These feelings didn’t come from nowhere. There are moments in our lives when all we want is the attention of those we love during our celebration. Where ascension is in place, a simple “I’m proud of you” is enough; Presence and affirmations are acceptable forms of legal tender.

His first New York trip of 2023 was supposed to be his graduation. His debut album, A Guide 2 Recognizing Your Saints, was supposed to be his moment of vindication. The now archived Instagram photos of bodies smiling and clutching each other after his listening party painted a perception that received this. But really, Jireh got neither. Friends who accompanied him on the trip weren’t fully engaged. A past lover made a promise to show her support. When the day came, she never showed up. On that trip, they all let him down, one way and another. Resentment boiled but never spilled, and like most cold wars, words stand fettered by the tongue out of fear of escalation.

“That was the most alone I’ve ever felt, alone and unsupported.” Jireh says over his screen.  “like there’s a difference between being alone and lonely, and a nigga was lonely. And it was I who wanted people to show up for me; I was begging them to show up for me.”

Once he returned to his home, Jireh commenced the soft launch of slowly disappearing for a week to disappear in full that night. Before Jireh could drive off to his death, the body’s “end of life” rally, staving off the reaper, made him reach for his phone and call his mother. The call came on instinct, but his mother begged him to stay on the line until she arrived. As she went inside, her son was still in his living room, as ordered. They prayed together; she prayed for him. He spoke of the disappointment and fear that consumed him; she listened until his high wore down. As he became whole and his weight grew, she became his pillar and held him up as she walked him to her car. That night, a mother saves her son. However, the real work to ensure safety must come from within.

Calling in from his living room, the Jireh before me on this Zoom call appears in bundles, wearing a black and yellow jacket with a cross stitch at the neckline and a camo hoodie bursts from underneath it, running stiffly along his skull, binded by a yellow durag. He’s in a bit of an apologetic mood. He’s only a couple of minutes late for our interview, yet he’s remorseful “The time difference is fucking me up,” he tells me, fidgeting with the cross-stitch of his hoodie as if he were tuning a guitar. Now that his profile has grown, the professionalism needed is also different.

There’s a yawning excitement in Jireh’s husky baritone, a lingering high that comes with a delicate withdrawal. Fresh off his first-ever SoFar Sound performance, he performed a blend of singles from his two projects of 2023, AG2RYS, and his most recent album, B-Sides. In a YouTube video of his performance, Jireh looks comfortable where he is. Dressed in khaki jeans and a jean jacket rolled up on the sleeves that is still a smidge too big for his frame, he sways in place for most of the video, mic in hand. Known for his brutal delivery and compact cadence, Jireh rarely sets a scene or zeros in on details. It’s an unforgiving flipbook animation where, once it starts, you can rewind to the beginning. Distractions are costly. But that night, he waned his pace a bit to comfort others.

I’m just glad she answered.

Suddenly, we shifted from his SoFar show and I ask what made him call his mom that night. Immediately, Jireh’s head hangs limply over the zoom screen as he mouths a few words that come out scratched; then, having to wipe them clean, I ask him if he wants to shift to another topic, and he emphatically denies it. “If I said it, then there must be a reason why I did.” With it, access is granted. He gathers himself, reprising those lost words in total between the pauses. “I don’t even know,” a chuckle appears, masking the relief. “My mom and I have a tumultuous relationship. But I know that something made me call her, and I’m glad I did.” There was a long pause, measuring how much he should say. “I’m just glad she answered.”

Privilege is another type of concession we have no control over, yet we must utilize it when it appears. Jireh’s voice shrinks when speaking about his parents. Personal story beats tethered by transitional phrases and incomplete reflections. His specific experiences are ghost-faint, where details are not always heard but felt. Born and raised in Baton Rouge, Jireh is quick to say that his childhood was no different from any other black child’s experience; black trauma shit, mixed in with teenage angst.

Without going into extreme detail, he’ll tell you that neither he nor his parents tried to understand each other. He’ll tell you that there’s no animosity between them at the moment. They don’t speak often but whenever he travels to a new city to perform, he’ll ask them if they could stop by his house to see if he has any bills waiting for him.

