Hip-hop is in a complicated place right now. It’s not the dominant force it once was, but it remains the engine of popular music, with flashier, more global genres borrowing its strategies, sounds, and swagger.Since COVID, the landscape has splintered—whether in fan engagement, media coverage, or the music itself. Still, rap holds a central place in our lives and in the zeitgeist. This isn’t a crisis, but it does feel like another turning point.
Back in 2012, Complex published a list of “Things Rap Fans Think But Won’t Say.” That piece mixed banal opinions (“If you don’t make a music video for your song, it doesn’t exist.”) with hot takes (“Rap’s popularity has declined significantly in mainstream America.”) and outdated ones (“One of your favorite rappers is probably secretly gay”). The story also arrived at an inflection point: legends like Jay-Z, Nas, and Kanye West were entering new phases of their careers, while a wave of blog-era artists—Drake, Kendrick Lamar, and J. Cole—was rising to commercial dominance. At the same time, the rise of the modern Atlanta trap scene, dismissed in certain circles, was building the blueprint for contemporary rap.There was a splinter then, and there’s a splinter now.
So we’re doing it again—this time with a slight twist. But with the same goal of surveying today’s fractured hip-hop landscape and surfacing the truths fans only admit behind closed doors. Here are 20 things rap fans think but won’t say.
Who has motion? What is motion? Where is the motion?
We think we have the answers, but honestly these are nearly impossible to pin down in an era where astroturfing is the norm.
The music industry runs on favors, shadow accounts, anonymous fan pages, paid posts, coordinated campaigns, and overseas bots, all of which create the illusion that something is buzzing more than it really is.
Artists know this—they hint at it in cryptic posts, quotable bars, and interviews. Some even file lawsuits. The average fan suspects some manipulation, which is why you get a rush of “industry plant” chatter whenever someone seems to break through quickly.
The metrics everyone debates—YouTube views, monthly Spotify listeners, first-week Billboard sales—are at least partly built on an algorithmically inflated house of cards. What fans often miss is that the biggest artists—the ones with real success and institutional support—benefit the most. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
Back in 2022, Saweetie released an EP, The Single Life, which moved only 2,000 copies in its first week.
One of the first notable commentators was DJ Vlad who posted on X that she could have “easily done 10x her first-week sales” if she had done a VladTV interview—suggesting that a sit-down in front of that infamous drum set was worth roughly 30 million streams.
This is obviously bullshit. Not only would a VladTV appearance not realistically boost sales, but very little rap media—whether its magazines, radio, podcasts, streamers or YouTube channels—translates directly into measurable chart success. This includes the publication you’re reading right now.
Online momentum and real-life experiential moments remain the real drivers of sales.
Appearing on the “right” rap outlet can help visibility and provide cultural relevance, sure. But the car already has to be in motion and the only way to get motion is with the right song. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
When people talk about rap’s divides, the focus is usually on age: young fans who don’t know shit versus the uncs. That split exists, sure, but the more important divide is class based.
The rap that gets the most commercial support either flatters the tastes of upwardly mobile millennials and older Gen Z listeners or comes in the form of angst-driven, rage-adjacent music for economically well off white Zoomers looking to vent.
Meanwhile, a whole world of regional YouTube street rap thrives without structural support. Part of that is the subject matter—bleak and anti-aspirational—but it’s also because the audience is mostly poorer Black kids living outside coastal cities, with far less economic power.
This divide is probably most visible with YoungBoy Never Broke Again, one of the most popular rappers of the past decade who—for various reasons—has gained little from broader commercial support or sponsorships. He’s doing his first national tour and it’s clear how much, and who, his music resonates with. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
The rise of hip-hop’s commercial dominance also brought an alternative kind of “hood media,” which didn’t focus on the music itself but on the lifestyle surrounding it—including the streets, the side of the culture that made traditional media squeamish.
In the late ’90s, magazines like Feds and Don Diva filled that role. By the 2000s, DVDs like Cocaine City, Come Up DVD, and 2RawForTheStreets took over. These outlets were mostly Black-owned, mom-and-pop operations that provided an insider’s view and relied on local shops for distribution.
Today, the space is dominated by YouTube channels—often not Black-owned and aimed at a global audience—acting as tour guides for couch viewers with little genuine interest in cultural nuance. I’m talking about the Traplore Rosses, Swamp Stories, and Brandon Buckinghams of the world. These channels are cutthroat and brutally capitalistic, driven by the appetite for media not built on truth or cultural insight but on rumors, gossip, and street shit mainstream outlets won’t touch.
