Longtime friends Hosie Thurmand and Adam Kado are the owners of Slice Pizza, Minneapolis’ first Black-owned pizzeria. 

They’re proud to be Black-owned, but don’t want the label to define them. More than anything, they want their quality to be their calling card.

Watch the videos below to learn about how Slice Pizza was founded, what inspires the owners, and what everyone is listening to while making some of the best pizza in the Twin Cities.

Learn more about Slice Pizza on their website.

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Liam Armstrong

Minneapolis’ first Black-owned pizzeria shares their philosophy and favorite tracks to play in the kitchen with Carbon Sound.


Get to know Slice Pizza

Sometimes, it really is all about that bass.

 found that people danced 12% more when very low frequency bass was played.

The study was done by scientists at the LIVElab at McMaster University in Ontario, Canada, who wanted to see what musical ingredients make us want to dance.

"We look at things like what kinds of rhythms most pull people into that steady beat that we groove along with, and what kinds of interesting, syncopated, complex rhythms make us really drawn in and want to move more," said Daniel Cameron, a neuroscientist and the lead author of the study.

Now, the lab for this experiment wasn't the classic fluorescent lights, white coats and goggles setup. Instead, the LIVElab space was converted into an electronic dance music concert, and EDM duo Orphx performed live for volunteers adorned with headbands that had a motion capture sensor.

The lab was equipped with special special speakers that can play a very low frequency bass, undetectable to the human ear. The set lasted about an hour, and researchers introduced that very low bass every 2.5 minutes, and found that the concertgoers moved more when the speakers were on – even though they couldn't hear it.

Cameron said our vestibular system can help explain why.

"It's the inner-ear structures that give us a sense of where our head is in space," he said. "That system is sensitive to low-frequency stimulation, especially if it's loud."

"We also know that our tactile system, that's our sense of touch ... is also sensitive to low-frequency stimulation, low-frequency sound."

So that feeling you get at a concert when you're next to a speaker and you can feel it shaking in your chest is the tactile stimulation of sound when it's loud.

"And that's feeding into our motor system in the brain, the movement control system in our brain," Cameron said. "So it's adding a little bit of gain. It's giving a little more energy ... from that stimulation through those systems."

Some people hear music and can't help but sway or bop along, whether there are low, silent bass frequencies or not. So why do humans dance? Cameron says it's hard to test this, but there has been some work on why we may have evolved this way.

"We know that moving together in synchrony when we're making music together and dancing together leads to social bonding. We feel better about the people we're with. We feel more connected with them," he said. "So you can imagine this has potential advantages for groups throughout the long history of our species."

We also see the use of music and movement for things like regulating emotions, Cameron said, especially when it comes to taking care of babies.

"We try to soothe them. We sing to them, and we rock them along. So this idea of moving and singing and modulating arousal is also a functional thing to do," he said.


Evolution aside, Cameron finds value in knowing his study has  uncovered just one of the ingredients for what makes us want to dance a little bit more.


Mia Venkat

Christopher Intagliata

A recent study in the journal Current Biology found that people danced 12% more when very low frequency bass was played.


Listen to the Story

Crowd dances in colorful smoke-filled room

Flashpop/Getty Images

LIVELab

What makes us dance? It really is all about that bass

As frequently as music fans tend to point to the early 2000s as the dawn of our digital enlightenment, consider the ways those first few years online now feel like the dark ages. Bound by terrestrial radio formats, genres still mostly dared not mix on air — and when they did, a song that perfectly blended hip-hop and R&B might face waves of resistance outside of "rhythmic" radio, while clumsy rap-rock sailed through to pop dominance. Entertainment companies launched

 against individuals who downloaded music — including, memorably, 

 — and spent the next decade-plus trying to catch up to the internet's potential. Independent labels flourished where they could, but lacked the infrastructure to support musicians at even a fraction of the level of the majors, which meant curious listeners were left to scour record stores and mail-order catalogs, and sometimes you wound up hating that album you'd purchased on faith from your favorite indie. Hip-hop had completed its ascent to the most influential youth culture around the globe, and yet Black artists were paradoxically expected by the industry to perform within strict expectations of floss and gloss.

