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This February, after a period of uncharacteristic dormancy, Future — born Nayvadius Wilburn in in Atlanta — returned with a barrage. He released two albums in two weeks, and there are rumors of a third. Future has always had a cockeyed crooner alter-ego; here, it takes the whole stage, suggesting one tantalizing path forward for his discography. The song hints at a certain kind of violence and ruthlessness, the kind suggested by a criminal setting off into the night and choosing to leave the ski mask at home. Historically, M. But when Future describes his voluminous intake, he does so with all the zeal of a man popping open a days-of-the-week pill organizer.

It feels reductive to try to pin an artist down on the sins of his persona. But with the rate at which Future was rapping about drugs, one question was inevitably posed: Is this an addiction? If so, it was a new spin on a classic trope. The arc of pretty much every drug movie mimics the whiz-bang of the initial high and the eye-blackening horror of the inevitable comedown.

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Emails, calls, texts, pleadings. Soon, I received word that Future was ready to talk again. It was in Toronto that we actually met, and where it was so cold that the streets had a kind of a permafrost hue.


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The pavement felt as if it could, at any point, shatter. For a few days, I tagged along with Future and his affable crew. The first order of business was an interview with a TV station on the 19th floor of a high-end hotel. The interviewer, a friendly reporter in all black, was drinking a glass of white wine. She had ended a long-term relationship, she said, because of his music. In person, Future provides no outward signs that you should approach him with confessionals.

He is also beautiful. And almost immediately, Future went back to thumbing through his phone. After a few beats of silence he finally looked up.

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The next day, I finally had my chance to connect. We were upstairs at a middlebrow bistro with a lot of bare wood, and Future had just finished off an impromptu date. They ate sushi, chicken wings and steak salad.


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And I know this because during the totality of the date, the team and I were sitting at the adjoining table. Finally, we talked. I brought up London. He smiled. I guess you could call it a sheepish smile.

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I asked him why he was going through with it. The conversation rolled on, meandered. It even clicked into gear at a few points. He talked about his itinerant childhood, how he never wanted to have a fixed address so no one with an antagonistic agenda would ever be able to find him. He talked about the love and care of the family members that sorted him out. And he said that it all, eventually, changed everything.

It was nice, and fleeting. But I never was able to get a hook into him. I never could formulate a question that made him want to really talk. I was reminded of a moment back in London. My move was to sidle close to the stage door, in the alley, hoping for an opening. It never came. Then he exited the back seat and walked directly through the stage door, surrounded by an imposing security detail, with the massive hood of an arctic parka over his head.

I never even saw his face. I chased Future through two separate sovereign nations and walked away remembering one thing: I love rappers. They never break character. The occasion was a new sponsorship deal with Pentatonix, the astonishingly popular vocal quintet. Much like Cracker Barrel, Pentatonix is one of those cultural institutions whose existence you could go your whole life not noticing, until you do, when you realize it is everywhere. The result sounds like a barbershop quartet singing at an old-timey barn raising.

There is nothing dangerous or dark or threatening in their work, which consists mostly of chaste covers of pop hits and Christmas songs. No sex, only kissing. No bad behavior, no cursing and certainly no politics. The five members of Pentatonix, though, represent a rainbow coalition of historically marginalized groups. One of the male lead singers, Mitch Grassi, is openly gay. Despite looking like a United Colors of Benetton ad styled by the Kardashians, the members of Pentatonix sound like the jukebox at a heavily chaperoned sock hop; through them, Cracker Barrel can dip its toes in the waters of inclusion without fearing any backlash.

Could it be that five choir nerds hold the secret to bridging a divided nation? Of course they did it. That moment made New York rap iconoclasm — and A Tribe Called Quest — matter again in one epic, epochal heartbeat: Who else are you gonna call when the dirty work of radical-oppositional boom-bap needs to be done, live and direct, in irony-redolent rhyme? We need not hold our breath waiting, though. Its lyrics name and gather together all the targeted — Mexicanfolk, Muslimfolk, gayfolk, womenfolk, BlackLivesMatterfolk — under one force field.

And under one intersectional, Queens-bred guerrilla meal plan:. There are two different ways you can keep up with pop.

The first is by drifting along with the current, bobbing immersed in the changing of the charts — so lost from any point of reference on the shore that minor fluctuations the downfall of an air horn, the outflow of a sound hardly register. You, most likely, are in high school, or college, or somewhere that music flows like water all around. Pop, in such places, is understood by osmosis. The rest of us — less lucky — must accept the second system. The beat on the track was the inverse of a banger — tinny and thin, compulsively looping, like something churned out with a really cool toy.

In a voice that was somehow both droning and singsong, the year-old Atlantan wanly shrugged off commitment. Catchy like a backing track in a commercial, it was sticky for all the texture it lacked. I listened on repeat with car-crash infatuation. The hip-hop establishment had little to offer. In Nautica shirts and plastic-beaded braids, he was an ungraceful hybrid of your grandpa and your niece.

As old-schoolers and gatekeepers scratched their heads and wept, Yachty continued to rise through the ranks, buoyed by fans who had no trouble understanding. His come-up was something straight outta LinkedIn, an origin uncaring toward the rap plot as we know it. What begins as Yachty on a yacht with three women quickly descends into maritime madness — jump-cuts from hammerhead sharks and harpoons, to dress-up in wet suits and other nautical garb, to glitch-art graphics of slow-swimming fish, calling to mind the early days of home computers.

Yachty had to do his research, just like the rest of us. T he year-old musician Kelela favors the kind of fashion aesthetic that science-fiction films sometimes use to signify characters from the future: gravity-defying materials in iridescent or metallic colors. For a recent rainy night in Strasbourg, the small city in the northeastern corner of France, she strode onstage dressed like a lieutenant in an anime cartoon, in an oversize gray bomber jacket, matching shorts and heels made from white fabric that stretched above her knees.

She raised her hands and gave a hard stare to the crowd.

It has influenced every genre, pretty much, so anyone who thinks it is basic or rudimentary has another thing coming.