The audience is broad: some want to experience “inner city living” from a safe distance, while others actually know the subject matter and find the juxtaposition of nerdy white guys narrating hood stories oddly tantalizing. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
To hear some tell it, Vlad, AK, and Adam22 are the holy trinity of gutter media. Rap fans know the criticism, and much of it checks: these three built careers trafficking off the seedier corners of rap. But their influence is undeniable, partly because they’ve delivered value in the past.
Vlad casts one of the widest “rap nets” in media, a channel where you can see Busy Bee talking about the dawn of hip-hop next to a video of BloodHound Q50 talking about being shot.
Before pivoting to porn and gonzo bullshit, Adam22 introduced more emerging rap stars than almost any modern media entity. Last year, basically all the new LA rappers Kendrick Lamar put on GNX actually appeared on No Jumper first.
Akademiks, while not a traditional reporter, has often been a semi-reliable hub for insider information, especially on Drake and Playboi Carti.
The question—and it’s valid—is whether the juice is worth the squeeze. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
Depending on how old you were when it dropped, the 2016 XXL Freshman Class was either a neonic rainbow of impending doom or an extremely online emblem of rap glory to come. After years of genre-defining hits and accompanying tragedy, it feels safest—and most accurate—to just call it the Good Ol’ Days™.
While the old heads of the time frowned upon what they saw as new generation of mush-mouthed, irreverent mumbling, 21 Savage and Lil Uzi Vert, Playboi Carti and Migos all pulled up to deliver a perfectly complementary mix of stylish, blunt force trap music and extraterrestrial melodies that were as inventive as they were electric.
This is when we learned why 21 Savage had a 12-car garage. This is when Playboi Carti was Milly Rocking. This is when Migos went from nothing to something. When you think 2016-2018, you’re thinking SoundCloud rap. You’re thinking about actual versatility in a time before “genre-fluid” styles melted into a lazy algorithmic status quo.
You’re thinking about how it was cool that Drake and Future were…cool. How it seemed impossible for Kendrick to top DAMN. How vets like Jay-Z, Lil Wayne, and Kanye still had something left in the tank.
But also, there was Juice Wrld, Lil Peep and XXXTentacion, all of whom would be dead by 2020. When people complain about a lack of rap superstars today, you can tell them to look at those deaths yesterday and remember why those days that used to be polarizing are now the hardest to say goodbye to. —Peter A. Berry
No one has a chokehold on the game like Playboi Carti, who stands as the most dominant figure in hip-hop for fans under 25.
His label, Opium, doesn’t just house rising stars like Ken Carson and Destroy Lonely—it’s set the template for an entire subgenre of rap: raw, pent-up, chaotic energy.
Kids love this music. They dress like Carti, talk like him, and for those who still rap, they sound like him. When it’s all said and done, Whole Lotta Red will be remembered for rewiring Gen Z the same way Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) rewired Gen X. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
In a world of free-associative melodic rap and cookie-cutter drill, a lot of this shit could’ve been written by AI. The fact that production legends and actual record labels are investing in AI is basically an admission of one thing: a lotta these rappers suck.
So much so, a robot could do the same thing. Throw a quirky sample over Jersey club or drill percussion, say “free your cousin ’cause he’s a demon,” rhyme oppa with poppa, rap in a voice you might regret for life—you might have a deal before you even hit record.
Rap off-kilter and dry, drop a half-clever punchline, and I know a dozen publicists who’ll swear you’re next up. And don’t get me started on how many would-be Juice Wrlds, Rico Nastys, and Megan Thee Stallions are out there.
You’re not imagining things, and I’m not actually old: a lot of this shit sounds the same. Some of it sounds good, but good isn’t the same as distinct. And distinct is what makes rap great. — Peter A. Berry
In many ways, punching in—the act of recording one line, stopping, and then adding the next—has altered the role of the traditional lyricist. In the past, avoiding punch-ins was a point of pride, which meant lines usually maintained continuity and narrative flow.
Rappers were encouraged to write full verses before entering the booth.
Today, many record one line at a time, often just going off the dome, producing a more fragmented, less structured style that has changed the nature of rap lyricism.
This shift is part of why some technical aspects of rap—coherent storytelling, internal rhyme schemes, and advanced multi-syllabic vocabulary—have taken a backseat, while greater emphasis is now placed on cadence and varied flows. The era you were born in often shapes your appetite for how the final product turns out. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
The lines between the streets and rap music have always been blurry. In the ‘90s and 2000s, the streets provided protection, and local drug dealers often fronted the seed money for neighborhood rappers who showed promise.