It arguably took until the mid- and late 2000s, the golden age of music blogging, before the cracks in the dam could be seen with the naked eye. MP3 blogs complemented what curious listeners were already gleaning from Limewire's mishmash of poorly labeled contraband; by their powers combined, all sorts of music that had once required tiresome detective work to discover began landing on our eMac screens, as if by magic. The specter of poptimism was on the horizon, a critically important moment that challenged the entrenched belief — most often proffered by the straight white men who then dominated music writing — that records created by multiple songwriters and producers were illegitimate next to the holy solo genius suffering monastically on the mount. (The worst side effect of that shift, a defanged skepticism of the corporate stewardship behind major-label artists, has unfortunately survived.) It was a weird time, full of persistent assumptions about race and gender and capital, and yet inching every day toward the dissolution of genre as we knew it.

In 2007, Santi White had just moved from her hometown of Philadelphia to New York City, then deep in the blogosphere-and-grimy-club era currently being retroactively christened as "indie sleaze," and had already witnessed years of music industry churn from the inside. After beginning her career as a major-label A&R, she'd written and produced the slept-on 2001 album 

 for Philly singer Res, then grabbed the mic herself as the vocalist for the post-punk band Stiffed, whose small catalog was produced by Bad Brains bassist Darryl Jennifer. But when she finally emerged as 

," the creative identity she'd arrived at couldn't have felt better aligned with the cultural shift in progress.

Santigold's 2008 eponymous album showcased just what she could do with the chops and acerbic intellect she'd honed on her long road to a solo debut. Versatile and deeply original, it landed her in critical conversation alongside musicians like TV on the Radio, M.I.A. and MGMT — artists whose disparate influences tilted their poppy songs askew, and whose tenure in Brooklyn embodied and informed the specific pulse of NYC at the time. Her live performances, flanked by two militant-looking women doing rigid, unconventional choreography in matching sunglasses, felt like a critique of the industry's tendency to crowd Black women into a mold of athletic femininity, perfected down to the backup dancer.

Moreover, she represented the type of iconoclast that pop radio was just beginning to show interest in. That same year, New York's Hot 97 began heavily rotating her longtime collaborator Ricky Blaze, who had accurately labeled his hi-NRG single "

" as "trancehall." Soon after, Kanye West flipped a sample of Santigold's own dub-reggae song "Shove It" into the Jay-Z juggernaut "

." It may seem unremarkable now, but back then any instance of established, mainstream artists reaching into the underground for inspiration seemed earth-shaking. It would still be another year, after all, before the blogs 

 at the sight of Beyoncé attending a Grizzly Bear concert.

, Santigold's position as a cultural bellwether has receded. 

 of that album pondered whether listeners, after a few years of accelerating exposure to an ever-wider range of sounds, had "simply caught up" with White. But importantly, the artist has also shown a consistent disinterest in squeezing her output into trends, particularly as the boundaries of the social algorithm have constrained record label appetites once again. She's always shown a commitment to making her ideas whole, and despite having been involved with Atlantic Records in one way or another since her debut, she's mostly been able to sidestep the demands of a fickle and often taste-poor industry. When she's had a rare misstep — her 2016 album 

, a conscious send-up of that side of the business, didn't quite match the musicianship of her other work — she's returned in fighting form, manifesting the pretty brilliant 2018 dancehall mixtape 

, as though she were relieved to get back to doing what she wanted.