As a child, when things with his parents became dire, his grandmother would always be there with a meal and a caring hand. Here, Jireh opens up more, dazzling indications dripping from his tongue as she speaks on her. From her kindness in picking him up after school to eventually allowing him to move in, her kindness even stretches to his sister, whom the grandmother adopted.

“My sister will tell me about it, but my grandma will make it a point to watch over me.”

Jireh wants to be fair and give them their just due, particularly his father who was a poet and radio DJ. “I would be unable to put words together like I do without that man.” He says. “I wouldn’t be able to read without that man. That man forced me to read and write. Then, at a certain point, he understood that I was naturally gifted at certain things and would force me to do even more. I can’t rob him of that credit for any of that shit.”

A question on the writing process of B-Sides led to Jireh giving his best Tom Green impersonation while giving me a crash course lesson on the Jungian philosophy of shadow work, or as he called it, shadow boxing. From what I gathered, in psychological terms, shadowboxing is the projection of repressed anger. It’s the part of us that we disowned, attaching itself atop the flesh of the people we love. We become unreliable self-narrators who shape a world that makes us feel rejected. It’s where we receive the world’s external wrath for our internal rife.

For a while, he didn’t want to do shit, didn’t want to make shit. Already over-reliant on Shrooms, “My go-to drug for when I’m going through shit,” he went deeper into his addiction. During this time, though, he got heavy into the concept of shadow work.

As he spoke, he rattled off metaphors with his tongue and pulled them back with a wave of his hands until settling on the right one. “It’s like that ant-man movie when he went into that thing. It’s like you go in there. And you don’t know if you come out like you gotta work some shit out in that bitch.” He says. “You got to figure some shit out. And you either come out on the other end or you you stay in that bitch”

“So, what did you learn about yourself?” I ask

“I have boundary issues, bro. I have addiction issues. Like I have, I have addictive tendencies and addictive personality, and that does run in my blood.” He admits. “I have a lot of internal shit that manifests externally. I think I’m in the process of coming up with systems and routines and having the confidence to be as flawed as I am. And like not getting in my way.”

So he ditched the shrooms for the Adderall. He got in touch with a therapist and began to pick himself apart with the guiding ear who’ll remember him to be considerate to himself. He altered how he spoke about himself, particularly his phrasing, to be realistic about his situation and not delve into fatalism. But most importantly, he turned the anger within him into spite. During his recovery, he examined the current landscape for emerging artists and saw how grimy the game is. He grew spiteful towards the algorithm, towards the people who are supposed to be in the know, who don’t know shit, towards artists who compromise their craft for a look, and, most importantly, to life itself. 

“I can listen to a song from somebody and immediately know they made it for the playlist,” he says.

There’s something about fun and how intentional we make it. In Jireh’s effort to avoid the stress that comes with intention, B-Side’s sole decree was to be fun—looser, experiment with more sounds and flows, seize the moment, not comb over it.

The project highlight, “Parking,” encapsulates this decree. The slow churning of high hats and kick drums bids a false safety, resonant keys and high-frequency synths wobbling in volume, fighting to keep it all afloat, but ultimately, his compliance to violence is too much. Once Jireh swoops in and says, “Back in this bitch like parallel parking” is said, a trigger, once swelling to be pushed down, will soon be empty. The hook is the most biting; the diction in “Niggas” and “Knowing” at the start of each line is delivered with a brutal sense of disdain. “Niggas down bad and broke/Niggas ain’t making no magic,” is said with disgust. 

“I remember making that in my kitchen” talking with his hands as much with tongue. “Just smoking, chilling at the crib and the beat come one and I just did my thing. It was so much fun.”

B-Sides is an album of elongations. But its elongations come in many forms. A bonus offering originally crafted to lengthen the life of his previous album became an entity of its own. Multiple outcomes were possible on his birthday, but a single phone call lengthened the aftershock. There’s also reconstruction. On the cover, you see Jireh standing tall, with his posture straight and face unclothed from his jacket collar, as he stares into the camera. Confident, poised. It is a complete dichotomy to AG2RYS, where he is furled in his seat, elbows broadening his stout frame with only his eyes exposed to the air. Fear. 

