Boy: "Black Skinhead for sure."

Girl A: "Really? Of all the songs?"

Boy: "It just fits the Travi$ vibe more. It's dark and hard."

Girl A: "Not something older? I'd like more classic stuff. The super old stuff."

Girl B: "Like Graduation stuff?"

Girl A: "Like Late Registration stuff."

Boy: "Through The Wire" is not gonna hit in here, hard pass"

                It was a time killer to overhear while waiting for the honor of buying a $60 tee shirt, and showed 2 things; 1) if Graduation is considered "super old stuff" i'm beyond washed and 2) there's a chance my $50 ticket got me in to see Veeze, Babyface Ray, Skilla Baby, Travi$ Scott, and Kanye fucking West.

   

                 Most rap shows run late. I'd copped my tee, found my seat squished between two people, definitely planned on using my solo seat as a community jacket rack, and got cozy. 2 hours late, was new for me. After sitting the clock struck 10PM, and the stage below was shifting colors. Longer than the court the Wagner brothers and Paolo Banchero typically tormented opposing offenses in was replaced with a long strip of glowing ruins, raised off the ground at least 8 feet with cartoonish heads sculpted into the concrete, with risers scattered about. Above was a 360 degree Jumbotron lowered from the ceiling nearly blocking the stage from my nosebleed seats. In moments lights shifted, Travi$ popped onto his pulpit, and the haunting Gentle Giant sample crashed out of the speakers with no warning. No opening acts, a heartbreaker personally. Ray and Veeze as openers had put it over the top that this was a can't miss tour stop, and Skilla Baby feasting off the Jack Harlow stimulus pack was a welcomed bonus. Utopia as a whole always read to me as some uncanny valley radio station more than a new world for which Travi$ had reinvented himself. It was his worst solo project to date, and in the beginning the crowd agreed. The largest pops in his setlist didn't come from "Thank God" or "Aye" or Chase B. cutting up "Modern Jam" (which rung off live in a way that makes me yearn for a hard techno rave) and the hyper detailed art work that changed song to song on the megascreen was taking more eyeballs than the few sparks on the ground floor. Even my personal favorite "My Eyes" which was performed under a spotlight while his dais looked over the hoard of screeching diehards, sounded sloppy and too moody for such a high octane show. The throwbacks were the stars of the setlist. Nothing from this half of the set crossed the first hook, and it never needed to. "Mamacita" and its pitch-shifting snare rolls engulfed every inch of the space, "Highest In The Room" struck a chord with the audience like it was a global smash and not a pre-album table setter. It showed the power that Travi$ once held. How he could sit in rooms with a fledgling Metro Boomin and Allen Ritter and elevate something born from the traps of Atlanta into something powerful enough to mesmerize a small towns worth of people at once. As hand selected crowd members were put onto "the parasail" (a floating head from the ruins that shifted across the platform) "SDP Interlude" and "3500" allowed the nostalgia of when Travi$' music sounded unilateral to the hip-hop landscape to crash back over me. Refreshing isn't powerful enough a statement. "BACKR00MS", a shocking pick to sprinkle into the set, vaulted the stamina levels to a near breaking point more than his own fresh songs. Preluding his next record, Trav took time to shoutout Ye by name, thanking him for letting him "work on some beats" once upon a time and giving him a shot. The "Kanye is coming" whispers started back up again before "Praise God's” spoken word intro cut the hushed hopes short. No Ye, but rather La Flame performing the Ye bars seamlessly, as if he had scribed the lyrics himself. The record cut short, and silence fell on the stage for a moment.