, Santigold's fourth album and first in six years, arrived this September, the now 46-year-old artist was juggling a few new jobs: most notably as her own label executive, on her imprint Little Jerk Records, and as a 

, that most contemporary of side-hustles. (Her thoughtful show, 

, features conversations with fellow artists about craft, including a 

 with Questlove, Tunde Adibimpe and Angela Yee about what constitutes "Black music" and who gets to decide.) White's growing slate of extracurriculars, which also includes skincare products and a tea company, nods to a sobering truth of the moment: that more musicians are seeing music corporations as extractive and moving away from them, and that, in the streaming era, most can't support themselves on music and touring alone. Indeed,

 Shamira Ibrahim at Okayplayer, "I f****** hate the music industry. I think it's the worst business in the world, and I don't want to be in it anymore. I'm not saying that I will stop making music because I love making music and I'll always make music. But this career is wack, honestly."

represents a high point for White's musicality, the clearest articulation of her vision in years. Joining and transcending the annals of albums written in pandemic lockdown (in her case, while parenting three young children), it shoulders big ideas of isolation, alienation and determination, both as they relate to her own process and to more global struggles for justice. The title, according to a press release, is a nod to Negro spirituals, "songs that served the purpose of getting Black people through the un-get-throughable ... music whose sound and physical performance allow its participants to feel transcendental freedom in the moment." It's a compact, considered suite of songs that juxtapose her characteristic resoluteness with the sorrow and uncertainty of disconnection, expressed through minimal and direct means that pare her sound to its bare heart.

," an incongruously honeyed dancehall lullaby in which White lilts about having "a hole in my head," perhaps an artistic block in the face of the days bleeding into one another, and transitions into the yearning synth track "

," a narration of the internal critic and external forces that conspire to pick the self apart. "All day I fight what I can't see, my nothing," she falsettos, over a beat that sounds like a ticking clock. "On the inside I got to beat my nothing ... Won't you say I mean something?" This early head-on confrontation with depression sets a resonant tone for the rest of the album, like White is giving us permission to get vulnerable alongside her.

As quickly as she's let us in, she reminds us of the pioneer she's been and continues to be on the sproingy, exuberant "

," a quintessential Santigold bad-bitch number that showcases her side-angled approach to songwriting, aimed at the anthemic but swerving around easy melodies. She raps melodically about her artistic largesse before breaking into a sly, shady chorus: "Hey pretty / Aw, you really want my thunder / I guard the gates here / Guard the secrets while you wonder." It's the kind of song you blast in the mirror before going out to face your demons, and maybe that's what she's doing here. In the acknowledgment that she's still as artistically abundant as ever, she locates a kind of power more durable than youth-culture cachet, that has allowed her to reach a new apex of self-assuredness.

With her own position secure, she can bring us along as the setting grows darker, drawing on strength in numbers. The piano-tethered dirge "

 encapsulates the devastation of watching videos of cops killing unarmed Black people and reframes it as a necessary warning of protest, turning sorrow into strength ("Officer / I'm taking the fall / You woke him up fool / Beast is coming for y'all"). "

," too, is a call to action, on which she chants "There's power in our struggle" over a skulking beat courtesy of Afrobeats scion PJ2, as well as her prior collaborators Dre Skull and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Nick Zinner. On the immense bass track "

," which tags in long-missed U.K. producer SBTRKT, she sounds confident and resolute in her work, as though she's reached a moment of unforeseen clarity. Her posture calls to mind the mold of David Byrne (another past collaborator), the kind of artist who sticks to their vision despite whatever's de rigeur, and in the process has founded their own dominion. It's an approach that engenders longevity, if not lucre, and shows how she's been able to stay culturally important, urgent even.

On Sept. 26, a little over two weeks after 

' release, White announced she was canceling a planned North American tour for the album, set to begin in early October and wrap just before Thanksgiving. 

 to fans, she expressed heartbreak and disappointment, but was unequivocal that she felt the hurdles in front of her — spiking inflation, a market flooded by touring musicians trying to make up for lost time, the logistics of booking venues and hotels while mitigating COVID exposure and the risk of cancellations due to illness — amounted to doomed odds for the moment. "I have tried and tried, looked at what it would take from every angle, and I simply don't have it," she wrote.