B-Sides is aware that the right words in any language can render new species out of undying tropes. So instead, it shows the aftermath to those willing to listen. The album doesn’t address the suicide attempt but only hints at the changes that came after. The album intro track, “FYE,” is a re-declaration of dominion with undertones of an adjusted perspective. Immediately, the stakes are high.

The record starts with Birdman’s skit with Druski, eschewing praise with underlying resistance and threats. The bass’s bulkiness is a hand-firm clasp on the shoulder, easing the tension as the sharp, scattered guitar warbles and soft drums spill over graciously. “I ran out of love; now it’s just money,” but as always, he’s curt. Jireh raps in resolutions—the clarity obtained by distance and recollection, ascertaining the value in his craft, and saying how happy he is with his last effort. 

Yet, not all of them provide answers or exposure to a problem. On ‘Complicated,’ a woman’s voice glows underneath the rising glow of chords and bass lines. She asks Jireh plainly, “How many things support you being happy?” He laughs, saying, “Now, why you gotta do me like that?” This confirms her suspicions and points out plainly how there’s nothing. The album doesn’t seek to provide closure. It’s meant to show a subtle shift of perception. AG2RYS was an album riddled with loss and doubt. B-Sides is confident, skeptical yet never delving in fatalism. 

Accepting all the good that comes with success is a process that Jireh is trying to get right. “I am still having a hard time subscribing to that belief.” The man before me is now leaning back on his chair, chilling as the black jacket that once sat on his shoulders has sunk to the floor. “There’s been enough niggas who have told me that I’m going to be great where I can stop being like, ‘Oh man, thank you.’ I need to start accepting that shit.”

I asked what he felt he had to do to accept his current success. Immediately, he references a conversation with Devin, getting sidetracked by repeating how important he was to him. He caught himself and said consistency.

“Gotta like give people the opportunity to hear your. You ain’t gotta do no crazy shit like getting on TikTok and start dancing on camera every day.” He pauses right there. He let that thought linger for a second and with curt tone he goes, “I’m not dancing in front of a camera ever. You don’t have to worry about that shit, ever.”

Spite is a powerful motivator for living.

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‘Oneday’ is less of an ode to chasing a dream and more of a plea to avoid being restricted to a time frame to achieve them. Time is insidious; everywhere in location but never precise like a faulty GPS. Diz is intentional with this, from the measured tempo of the production to lines like “One day I ain’t running out of time now/One day I’ll forget what I’m crying about,” time only measures the journey, not the scale of your success. Time is a symptom of doubt; one thing confidence never has a problem with. One day, success will arrive, so “live a little” until then.

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In a promo video for the EP, Igwe sits on the porch, stating, “I feel like my whole life, I’ve been working to become good enough to start telling my story.” For years, glimpses of the turmoil become exposed in his music. When that happens, he’ll offset the discomfort with levity. On ‘Big Tony (Anthem),’ where he says, “Imma rock out with my cock out.” On ‘Red,’ he states, “Life been hard, but my dick is harder,” hoping his silly personality distracts you from the shadows that follow him around. Other times, his admissions are random. Even when he’s talking his shit like on ‘M** Jam,’ he raps at the end, “I’m emotional/never had to cope with how a nigga had to grow up,” giving credence to their pervasiveness. He always wanted to expose his trauma as the crutches they are, but only he knew when he’d be ready.

One of the natural conclusions of success is the question of worth. Was the distance traveled in time and miles appropriately valued? Did the obstacles you overcame debilitate you for that moment or life? With his formative years built upon displacement, second-guessing himself has become instinctual, one he aims to unlearn. On ‘Tony On The Radio,’ Igwe’s delivery pivots between irritation and remorse, depending on who the recipient is. Speaking with the experience of a man used to disappointment, he probes “wifey” on her view of his commitment before telling her he’ll have to let her go. She’s broken. He comforts her, despite admitting he’s not happy with their current cycle. Yet violence consumes him when he looks into the mirror. “Strike him with the bottle until he never breath again,” as he prays there’s never be another encounter. He’s worldwide, but the pains of the immigration process are impossible to shake. Even when he chooses himself, the people left behind are still on his mind.