                A single piano key hit. The fucking piano key. That E key that was first revealed at the 2010 VMA's created hysteria through the arena i'd never heard in my decade of concert going. Everyone in my row hadn't legally sipped a beer yet, probably never bought a physical Ye album, hadn't yet tracked down a .zip file of Get Well Soon, and the odds were slim they could go bar-for-bar on the "Side 2 Side" remix, but they were all supercharged with a giddy built up from years of buying into the story of the an era defining auteur. The one who brought in rappers, singers, fashion silhouettes, and rollout plans that influenced everything in commerce since. The wrap around screen cut to a Jason mask dawning Ye walking thru the tunnel to appear on top of the stage. His eyes were piercing, focused on what was ahead of him like a lion prepared to pounce. All 15 E keys were unheard over the screams of those in attendance. A guy 2 rows below me grabbed his own hair so hard I thought he would be bald whenever he let go. I think I blacked out for a few minutes. Kanye didn't mutter a full line once he stepped on to the long disjointed stage, just setting the mic on the ground while the entire arena sung to him his own scripture while the "Runaway" instrumental played. It was Michael Jackson's iconic stare down from the Dangerous tour rehashed, and worked with about 85% effectiveness. No amount of stoic animation on Earth could break the concentration of the 20,000ish people cracking their voices to hit the "douchebag" line just the way we'd all practiced for over a decade. After a brief pause, "Vultures" started playing, Bump J took over vocal duties, and that illustrious joy soured into discomfort. Not only does the song suck live as much as it does from the comfort of headphones, but none of the men on the ancient platform seemed happy about being center stage outside of Bump. Ty Dolla $ign had joined the crew, and even he in his Blade outfit seemed unamused. How even behind a mask Ye could carry such a scowling aura across a stadium was chilling. There was no joy on the ruins. The sculptures, and everyone surrounding it, was minimized to his enemy. This wasn't a fun venture to let off steam and have a celebratory mentor mentee moment to commemorate another tour run; it was a favor called in to someone who had 20 other more pressing ways to spend his night. Promoting this new song, winning back some good faith, and getting a fit off was all that adorned his todo list. Ye's verse fully shattered what joy was left. Quickly it hits you, "oh yeah, that's right, this isn't that same man anymore who gave us My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy". It's 2024 and the Hitler backing, titanium teethed tyrant who'd been galavanting barefoot around Europe lying about release dates for an album nobody wanted anymore was in front of us. Lines about fucking a Scooter Braun ex and the impossibility he was antisemitic because he slept with a Jewish woman brought eye-rolls by the thousands. The years of Trump coddling and claiming "slavery was a choice", alongside torturing engineers and assistants through grueling outbursts and endless studio sessions was on a screen bigger than a city block. The song ended with Ye subtly announcing "February 9th" for the crowd, an allusion to a final Vultures release date. What could come next? A rant about the presidential primaries? Shots at that TMZ reporter? Does he know Coby White dropped 35 tonight? Does he even care about the Bulls anymore? Was he gonna do 4Batz karaoke? 

                None of that happened, but "Fade" came in to lift spirits a tad. Ty had his moment to go enthrall onlookers, but they were all Travi$ fans, and by proxy, Ye disciples. The R&B savant turned feature killer, turned Ye crony was not a star to them. How do you get back your fans when things seem to be going left? Something Travi$ was still trying to manufacture post-Astroworld Festival; a hit. "Can't Tell Me Nothing" and it's neat threatening "la la la" intro came on like a tribal war cry. It defines everything great about Kanye the rapper. Cocky, brash, operatic, soulful, potent, simple. Nobody batted an eye to sing along. The disgust caused by his new era shifted once music from happier times rolled in. This was the guy we fell in love with, time warping an arena into a section of history when recess and lunch periods were our safe havens and our stars were just secretly weird as hell. Before he "parallel parked that mutherfucker sideways", another pause came. Then those fucking horns hit. For 14 years "All Of The Lights" had hit close to home as an inspiration point into even caring so much about music, and a nightmarish divorce story that wasn't bar for bar what my parents break up was like, but had enough truth to pierce each time. Whomst among us has not used Borders for public visitation? Cutting off at the songs mid-point while I was floating above my undersized folding seat was a personal attack that I should take legal action for, but  was par for the night considering Travi$ hadn't sniffed a second verse his whole set. Soon came the buildup to "Father Stretch My Hands Pt. 1", still an atom splitting experience every time, and to hear it in all its glory out of enough speakers to build a small village is indescribable. The mega-screen cut to a swift Ye-Travi$ hug, and as quickly as he had appeared he bolted under the stage again.