Near the end of the note, she emphasized that the choice was a matter of prioritizing her physical and mental health, and reminded herself aloud that 

 is an album about honoring one's own boundaries. "It feels like I've been hanging on, trying to make it to the ever-distant finish line, but my vehicle's been falling apart the whole time ... I will not continue to sacrifice myself for an industry that has become unsustainable for, and uninterested in the welfare of the artists it is built upon." In the arts, longevity tends to be equated with consistency, the business rewarding those who never stop grinding, never leave our feeds for more than a moment. But an undervalued part of survival is knowing when to fall back — when to sacrifice short-term gains to keep from being eaten alive.

In 2022, the machinery of the American mainstream has found it can no longer ignore fans' interest in the musicians and genres and cultures and countries it previously marginalized, from Bad Bunny to Burna Boy. In that context, Santigold — whose entire career has been defined by a singular ability to coax her influences into cohesion — sounds sharper than ever in her current form, her art distilled to its purest intent. 

is a document of a focused musician growing into her next phase, defying the notion that artists are diminished or become less political as they grow older, meeting the moment like a leader while also reminding the world that she has 

," which echoes like dancehall for the spirit world, she intones cheekily, "I've already gone there / Now let the crowd say amen." Her point is made: No one makes music like her, and we'd do well not to forget it.

Julianne Escobedo Shepherd is a journalist and critic at work on her first book, about growing up in Wyoming and the myth of the American West.

Julianne Escobedo Shepherd

On the startlingly direct Spirituals, and in headline-grabbing rebukes of music's trickle-down economy, Santi White is what she's always been: a forward-thinking alternative to pop's here and now.


Woman with light eyes glares into distance

Frank Ockenfels/Courtesy of the artist

Santigold - L.E.S Artistes (Official Music Video)

Santigold - High Priestess (Official Video)

Santigold - Ain't Ready (Official Video)

There's still no one like Santigold

Beyoncé is the top artist nominated in the 65th annual Grammy Awards, set for Feb. 5 at the Crypto.com center in Los Angeles. The full list of nominees is on 

She is now tied with her husband Jay-Z for the most Grammy nominations by any musician. If she wins three more awards, she will match 

Beyoncé's nine nominations were scattered across several different categories. One is for "Be Alive," from the film 

, in the Best Song Written For Visual Media category, and the rest are for tracks from 

, which is up for album of the year. "Break My Soul" is a nominee for Song of the Year, Record of the Year and Best Dance/ Electronic Recording; "Virgo's Groove" is up for Best R&B Performance; and "Plastic Off the Sofa" is up for Best Traditional R&B Performance.

, Mary J. Blige, Future, DJ Khaled and the producer and songwriter The-Dream, each with six Grammy nominations.

The Best New Artist category has entries from a mix of genres: 22-year-old 

, who formerly went by the name Priscilla Renae.


The 2023 Grammys will feature several new awards categories, including Best Spoken Word Poetry Album and Best Score Soundtrack for Video Games.


Mandalit del Barco

This year's nominations are in and there are few surprises.


Mason Poole/A.M.P.A.S.

Beyoncé leads nominations for the 2023 Grammy Awards

Each week, we add new music, older tracks, which are known as “Gold adds”, and tracks that might not fit our general format, but still deserve a place in rotation because they serve our mission of showing the depth, breadth, and influence of Black musical expression - These are known as “Variety adds.”

We’re sharing this to get you excited to listen and to open up the floor for feedback and suggestions. If you want to request a song, 

. If you make music and want it considered for rotation, 

 If you want to give feedback directly, reach out to me at jgreen@mpr.org.

It’s Cuffing Season this week on The Message. Tune in to hear some of Sanni’s favorite love songs and more live on The Message from 10 AM to 1 PM Monday through Thursday!