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Ajna seeks to close a chapter that was a year in the making. In a metaphorical sense, Lifelines is an ode to the people and music accompanying him each time he yawed off course. In a literal sense, Lifelines is lines about his life. Speaking to them from a different perspective, drawing the kind of honesty out of himself that feels threatening, especially when the driving force that pulls on it pains him when he reminisces. 

“Dealing with the effects that Lenah’s death had on me is the album’s biggest driving force,” the California native recalls about his lover. She was an inspiration to him, the spark that accelerated his growth as a man. He was able to be comfortable in his own skin with Lenah’s help. He fostered and grew a sense of confidence in himself with Lenah’s help. Able to love talking about the prospects of tomorrow instead of the eternal past. “Like it was a lot of nights by myself trying to think and work through different shit and just being like, okay, how do I feel about this? Because it wasn’t something that happened, and I knew exactly how I felt.”

As time went on, the angrier he got. The angrier he became, the more he leaned on the music to char the seed of distress that expanded in his chest. Losing a loved one could haul anyone into the white room. Over time, You become disillusioned, depersonalized, and engulfed in physiological and psychological torture. Everything feels like linen, smooth with no lingering texture to heighten the sensations.

His first words on the intro track ‘I-10’ confirm where he is. “I had some time to sit with my thoughts and tears/my love, and fears/I have a lot of old pain that I harbor.” With that one line, behind a production made for gaping eyes to explore the buildings alongside the highway, he sounds ready to go back to his source of inspiration. The bass thumping underneath the pelting of the keys makes it gentle, all while he goes step by step on the thoughts that trouble him. “I really thought I was trying my hardest/I didn’t understand the challenges of being an artist,” he raps a couple of bars. 

Music was right by his side, like it always has been. From afar as a child to the last days of a high school senior when he finally had an excuse to play with it. “We had to do a satirical project on the United States, and I was like fuck it, I’ll make a song.” From there on, it became cathartic, a hobby to relieve any stress that came with being young and anxious. Along the way, it started taking up more of his time. It wasn’t fun anymore. It became work. Therapy fell behind to every artist’s most significant obstacle, the admiration of others. 

“When I first started making music, it was a form of like therapy to me,” he says. “As I started to take it more seriously, I fell away from that a bit. I was trying to please everyone else, and then I think over time, it kind of I got back to what drove me in the first place.”

The beginnings of the life he has now started at the end of one chapter. Two years after Lenah’s untimely death, at this moment, Ajna is comfortable enough to express how important she was to him and the difficulty of moving on. For Ajna, Music has returned to being therapeutic. Only one point of view is shared in a mic, with judgments prohibited until its release.

‘Fall So Fast”, the lead single and one of the standout tracks from the album, follows the brazen confidence displayed in ‘Dangerous Bets‘ (a fucking banger), but the bottom falls out. The brazen feeling of invincibility crumpled to its knees like Durk when the feds came. The horns are intense and precise, refusing to let this send-off fail due to the moment’s emotion. In the meantime, keys pitch scales down every two bars throughout the record as if everything is crashing down on him repeatedly. He’s alone, at his lowest, faster than he ever imagined. The album’s tone begins right here when he’s at the point of acceptance. There are good days, and there are the worst days. There are days when he accepts his reality and days when he can’t believe this is real.

Lifelines is an album dedicated to himself first and foremost. With the death of his lover altering the landscape he exists in, the instrumentals he would create in his bedroom reminded him of his purpose, allowing him to express the sadness of losing someone special while validating his feelings. “I write about my life/I’m not trying to make quotes.” It catapulted him from a ditch, and with it, his value; even if it was only halfway up, he could finally start to see the light. 

We all have lifelines, something or someone we lean on to get us through the worst. The funny thing about lifelines is that they are often the last resort in a dire situation, yet they’re supposed to be within arms reach. Somewhere accessible but one that gets you the help that you need safely. There are the things that give you the strength to last a little longer for the day, the week, and the months ahead. Dependency on a source that has a limited span a dangerous, especially where if you show too many good days, that strength becomes a crutch from the community you seek.

