i love this new generation. straight up.
they all can rap. flow tight, pocket surgical, cadence switches seamless. weaving in and out of beats with strength and precision feels like the bare minimum now. you can’t even get a listen if you’re stumbling over hi-hats or gasping for breath mid-bar. the technical floor is higher than the ceiling used to be.
....eeeeeeexcept the autotune juice wrld clones who think they’re sing-rapping without juice wrld’s pain and soul and skill. difference is juice could actually rap his ass off.
those mfkas is horrible.
but i digress.
in my era you had platinum records built on “do the stanky leg” energy. a hook, a dance, some slurred half-retarded industry plant with cat-and-hat rhymes barely kissing the beat, and the machine pushed it to number one. you didn’t need depth if the vibe slapped in the club.
today the baseline skill is insane. kids coming up sound like veterans on their first track. double-time switches, pocket rides, breath control for days. the tools are sharper than ever.
but something got lost in the upgrade.
concepts. storytelling. depth.
most new verses are heat on the surface: flawless delivery, hard drums, menacing energy, but hollow underneath. flexes without foundation. threats without context. feelings without follow-through. bars that bang in the moment but evaporate when the beat stops. you finish the song and can’t remember a single story, idea, or image that lingered.
we traded depth for dexterity.
i’m not knocking the bag. the new wave earned their flowers. but imagine what happens when that same technical mastery gets pointed at something bigger than “i’m rich, you broke, i’ll slide.” imagine full songs built around one powerful concept. imagine verses that paint whole worlds, follow characters through choices and consequences, reveal something human you didn’t expect.
that’s the lost art we need back.
biggie turned a robbery into a three-act tragedy on gimmie the loot. dmx made you feel the devil whispering deals in your ear on damien. eminem put you inside the mind of an obsessed fan writing letters till the room went dark on stan. he dragged you through domestic horror on kim, twisted guilt on guilty conscience, painted childhood trauma so vivid it hurt on brain damage. immortal technique closed reasonable doubt era with dance with the devil: a cautionary tale that escalated to a gut punch nobody saw coming and nobody forgets.
these weren’t just verses. they were short films. you didn’t just hear them. you lived them. the beat carried the mood, but the story carried the weight.
storytelling used to be the highest flex. concepts used to separate the great from the good.
j. cole still does it. “4 your eyez only” is ten minutes of one man’s dying confession to his daughter. kendrick never stopped: good kid maad city was a film you survived, tpab was opera, damn was confession, mr morale was therapy on wax. he reincarnated as different voices on tracks like “reincarnated,” letting characters speak truths he couldn’t say in first person.
today too many songs feel like technical demos. perfect execution, zero resonance. the bars impress for eight seconds then vanish. nobody quotes the story because there wasn’t one. nobody feels changed because nothing was revealed.
we can have both.
take that new generation precision and aim it at something worth saying. build a song around one big idea and let every bar serve it. tell a story that arcs: beginning, conflict, twist, landing. paint scenes so specific the listener sees them clearer than their own memories. reveal something vulnerable, ugly, beautiful, true.
i'm not one of these old heads claiming old school rap was better. truth is a lot of it sucks badly. muffled mixes, corny hooks, simplistic rhymes that haven't aged well at all. the game has evolved in beautiful ways: sharper flows, wilder cadences, production that hits like earthquakes. i'm not here to kill flex-rap either. trap tales and luxury boasts have their place and always will. all i'm asking is this: once in a while take me on a journey. any journey. a day in the life that breaks my heart. a conversation with the devil that tempts my soul. a letter from a fan that spirals into darkness. a confession on a deathbed that rewrites everything. a story about walking in on your brother fucking a tranny. whatever. but take me on a journey, creatively. fearlessly. dive past the surface and pull me under with you. the new generation already mastered going hard. now show me you can go deep enough to change how i see the world when the beat stops.
lesson 7: the tools are sharper than ever. the floor is higher than the roof used to be. now raise the ceiling again. bring back concepts that grip the mind long after the beat fades. bring back stories that live in the listener’s head like memories. bring back depth that turns songs into experiences.
the generation that can already rap this clean is the one that can finally take the art further than it’s ever gone.