Keep all these tracks in one place with the 

 Spotify playlist. This playlist is updated weekly with all the new adds. When that playlist is cycled with new tracks, the tracks live forever on the 

 playlist. That playlist contains all of the music that we've added since the week of July 11 in chronological order of when it was added. All of the tracks available on Spotify, at least.

Julian Green built and manages the music library for Carbon Sound and oversees content creation.  


Julian Green

All of the tracks added to rotation on Carbon Sound the week of November 14, 2022.


Natalia Toledo

New on Carbon Sound

Old on Carbon Sound

New Music on Carbon Sound - Week of November 14, 2022

Omar Apollo made his case as a voice of pop’s future at Palace Theatre Tuesday with a set showing off his latest album.

The 25-year-old alternative R&B singer-songwriter from Hobart, Ind., has enjoyed the kind of year amateur musicians across the Midwest can only dream of. After years of uploading music onto the internet, his long-awaited debut studio LP, 

, has hit big. The album earned a No. 1 spot on the 

, and a headlining spot in the 2,500-capacity Palace Theatre.

Opener Ravyn Lenae, an up-and-coming alt-R&B star from Chicago, also had a marquee year. Featuring collaborations with KAYTRANADA and Steve Lacy, her debut studio LP, 

, caught the music world’s attention. It earned a 

 accolade from Pitchfork, and she has snagged deserved cosigns from breakout stars SZA and Noname. 

Sure enough, Lenae’s performance almost threatened to upstage Apollo. Prancing onto the stage in knee-high black boots and a bright-pink dress, Lenae’s outfit laid down a vibrant tone for the night. Her three-piece backup band -- consisting of an electric guitarist, a drummer, and a keyboardist – at times exceeded the sound found on 

Much like her clearest inspiration, Aaliyah, Lenae’s vocals went toe-to-toe with the ambitious instrumentals that band put forth, usually with a high success rate. Exemplary restraint, quirky high notes and well-placed giggles helped the singer work her way through the kind of outstanding opening performance that audiences rarely receive.

The live band and oddball vocals warrant comparisons to another R&B great, Erykah Badu. Much like Badu, Lenae’s lyrics flex a poise beyond her years and her onstage presence expressed an enviably leveled graciousness.

“St Paul, you’ve been beautiful tonight. You’ve been open, you’ve been warm,” Lenae thanked the crowd at one point.

 such an achievement, Lenae closed out with “Sticky,” the 2018 single that made her name. After skipping offstage, her band stayed on for a minute for an uproarious finale, full of head-banging.

After a break filled with Nicki Minaj on the speakers, smoke machines in full effect, and security guards distributing water bottles, Apollo arrived onstage.

With one drummer in shades, two guitarists, and gigantic LED lighting panels that often displayed his live image, Apollo sang, strutted, and smirked across the stage like he owned it. Well, in those moments, he totally did.

Apollo danced with heaping amounts of boyish charm, reminiscent of a 

. At times he grabbed his belt and moved his hips to the beat, his tongue ever so slightly out, infusing the smooth ’90s R&B-inspired moves with a Latin influence.

In multiple interviews, Apollo has referenced Prince as an influence and so, inevitably, he addressed that elephant in the room.

“We’re in Minneapolis,” Apollo stated, before correcting himself, “No we’re in St. Paul, which is close to Minneapolis.”

“Prince is from here,” he said with a smile, in an effort to prove he actually did know a thing or two about his audience’s home that night.

At other times, Apollo leaned away from the funk influences and into traditional Mexican rock.

“Is there a lot of Mexicans in St. Paul?” Apollo asked about six songs into the show before grabbing an acoustic guitar and diving into a trio of Spanish-language songs. Born to immigrant parents from Guadalajara, Apollo seems intent on re-introducing his non-Mexican fans to their southern neighbors while engaging those who already get it. Two fans in the balcony waved a Mexican flag while Apollo teased the audience members who didn’t know his Spanish lyrics.