Who Wants To Millionaire presented lifelines as a festive activity despite the tension. Everyone is having a good time, even those who have financial freedom on the brink, based on the whim of the brilliance of a friend, a random audience member, and the old school methodology 50/50. From Ajna’s prospective, that reception is harmless to the truths he’s had to accept. He didn’t have three options, he only had one. And from that one, he only had one way to go about; make it for him.

The culmination of events that led him to where he always wanted to be is centered around tragedy. But life value comes in its moments decored in color. It’s why the album is titled Lifelines; it’s an autobiography. It’s a memorial. A time capsule meant to resurface in the distant future to keep these moments from losing their color. Edited intentionally to highlight this, the music video for the album closer is a time capsule in its own right. Time has flown by since then. His hair is shorter, his clothes baggier, and his name is more prominent, but the desert and the shoreline are his comforts. 

Once in view, the ocean and desert look never-ending, and as he stares towards them, clips of them together hover to his sides as he recites his lines. It’s to memorialize Lenah’s impact on his life as a lover but, most importantly, as a person loved by many others outside of himself.

The cycle of beginning and end share a common setting. One where her presence will always live on in color. Memories are captured by technology with the intended purpose of being immortal. The physiological response becomes physiological when those images become black and white once the time is up. Ajna wanted to mark this as the turning point in his life to be a successful artist, and, for the first time, deciding when and how a chapter ends.

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The alluring instrumentation becomes still, and the mask is unveiled, showing a man who is genuinely hurt. The writing here is that of a magician, step by step, nothing out of the ordinary, yet he who holds your gaze as he progresses. Slick couplets, “Far as I’ve shown been far from defeat/Far as you know, I’ve been whole and complete,” start the unveiling process. Love is harmful, and he is a victim of it, “removing our disguises/painkillers for our vices.” But it’s something he’ll gamble on again and again, especially when its worth is low.

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‘PYMFB’ is Dave’s latest single, and the pace is that of a high-speed chase: high stakes from the very beginning to the abrupt end. Amid the frenzy of thrashing guitars and swirling EDM synths that loop like the birds in MLB: The Show, Dave admits that he’s losing control “I might hit the gas and explode,” if he doesn’t set boundaries for himself and others to abide by. He’s unrelenting to himself, disgusted by his codependency restraining him to his cellphone. “You see, I’m on the phone, ain’t nobody calling,” as he waits for a call that will never come. His fashion of storytelling is that of an interventionist. He calls out his own behavior around everyone to form a social contract to change.

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All the glitz and glamour that comes with being a childhood star takes a heavy toll on one psyche. You’re an innocent soul to shelter against the machine, only for corporations to value you as a commodity. Hands marred by greed sought to smear any sense of individuality, desiring to make you into the next overproduced, manufactured pop star. Their interest rarely aligns with the child’s personal development, and distrust is the currency in that transaction.

In turn, the trio — made up of Jadagrace Michiko Gordy-Nash, Coy Stewart, and Tyrel J. Williams — also known by their stage name Jadagrace, SWIM, and TJOnline, decided to put their faith in each other. Natured by the shared disillusionment of their experience in the film industry, grouptherapy. was born to express themselves how they want, when they want. 

Jadagrace secured her first significant role in ‘Terminator Salvation’ in 2009. After being discovered by Redfoo. Then, being mentored by Motown Legend Berry Gordy and Smokey Robinson, she released her first single, ‘Run Dat Back,’ in 2012 with Epic Records. SWIM, formerly known as KOI, caught his big break when he landed the role of Travis Young in a stage production of ‘A Rasin In The Sun.’ From there, he appeared on the TBS ‘Are We There Yet?’ and Nickelodeon’s ‘Bella and the Bulldogs.’ TJOnline, the eccentric yet contained rapper of the group, was nurtured to be a musician. He rose through the Hollywood pipeline, featuring in the 2005 film ‘The Naked Brothers Band: The Movie’ and starring as a singing voice in ‘The Backyardigans‘ for Tyrone. 

The first public appearance of grouptherapy. was by accident. SWIM’s ‘S.I.N. Part II’ music video shows Jadagrace, TJOnline, and SWIM together in a vehicle, casually supporting their friend. Despite creating music together years prior, the three of them, alongside a couple of other friends and producer Dee Lilly would officially have their musical intentions a year after ‘S.I.N. Part II’ dropped. 