Now things are different. While it could be argued that street credibility doesn’t matter as much today, music is often used to settle street disputes—or, in worse scenarios, to mock the victims of gun violence.
This dynamic feels darker. (We’re a long way from “I’ve seen you smoke weed recently” could be seen as a viable diss.)
Social media and the speed at which rappers can gain fame have made parts of street rap ugly, with real kids—or even rivals—being targeted in popular songs. There are plenty of examples over the years, from 41’s “Notti Bop” to Yungeen Ace and Spinabenz’ “Who I Smoke” to EBK Jaaybo’s “F*ck Everybody (Free Maxx).”
What makes this worse is that the strategy often works.
The controversy and outlandish ways they are presented encourage even more songs, creating a loop where the stakes keep intensifying and the bodies keep piling up. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
Remember when rap was a young man’s game? Yeah, that was fun. But now, we’re in an age where people complain about a dearth of new superstars because many of them live in the shadow of the old ones, and then underground old head rappers are actually often selling more than the new mainstream ones.
There was a time when people debated about who would step up to fill in the Big 3 after Kendrick Lamar, Drake, and J. Cole, but, due to unforeseen tragedies and the general difficulty of being a truly generational artist, that’s never happened and they mostly remain where they are atop the rap game.
Labels are now pouring resources into chasing viral hits, not artists built to last. With country stars like Morgan Wallen dominating the charts and pop acts leveling up once again, the Zoomer generation has a steep climb ahead—if they don’t trade the mic for a streaming setup first.
At this point, rapping feels like a game for old folks. And…well, it makes sense. Hip-hop just hit the mid-century mark, and the artists making modern rap are now in their late 30s. To be frank, there are simply more older fans of hip-hop than younger ones. —Peter A. Berry
In 2020, it felt like women rappers were poised to dominate the next era of mainstream hip-hop. The talent was undeniable—female rappers were often rapping better than their male counterparts—but the real promise was in the variety that seemed ready to break through.
In 2019 alone, you had lyricists like Megan Thee Stallion and Mulatto (now Latto), experimentalists like Tierra Whack, hitmakers like Doja Cat, gender-benders like Rico Nasty, and firebrands like Cupcakke—not only making their mark, but seemingly on the cusp of a new level of commercial success.
Six years later, that takeover has yet to fully materialize. At the mainstream level, the once-vast diversity of voices has thinned. Partly, that’s because many of these artists are finding more lucrative opportunities outside rap, as seen in the career moves of Saweetie or even Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion.
Partly, it’s the soul-sucking reality of working in a genre where the majority of the fanbase is young men, often quick to dismiss female rappers. Rico Nasty’s experience touring with Playboi Carti, or the broader backlash against Doechii, highlights this reality.
Of course, women are still dominating in their own ways—Doja Cat and Cardi B are both about to drop—but the idea of a fully multi-faceted scene, with voices from all corners, seems deferred for now. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
However, female rappers deserve credit for maintaining one of rap’s greatest traditions: Club bangers. Hip-hop is a communal experience, and many of today’s most popular male rappers seem more focused on bonding with their bros, creating mosh rap soup for their fellow gents.
By contrast, the top female rappers are thinking about all communities as they craft potential “song of the summer” anthems—basically making music that doesn’t scare the hoes away.
Even more interesting is that they’re doing it in ways that are both modern and rooted in their regional traditions: GloRilla leans into Memphis rap, Sexyy Red channels the Gucci Mane, and Megan Thee Stallion plays with Houston country sounds. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
The modern underground—basically the SoundCloud 2.0 wave, heavily influenced by the rage beats and auto-crooning of Whole Lotta Red–era Playboi Carti—is hitting a creative dry spell.
The term “inspiration” has lost its meaning in Underground Rap, as artists use it to justify blatantly copying a Young Thug album cover or Carti’s prime baby voice to appeal to this generation’s obsession with nostalgia. Inspiration used to come from deep references decades old—for example, Carti adopting Lil Wayne’s Bape swag for the MUSIC rollout—but now some rappers try to recreate things that happened just a few years ago.
Take Pradabagshawty, who pays “homage”” to Lil Uzi by wrapping himself in a blanket inside a Balenciaga store—something Uzi did in 2022.
The lack of originality continues to plague the Underground, with talents like Osamason directly copying Future and Carti’s album covers (though he seems to have found his own voice now).
