We do this far too often, we the critics and conversationalists that exalt and damn rappers in feverish fits of nullifying numbness. Yachty, to his credit, politely thanked Pitchfork via Twitter for his public panning. After a period of handshakes and highfives, supplicants took umbrage to the subsequent dismissals and gnashing teeth of the record’s furious detractors.
And that really seems to piss some people off, enough that the initial critical consensus of rap music journalism’s inner circle shattered within days of Lil Boat’s arrival on our cynical shores. His spunky, colourful persona takes Atlanta’s outliers further to the left of Young Thug, squawking one minute and mumbling the next. To call Yachty’s music merely polarizing would be an insult to magnetism. Fun-seekers take selfish delight in Yachty’s Autotune biases and Finding Nemo soundboards, while stodgy rap conservatives don their apocalyptic sandwich boards and bang their ominous gongs to proclaim the genre dead for the umpteenth time.
The social media dividing lines already drawn, his listeners and non-listeners respectively register their pleasure and displeasure based on trivialities. You’ll know pretty quickly if you fuck with Lil Yachty or not.
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