In addition to his Mexican identity, Apollo also imbues his performances with his queer identity. 

’s cover, featuring Apollo shirtless and solemn in the shadows, closely resembles the artwork for 

 by indie rock queer icon Perfume Genius. Like Perfume Genius, Apollo also sings lyrics full of queer heartbreak and envy. Comedian Jaboukie Young-White frequently jokes that yearning is the gayest emotion. It’s telling that both artists have ballads on White’s popular Spotify playlist titled, “

Apollo balanced his more upbeat moments with these tales of queer heartbreak on Tuesday night. One particularly vulnerable moment arrived during his performance of “Mr. Neighbor.” In the song, Apollo pleaded to the crowd, “I, I, I, I don't want to be alone,” before finishing it out with a primal, “F**k me, oh yeah, yeah-yeah / Oh yeah, yeah-yeah.”

No entry in Apollo’s discography sears quite like “Evergreen,” his last song performed on Tuesday night. Every line in “Evergreen” devastates, as Apollo describes his hopeless boy crush like an addiction, questioning whether something’s wrong with his body and his urges. In the song’s second verse, a wounded Apollo reached his Tuesday night performance’s climax, belting out, “She could never love you more, more than me!”

The current landscape of alternative R&B and Latin pop exists in the shadow of Frank Ocean and Bad Bunny respectively. Both artists have redesigned what a male pop star looks like.

With Latin influences, vulnerable queer songwriting, and an admirable stage presence, Apollo seems to fit that image better than most. With catchier lyrics and a more distinctive style, Apollo could easily launch himself into crossover pop success.

If the talent on display at Apollo’s show on Tuesday night is any indicator, that’d be a bright future for us all.

James Schaak

The St. Paul show brought together two talented artists pushing the boundaries of R&B.


Jessica Fredette

Omar Apollo and Ravyn Lenae shine at Palace Theatre

In 1966, writer Stan Lee and artist Jack Kirby, the creative team at the center of the golden era of Marvel Comics, created Galactus, a massive alien god who travels the universe in a hulking purple helmet, consuming entire planets in order to keep himself alive. Drake has become rap's own Galactus, subsuming bits of his collaborators' traits — a flow here, a vocal intonation there, maybe an accent or an entire worldview — into his persona. Each Drake collaboration is creative sustenance. 

This feasting is an artistic method that casts him as a perpetual student of hip-hop in admiration of rap's trendsetters and legends, even as they become his peers. On 2015's 

, a joint album with the tormented Atlanta rapper Future, the pair plumbed the depths of loneliness from the inside of opulent strip clubs. Every single time Drake and Miami's faux kingpin Rick Ross link up, they create lush, sumptuous music that sounds like diving into a Scrooge McDuck-style pool of gold coins during a sunset so impossibly beautiful that your eyes can't even register it without Cartier shades. 

Up until now, it's been clear that Drake enjoys working with the straight-faced Atlanta rapper 21 Savage — who found success through a meat-and-potatoes combination of canny beat selection and a menacing and thin voice that rarely rises above a flat murmur — just as much as those other guys, but their creative give-and-take has been a bit murkier. Most recently, 21 Savage out-rapped Drake on "Jimmy Cooks," the only straightforward rap track closing out Drake's dance music-focused album, 

. It would not be unreasonable to assume that that moment is what prompted Drake to enlist 21's support as he transitions back into his usual realm more antagonistic than ever. 

, announced toward the end of the "Jimmy Cooks" video, is a recognizable Drake album that gains some emotional heft from 21's inclusion. It is a fascinating example of what happens when two ideologically similar rappers with very different approaches try to meet each other in the middle. 21 made a name for himself threatening his enemies in an extremely calm voice over impeccable production, while Drake is, by nature, 

violently menacing. He is far too maudlin to ever believably threaten anyone. His terror is more emotional: Where 21 Savage practices tried-and-true gun talk for the bulk of the album's runtime, Drake discards virtually all the sensitivity and empathy he's ever displayed for a steady stream of insults and glimpses of his naked interiority. It's ugly, but it mostly works because it's a more targeted, focused version of his whole deal. 