Their first studio album, there goes the neighborhood. boasts their unorthodox styles in its most authentic fashion. Behind an ebullient soundscape, the collective seems to embrace its status as “newcomers,” hoping to create a change they want to see. There were teases of the change they wanted to see (“I just sold a show and still ain’t made a fuckin’ cent, uh/That don’t make no sense, uh“) but no centralized theme that connected it all.

Truth Be Told does something different. Everything is better: from the production, their songwriting, making their sounds feel fuller, and their execution. Multiplicity in sounds, the overall feel of the album is volatile. On the title track, ‘Truth Be Told,’ creamy keys and Jadagrace’s background vocals texturizes the scenery for TJ to open up about his inability to forge new connections. Only for that melt away by drums to remind him who he is. It’s a balance between acknowledging the perks of being a star and humanizing themselves despite it. 

Strip away the sprightly percussion, lush vocals which reinvigorate, and the hyphenated production that careens between chaotic and festive; at its core, Truth Be Told is a journal encompassing the shared experience of three friends. Friends who want to show that they’re humans by showcasing a photo book filled with remarkable memories and reading aloud journals detailing their trauma. The freedom to be themselves instead of playing out someone else story. 

“When we’re writing and making music, we can say exactly what’s on our minds,” The group agreed in unison. “Even when it comes to the music videos because the music is a reflection of who we are, we end up being ourselves on camera.” 

By nature, group therapy is inclusive. With a room full of strangers replaying traumatic episodes one after another as if Netflix’s algorithm struck a goldmine, folks from different walks of life all share deep experiences that feasts itself in the dark. The kind of darkness that hides beneath the belly of mountains, scared of the light as if it’s a Goblin who resides in Middle Earth. It forces you to understand that you’re not alone, while not making all about yourself. The beauty of the act of group therapy is solidarity in that each person has their story to contribute, and everyone is there to commiserate.

Similarly, everyone gets their time to shine in grouptherapy. ‘Pink Paper’ is dazzling with its swirling keys, with Jadagrace speaking on police brutality, the loss of her father, and how it’s led to how untrusting she is. On the punchy percussion-heavy ‘Risky,’ SWIM stands on the podium alone, boldly telling those who doubt him that they’re nowhere close to reaching the heights he has reached. TJ anchors ‘Truth Be Told’ and ‘Mistake,’ regulating SWIM and Jadagrace as if they’re his featured artists. Everyone gets to opportunity to be the main character in their own story, and the others have no issues playing a supporting role. 

“That’s what it’s always been about for us,” they stated. “and when we don’t force everyone to have the spotlight at the same time, we’re all able to shine individually.”

Their shared journal narrates the doom that weaves between the riches for all of us. The only way to escape its clutches is to see the truth, the light that awaits at the end. But how when you can’t even get up and open the blinds? We all go through so much to survive, and it’s only so much we can take.

The realization that you can’t work yourself to happiness bears down on all of us. It’s pervasive, arrogantly displaying itself in every aspect of our lives. To escape work means to live, and that’s not a choice afforded to many when work is what keeps the lights on for another month. It’s a prevalent theme for the collective. So much is going on in their day-to-day lives. Friends, family, and even therapists see the toll it has on them. “You really gotta stop working/I told him try me,” TJ shouts on the chaotic soundscape of ‘Tribal.’ It’s detrimental to justify your worth and success by constantly overworking yourself. SWIM adds, “She said, ‘you working like there’s three of you/ but it’s only one of me.” on their 2021 single ‘Light Day Cypher,’ as if his worth is based solely on his work.

It makes sense. They grew up in an environment that chewed and spat out adults with disrespect as children. Each day, they strived to prove they belonged. Seeking the vindication of their hard work but also the validation of knowing they deserve, even if it wears them down mentally.

Truth be told, I want to get a little personal. When listening to the album, I felt everything they shared. Depression is a magus that deludes me from my very sense of reality. Relationships built to be a source of security become abandoned; scarce with visitors. I hear a cynical voice, vouching to be unapproachable, alone when I don’t want to be. It’s exhausting to look in the mirror and spurt affirmations I don’t believe in. And like a magus, it spreads itself to its next victim.