                "DELRESTO" rang hollow to an empty stage. Wherever Travi$ had gone was irrelevant, the entire arena was drained. It took about 3 more songs and another set of awkward crowd work for the emotions to regulate. Even the opening section of "Maria I'm Drunk" left us blank. Following Kanye is an impossible task, but no way you could end the show this early. "I Know?" was his "break glass incase of emergency" record, finally rejuvenating the arena. Hits rained in or the rest of the night. "90210" turned into a sing-along, under hellish red lights "MELTDOWN"s menacing crawl took over, "TOPIA TWINS" brought a mosh pit to our row. The paranormal synth of "FE!N" got a 5 second introduction before a kid rushed and was quickly tackled on stage. At the time it felt like a skit. Travi$ went forehead to forehead with the teen preaching what it meant to be a rager. "Real ragers don't interrupt the show". After, as the reformed forgiving ringleader he is, he granted sanctuary to the rusher, letting him kick it on stage and on the fencing for the remainder of the show. Counting the few false starts my "FE!N" Counter hit 11 straight. Each time the track never hit Carti's Future impression, rather cutting off and restarting with the floodlights focused on a new section of the crowd. Thousands of teenage boys swinging their shirts in the sky like drunken futbol fans after a game winner showed the power of Scott's commands. He roasted the exhausted chaperones sitting in the audience ("look at this guy, probably fucking night trading to buy more tickets for his kids") and thanked the few who were raging along with their children (shoutout the guy who cashed in on his screen time by flexing his Public Enemy shirt). The trio of "Sicko Mode", "Antidote" and "Goosebumps" sent the voyeurs into a tizzy. Everyone who had crashed into their chair by the 5th "FE!N'' playback bounced back to attention. Future's hymn of a "TELEKINESIS" verse signaled the end of the show, guiding Scott as he mumbled into the mic, walking back downstairs as the camera crew followed him. In front of the George Kondo Circus Maximus poster in the hallway he thanked his fans, Ye, and everyone for letting the show come to life by hitting the Jimmy Butler lean on the brick wall, fumbling through his verse. Exiting the arena you could still hear SZA’s heavenly cries shake the emptying bowl. Huffing down the stairs a young couple argued about the show.

Girl: “What do you mean? It was fucking Kanye?”

Guy: “Nah that was cool, but I was excited for Veeze too. “Safe 2” and “Not A Drill” were gonna go crazy.”

Girl: “You’re insane”

Guy: “I was cool on missing Ray, but “Runaway” was crazy I guess.”

            How anyone could languish over a Kanye performance is beyond me, even as a Veeze die hard i’d trade hearing “GOMD” live for “Can’t Tell Me Nothing” without flinching. The sound of buskers grew louder as the hum of the streets peaked into the stairwell. Scott’s 12-year run was incomparable. A blend of Kid Cudi, Waka Flocka, and peak Atlanta-trap had morphed through eras hollowing out his own life to become a skeleton living in a dreamworld of his own creation. Utopia tracks live as a majority left me feeling unmoved the way it had in my headphones the past year. The husk of Travi$ Scott could still sell anything and draw crowds like a superstar, but even the fans told by their reaction how they felt. He’s over the hill. Nostalgia and label backed hits and viral stunts were keeping him afloat. “TOPIA TWINS” and “I KNOW?” paled alongside the deepest cuts of “Mamacita” and “No Bystanders”. Ye showing removed, the legend of La Flame’s live shows were too tall; it was an impossible standard to reach. As a production it’s unquestionably the most elaborate presentation i’d ever seen, leaving Tyler The Creator or peak Chance The Rapper in the dust. But it was a MEC Suit; a system of robotics and fireworks giving power to someone that without them is just another guy. To keep A-list status for this long is an accomplishment of itself, but nobody can be at their peak forever. Travi$ in many ways came through on his promise to be a second coming of Ye in that way. It's hard to imagine a world where Kanye isn't the center of the zeitgeist, yet the last 8 years have been just that. He's a tumor; it can't be ripped away in full overnight, but rather slowly disintegrated in a way that makes you wonder how we'll be on the other side. What will take his place? Scott couldn't do it, and Drake isn't nearly as artistically fulfilling a character as we want him to be. Sometimes you just need to see a person lying in the box for yourself to know they’re really gone, and this felt like the casket finally closing for both. The end of the 2 legged tour can be seen as the real line of demarcation for both acts. Vultures has shown no promise that an even palatable version of Kanye can return, and Scott is running on fumes. What comes next for either doesn't really matter, we have no choice but to appreciate the past and push on now that the story is sealed.