After more than a decade of cashing in on his supposed vulnerability, Drake knows he can't be the lovelorn underdog confined to the studio anymore; his rise to megawatt stardom is not just a well-worn story, it's one he's exhausted. Instead, he takes a cue from 21 Savage and becomes everyone's arch nemesis, taking too big to fail to its logical conclusion. The pair trade threats and out-of-pocket disses of virtually everyone they've ever encountered — other celebrities, groupies, friends, enemies, industry losers, total randos — over some of the best beats Drake's rapped on since 2015's 

. That production, from OVO stalwarts like Noah "40" Shebib and Boi-1da, along with Tay Keith, Metro Boomin, rapper-turned-beatmaker Lil Yachty and many more, is sumptuous and intricate, full of tiny flourishes and details, hinging on recognizable mid-song beat switches and a pervasive sense of melancholy. It's not really a surprise that Drake feels at home in this sonic landscape, but it is nice to hear 21 Savage both encourage and temper Drake's more base emotional tendencies, acting as a counterpoint and a realist weight to his neurosis. 

Their chemistry is apparent on "On BS," when the duo bounce lines off each other: 21 Savage is penitent, calm, and menacing, where Drake is angry, high on pills, and paranoid. But Drake, whose personality tends to dominate on every song he's on, sets the tone, and it's on "P**** and Millions" that he drops his most unintentionally telling lyric: "They say, 'mo money, mo problems; bring on the problems." He is, of course, saying that his problems are worth all the money, but hear it another way: Drake's problems 

his money. Chronicling his grievances, no matter how toxic, defines his music. Without his obsessive airing of slights and snubs, Drake wouldn't be Drake.

21 Savage doesn't need Drake to succeed. His discography is already accomplished enough to stand on its own: he is flourishing, creatively and commercially, despite not releasing a solo album since 2018, and it's a safe bet that the average Drake fan is familiar with his work. (All four of their previous collaborations, "Mr. Right Now," "Sneakin," "Knife Talk" and the aforementioned "Jimmy Cooks," are certified platinum Top 10 rap singles.) For him, this seems to be about finding new contours and angles — to use Drake as a subtle foil to push his style into new territories. He sings a bit more, he plays hype man, he plays security. To put it frankly, 21 Savage can make his own hit songs (and has, for 

), but making the type of emotionally tortured hit songs that Drake makes on a regular basis without betraying the aesthetic qualities that made him popular in the first place requires the man himself.

Drake has clearly taken this idea to heart. 21 Savage's mere presence is his ticket to unabashedly play the supervillain at every turn. (21, for his part, 

 he encouraged Drake to be more unfiltered in his lyrics.) "Broke Boyz" is possibly the most menacing moment on the whole record: a hulking beat lurches and screeches like an air raid siren dying out, while Drake is loose and confident. On "Rich Flex," a song that has already become a meme, Drake is egging 21 Savage on, harnessing malice for his benefit: "21, can you do somethin' for me? / Drop some bars to my p**** ex for me? / Then 21, can you do somethin' for me? / Can you talk to the opps' necks for me?" You can picture Drake standing behind 21, whispering in his ear, lightly shoving him toward an imaginary opponent. Drake, meanwhile, is the bad guy everywhere he goes. He's a bad guy on a private jet. He's a bad guy when he doesn't get what he wants. He has trust issues ... still. He hates clout chasers and feels suspicious of groupies ... still. He revels in each heel turn because why wouldn't he? The more toxically he portrays himself, the more popular he gets — taking cues from destructive collaborative friends like Future and the Weeknd — even when he misreads the room and takes his evil pantomime too far.