Would you be able to trust anyone when you’ve been exploited for your talents since? Both the music and film industries have been known to sell a bill of goods, master sales clerks who could sell water to a megayacht. The status symbols that come with such a status come with shady characters, dwelling in both the water and blood. 

“We’ve learned that many people have a different view of you when you’re a public figure, and they also sometimes have an agenda.” The group said. “We try and keep the circle small and make sure that people around us are genuine.”

The theme of the album is simple. Your pain is no more significant nor less meaningful than others; it’s just as valid. But don’t ever forget to celebrate the wins, to never underestimate your achievements. The only reason why the dark dwells in the belly of mountains is that the Sun is illuminating everything surrounding it. 

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There are times when words are sensory overload that complicates emotions rather than evokes them. While they can paint a picture of our experiences, words could be daunting to take in. With Gradients, 92elm sought to alleviate that pressure to examine by permitting us to feel. It’s palliative and airy, aiming to use its breezy Lo-Fi aesthetic to lift your mood the same way pilots use the wind for takeoff.

Known for his future bass sound backed by lush vocals, the Philadelphia producer often layers his vocals an octave lower when paired with the main vocalist. The result is a texture that is ethereal alongside dazzling instrumentation. Despite his song’s cheery nature, there are themes tied into the final product to feel for ourselves. On his last project, Patience, 92elm unwound from a slow, organic sound of fear to utilize both his voice and electronic elements more as he overcame them. It’s a reminder that time heals all but only when the effort is there.

His latest project, Gradients, departs from his usual sound, experimenting more with chill hip-hop elements to create a minimalist aesthetic. Composed of instrumentals, Gradients symbolizes the alluring glimmers of the sun to the dazzling sight of the moon with shades of orange and blue.

From start to finish, the sequencing of the album is intentional. A quick examination of the album cover hints at a day and night cycle. ‘Opal’ is misty and damped, with sharp sensory piercing synths role-playing mother nature. The percussion softly pelts the surface like a leaf falling off a branch: slow, meandering its way around the vast to reach the inevitable. It’s a consistent characteristic of the project. It is littered with percussion instruments from snares, high hats, maracas, glockenspiel, and more fusing to provide energy.

‘Radiate’ is a vaporous highlight of the EP that veers into the late morning. Its uplifting chords support the rest of the instrumentation to sail in the environment as if they are clouds. I especially admire how 92elm tucked the saxophone behind the softness of the drums. Its brightness pokes out ever so slightly to remind you of its presence. ‘Suncatcher”s foundation is slippery keys and drums looped together with synths popping in randomly to create an illusion of movement. True to its name, its slower tempo illustrates the joy of basking in the daylight.

The subtle transition from day to night makes the project feel evasive. By the time the outro track ‘Ripples’ comes on, you wonder where did all the time go as it’s already morning. It feels a tad cinematic and natural, birds acting as background singers as they chirp alongside pristine chords and staccato of the violins. Yet, the track does something I wish was more prevalent throughout Gradients. Halfway into the record, a robotic vocal mutters a melody, but its words are difficult to discern. What is being said is not significant compared to what it supplies. Its inclusion allows the elements around it to slyly relapse to the beginning, where the birds chirp again.

Is it a sign? Informing us how quickly the days go by as the next spears on ahead. A reminder to live in the moment and enjoy what’s around you. Perhaps this is 92elm continuing his attempt to comprehend the concept of time. In a world where BPM, bar counts, and patterns govern, producers are mathematicians who are able to turn numbers into notes. There could be many meanings or none at all, but what Gradients is anything but lingering.

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At its core, Melt My Eyez See Your Future is Denzel wandering in a desert. It’s faint and spacious, mirroring the album’s precise drums, airy chords, and vocals that sound like hallucinations. Denzel’s delivery morphs into whatever weapon is needed. On ‘Walkin’, he toys with his inflections, weaving transitional phrases between rhyme schemes at a measured pace. Once the beat switch comes, his energy hits back to back like a John Silver hot tag. Teetering his voice between logic and emotions, all he wants to do is be better, feel better, and he can only do that with constant movement.