Many rappers sound like the same copy-and-paste formula: crisp autotune, bass-heavy beats with warbly synth patterns, and the same bars repeated over and over. That said, plenty of artists avoid this mold—Xaverisobased with unique beat choices, thirteendegrees ° with tasteful nostalgia, and Skaiwater with experimental songs.
But roughly an equal number stick to the formula, continuing to water down the uniqueness of the current Underground Rap scene. —Antonio Johri
There’s a video I often think about: it shows a producer named Dunk Rock standing outside a studio with a sign that reads, “I produced a Gunna song.” When Gunna meets him, he has no idea who Dunk Rock is, even though he produced “Cooler Than a Bitch” and would later work on the smash “Fukumean.”
One of the biggest shifts in rap music is how producers are treated. It has always been a thankless job—young producers often spend years ghost-producing and getting ripped off before landing a break.
Even then, they had to navigate dwindling splits, sample clearance headaches, and the fact that most listeners rarely recognize their work.
Today, things are even tougher. A decade ago, there was a clear path for producers to build a career and gain recognition. That path has largely vanished.
Most producers now are slinging loops and earning just a fraction of a track’s revenue, often as one of twenty contributors. Star producers are rare, and opportunities for financial freedom are scarce. Real recognition now usually comes only through association with a rapper—or by becoming an artist themselves. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
We’re in an era where rappers seem to have forgotten there’s supposed to be some sorta boom in the bap. Instead, much of today’s “traditional,” lyrically driven underground rap leans on the drumless style that the great Roc Marcano and Ka helped popularize, but it’s been dragged out for far too long.
Some of it works, sure, but a lot feels sleepy and redundant. We all know the names now: the Griselda guys, Earl, Mike, Al and others—great rappers and producers who helped shape the sometimes lush, sometimes hazy boom bap underground.
But the sound has gone too far, and it’s time for new wrinkles. Like Roc Marci said on “Gold Crossbow,” “Shit isn’t new, we need a reboot/They took what we do and repeat the loop/It’s gettin’ easier to sleep through/I’m just speakin’ truth.” —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
It’s great that rappers are having longer careers. But at some point, older rappers have to make a choice: if they want to stick with the classic sound, that’s fine—but they should work with the architects of that style, not cheap knockoffs.
Some have done this smartly. Last year, Common worked with Pete Rock on one of the better late-career albums. Nas is locking in with DJ Premier, LL Cool J released a strong project with Q-Tip, and the new Mobb Deep album is fully produced by Alchemist and Havoc.
But too often, older rappers take the cheaper route, leaning on up-and-coming producers. That isn’t inherently bad, but the result can feel like a lesser version of the old stuff. If they’re going to collaborate with newer artists, they might as well take real swings instead of playing it safe. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
Back in 2010, there was a now-infamous moment on 106 & Park when Waka Flocka was asked about voting. He said, “voting cool,” then stammered for a couple of seconds before adding, “We got to run that back.” The clip went viral back when “viral” itself was still in its teething era, and he was mocked relentlessly for it.
Fast-forward to today, and Waka is a full-blown Trump supporter, which explains a lot.
It’s been almost a decade since Barack Obama left office, a time when rappers were more openly political.
Now we’re in a largely apolitical era of hip-hop. Some mainstream artists still wade into politics—Cardi B leans liberal, Kodak Black supports Trump—but if you scan the grapevines, inauguration performances, off-the-cuff IG posts, and stray lines in songs, a pattern emerges.
Rappers—essentially high-earning 1099 workers with contradictory cultural values, an adversarial stance toward taxes, and a fixation on big business and empire-building—tend to skew more right-wing today. They’re just kinda being low-key with it. This, of course, is quite a shift from the past; even at its most commercial, rap tended to lean more democratic. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo
Since Def Jam’s early glory days, rappers were often closely tied to labels, usually led by a singular figure: Run-D.M.C. with Def Jam, Dr. Dre with Death Row, The Notorious B.I.G. with Bad Boy, Lil Wayne with Cash Money, Migos with Quality Control, Travis Scott with Cactus Jack.
Today, however, the concept of a label as a hub for a group of talented rappers seems to be fading. Strength in numbers is outdated, with artists no longer needing the same resources to build momentum.
And…they have a point? TDE, arguably the best rap label of the past decade, shows the limits of the old school model. Over the years, almost every member of the label besides Kendrick Lamar has voiced complaints about resources, missed deadlines, and other frustrations.
Right now, Opium—Carti, Ken, and Lone—stands as one of the last hopes for the “great rap label,” though it remains to be seen if they can carry the torch to the next level. —Dimas Sanfiorenzo