As someone with two Internet mail-order certifications in Boosieology, there’s a tangible need to report on the latest developments in the new Louisiana Leadbelly. Especially because the Internet has devolved into a wasteland where Lil Scrappy Fights The Ghost of Plies will get ten times more clicks than anything actually written about the music.
When Bad Azz came out of Angola, the fear was that he’d be a 32-year old rapper, several years past his prime, permanently trapped in the mid-2000s. But that worry is actually an advantage. For Boosie to actually be effective, his music has to channel the ravenous hunger he exhibited during the Bad Azz Mixtapes era. I’m not sure if Boosie is aware that 50 Cent isn’t a star anymore, but it doesn’t matter. He brought hi-top fades and Coogi back. By contrast, what have we done with our lives?
His songs never conformed to the trends, rarely had big name cameos from outside the camp, and scarcely diverged from the Trill Ent formula. One-handed keyboard plunks from B.Real, Mouse or Big Wayne. Bust-your-head open drums. Boosie spitting that real, which invariably broke down to a Boosie ride-on-your-enemies songs, Boosie flexing songs, Boosie up-from-the-struggle songs, and Boosie love songs. Mixed in with the occasional Boosie dance song (“Loose as a Goose.”)
All had different permutations. A Boosie love song could be “Mama Know Love” or “They Dykin.” A Boosie ride-on-your-enemies song could be “187” or “Fuck tha Police.” He’s always been political. Not in the community organizer model, but in the throw a Molotov cocktail at the corrupt — whether crooks or cops. He gets less attention for his politics, but his songs were roared back at the police during the Ferguson Protests and speak for the disenfranchised with rare and unmistakable meaning. Depth doesn’t necessarily mean more metaphor.
Boosie’s latest tape is as straightforward as you’d expect. It’s getting less attention because it’s essentially a label compilation for his Bad Azz Ent. But beyond the second-stringer throwaways are a few of the strongest songs he’s released since getting off The Farm. Drew already wrote about “Black Rain.” There are tracks with 50 and Migos, alongside the miscellaneous Kush Carriers. But it wouldn’t be a Boosie mixtape if there weren’t one or two songs that reflect the nightmares.
On Every Ghetto, Every City, the cold heart pumps through “Ghetto.” The simmering rage busts through in double-time. It’s part anthem to the come-up, part shout out to where he came from. The sort of thing he’s been doing since Youngest of Da Camp. But Boosie’s brilliance comes through the voice, the specificity, the fury, and the authority. He mentions Angola, the uncles who taught him to cook cocaine, the thousand goons, the crimes adjacent to the Mississippi (ask BR locals about the levee), the missions with Bleek — now permanently at rest.
The hook lapses into an eerie disembodied stalk. What The Infamous does for East Coast rap, songs like this are to the Bottom of Baton Rouge. When Boosie says “late night..Halloween…real gun firing,” you instinctively duck. His voice cracks as he screams “White Sheets.” It almost reminds me of Ghost’s verse on “Impossible.” The voice mutant and croaking, capturing the fear and need for reprisal. It’s the life he knew. It’s the life he’s spent an entire life trying to escape.