But deserts are more than their harsh conditions. You could go anywhere, everywhere, and nowhere all at once, testing the traveler’s discipline and endurance. In interviews, Denzel understood that there would be nowhere to hide with a record as personal as this one. “Ultimately, this album is about me, Denzel Curry.” Denzel Curry, the person is fascinating, but will the fans love him? The cool factor is the confidence that spills out from press photos and videos; it’s all Denzel. The Dollars Trilogy and Star War references, the homage to Akira Kurosawa’s directing style is all genuine interest of the man before us. He’s more like us than he even thought, so why hide it?

Throughout the album, his tone is subdued-as if he’s meditating-speaking to himself, yet his presence is forceful. Every action is down in a trot, unpacking his emotions as he strolls forward at his past. On ‘Aint No Way’ featuring the talented Rico Nasty, 6LACK, and J.I.D, the production starts with swirling vocals and synths, while the drums power up every 4 bars as Rico spazzes. A subtle beat switch cools it down to a more chord-driven and boom-bap lead production, abling Denzel to brisk while his peers ran. Even when everyone around him picks up in pace, he refuses to rush. His slowed rapping style he displayed left room for his lyrics to fill up the space instead of the energy his past personas would rely on. “Run the jewels ’cause I kill a mic on any LP,” is fucking crazy, and Curry delivered like he knew it was. 

Like the video for his standout track ‘Walkin’ or the dizzying camera movements in ‘Zatoichi,’ mobility and admission are constant themes of the album. “I’m the nigga walkin’ through the mist/Still reportin’ live from the depths of the abyss,” Denzel raps on ‘Sanjuro.’ He pushes forward while advising those around him of the horrors he’s seen along the way. “An epic battle where evil and the will to evolve is what I’m involved in/Hey God, is Earth gon’ keep revolvin’?” He vents in ‘Worst Comes To Worst’ on the current state of affairs worldwide. The slick inner rhyme scheme and inflection of the vowels make it flow seamlessly. Fluid in delivery and mind, he refuses to be stagnant. 

However, the mass of drums and the texture wear on you throughout the journey as the album progresses. Neo-soul and jazz-inspired production laced with background vocals make for a pleasing listen. The intro track ‘Melt Sessions #1″ is delicate, with pitched-up vocals cooing behind creamy chords and drums that pelt the soundscape like a leaf scathing the concrete. The album’s standout track ‘X-Wing’ is lush. Ghost notes from the high hats are tucked behind a riveting violin sample and spine chilling bells. It’s a departure from where the album started and highlights one of its metaphors: acceptance. The travel is taking its toll, weighing on him more the longer he goes, yet he’s more confident than ever. The baggage he carries with him is stout, eternal, and wintry, but the journey would have been incomplete with it. 

Yet there are instances where Denzel stumbles to provide a precise picture of his pain. Despite his intentions, we don’t get enough of what ails him at specific points. ‘John Wayne’ is a royal rumble for your attention mixing-wise. The sound effects take your attention away from the exciting music behind it. The ditzy T-Pain collab ‘Trouble’ is fun despite its vagueness. As soon as Denzel builds upon his flow and energy, it’s the chorus. All you come out with is how Denzel is back home with his mom, mismanaging his finances (he’s just like me for real), and driving around in his mother’s car.

Storytelling is limited throughout the album, settling for more of a conversational tone around his day-to-day observations. While far from an album killer, expanding on ideas and attacking them from different angles would have helped. Like in ‘Worst Of The Worst’ the first verse lays out questions, and the second provides answers he ends up regretting asking for. More creativity in packaging his feelings like this would help.

But the album is at its best when he takes time to set his emotions, vices, success, and failures before him as he continues to move forward. From the production to the lyrics to its themes, its openness is breadth and refreshing. He is comfortable enough to cry and blur his vision, turning his tears into mirrors as self-reflects upon the distance traveled. It’s an emotional transaction- a physiological response to a psychological ideology- the past doesn’t have to disrupt the now or the future. It’s not perfect, but it’s honest.

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