He's melodic, but he's not a walking hook like 50 Cent. He's a good rapper, but he's not Kendrick Lamar. It's more difficult to point out where exactly Rocky excels. But to his credit, he doesn't waste much time persecuting haters, preemptively striking only once on "Leaf": "They say I sound like André/ Mixed with Kanye/ A little bit of Max/ A little bit of Wiz/ A little bit of that/ A little bit of this/ Get off my dick." The dark, drugged visions of Memphis rap also creep in throughout. Rocky raps effortlessly, switching back and forth between Midwestern double-time to something that resembles Wiz Khalifa auditioning for Byrd Gang. Thematic and lyrical concerns are basically limited to Rocky being a pretty motherfucker, repping Harlem, doing drugs, and getting more women than James Worthy in Houston. It's pretty easy to point out the pitfalls of LIVELOVEA$AP. There are two different mentions of Naughty by Nature's "O.P.P.". After about a minute of complaining, he's back to "fucking the chick you're next to." By rough estimate, Rocky fucks about 13 or 14 different girlfriends in the course of the album's 56 minutes. He's got stomach pains but dreams with the inevitable triumphalism of someone who can convince RCA/Polo Grounds to hand over their Pitbull blood money. Even on "Demons", the record's most emotionally raw track, Rocky is preternaturally self-assured. Rocky makes no cornball radio plays, nor any awkward attempts to prove his depth. It sidesteps the usual pitfalls of the heavily anticipated debut there are no ill-fitting famous rapper cameos or last-cup leftovers from $10,000-a-beat producers. And throughout LIVELOVEA$AP, Rocky embodies the sweat-free cool of someone who has stolen the test and memorized the answers ahead of time. Of course, the odds are slanted in your favor when you're a rapper named Rakim. People expect Rakim Mayers to be the second coming of his namesake. Thus, every mention of his debut mixtape, LIVELOVEA$AP has pondered whether it justifies the price tag of a Bugatti and several dozen ivory backscratchers. Rocky didn't help matters when he allegedly punched out a soundman at the Fader Fort and announced that he and his whole crew had adopted vegetarianism. Blogs painted it as the worst New York investment since the Yankees gave Brien Taylor $1.55 million.
Odd Future's Hodgy Beats called him "A$AP Copy." Old heads looked askance at his appropriation of styles alien to the five boroughs. Hype metastasizes fastest in New York, and it's easy to conflate the need for a standard bearer with the desire for a savior. Seeking swag-cred, Lloyd Banks and Jim Jones hopped on tracks with him.
Seeking street-cred, Drake announced plans to take Rocky on tour. What Rocky lacked in lyricism, he made up for in narcotic charisma. His lead singles poured syrup-slow Houston ride music atop the malt liquor melodies of Harlem's Max B. Since the emergence of Dipset and G-Unit in the first half of the last decade, NYC rap aspirants have largely fallen into four categories: ringtone wunderkinds ( "This Is Why I'm Hot", "Chicken Noodle Soup"), technically skilled personality voids ( Papoose, Saigon), artful traditionalists ( Action Bronson, Roc Marciano, Ka), and Maino.īy contrast, Rocky was telegenic and chanting swag. Unavoidable in the conversation is the enduring absence of a New York commercial force under 30. To cool-hunting 360-wielding record executives, the videos might as well have been advertisements for the A$AP lifestyle: Colt 45, purple weed and purple drank, dice games, bike riding, brandishing Berettas, clothing designers ostensibly known only to Kanye, and a pretty blonde girl in a grill mouthing the phrase: "this is for my niggas getting high on the regular." Picture an episode of "Gossip Girl" where Blake Lively watches Traffic and subsequently opts to explore the Danger Zone of 125th and Lennox.