Cut to "Circo Loco," a track interpolating Daft Punk's "One More Time" as it hiccups into a stuttering wall of filtered synths — all build and no release. It's a fun albeit trivial song that would have gone relatively undiscussed but for the moment when Drake decided to cast doubt on whether Tory Lanez actually shot Megan Thee Stallion during a 2020 altercation. It's one of those "just asking questions'' moves, played under the guise of wordplay, that tips what is normally performed apathy into harmful trolling. Why even go down this road if not for ugly misogyny? What's the point? Would Drake doubt the veracity of the claim if the roles were reversed? His songs suggest otherwise. The bachelorhood of previous records has escalated to unbridled chauvinism. It is, of course, calculated, because everything Drake does is calculated. On "Hours in Silence" he sings, "It's my fault, for once I take accountability." It reads as honest, but not believable (

 that you take accountability doesn't actually mean you take accountability), which is Drake's entire recipe for success. Self-delusion, even when practiced, is relatable: we've all fooled ourselves about ourselves in order to survive. The 

 the duo manufactured feels representative of the album's narrative spin.

Despite the churlishness, or maybe because of it, Drake sounds, for the first time in a long time, like he's actually enjoying rapping. You can hear it on standout "Major Distribution," where Drake and 21 trade verses over a tense piano loop and a smattering of ASMR-ready "Hms" from Lil Yachty that punctuate every line. Briefly free from the burden of being Drake, the rapper shuffles through animatedly as he talks about his success in the music industry like he's been dealing a lot of drugs. But for all Drake's enthusiasm and looseness, it's 21 Savage who steals the show: "Ever seen somebody get shot? Lot of shit I've seen before the top / I ain't trying to wrestle like the Rock / F*** the trish, I'd rather sip the Wock / Lot of things I'd do to stay alive / Everything except for call a cop." In detailing his actual struggle, the trauma he's experienced, the lack of trust he has for corrupt authority figures, the fundamental loneliness of having nowhere to turn, he's lending some pathos to his braggadocio. His concerns are often real and serious, not imagined or shallow. As a result, 21 Savage's confidence feels earned. Drake, meanwhile, has flipped back toward the twisted contradiction at his core — this is a guy who will 

be happy, no matter his achievements. Here, he's buying Benzes "out of spite," watching people lie to him over the course of exhausting three-hour dinners and feeling the burden his own incredulity. 


That sort of emotional dichotomy is why the album ultimately overcomes the resentment emanating from its title — beneath the petty desire to rile up those who've jilted you is an underlying bitterness; an unfillable hole at the center of your being that Drake knows all too well — but it's also why this album feels more like a Drake project that uses 21 Savage as a prop than a true collaborative work. Honesty comes naturally to 21 Savage, but it is something that Drake is still searching for. Even on "Treacherous Twins," a song about friendship and loyalty that sounds like it was recorded driving a convertible across a purple highway made out of cough syrup and nostalgia, 21 is inhabiting Drake's world, and Drake is consuming his, as Galactus always does.


Sam Hockley-Smith

The duo trades threats and out-of-pocket disses of virtually everyone they've ever encountered on a new album. It's ugly, but it mostly works as a more targeted, focused version of Drake's whole deal.


Courtesy of the artist

Drake & 21 Savage - Jimmy Cooks

Drake, 21 Savage - Circo Loco (Audio)

Drake and 21 Savage are sore winners on 'Her Loss'

Check out Isaiah Stillwell’s photos of Jean Dawson’s Sunday night show in Minneapolis


Isaiah Stillwell

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“It's a Big up Ting” (Utah Jazz Remix)

“It's a Jazz Thing” (Utah Jazz Remix)

All of the tracks added to rotation on Carbon Sound the week of November 7, 2022.


New Music on Carbon Sound - Week of November 7, 2022

He was the quiet Migo. With Quavo as the frontman and Offset as the wild card, it was Takeoff who laid the foundation upon which the best rap group of a generation was built. He was the youngest of the trio, just 18 when their breakthrough hit "Versace" blew up, but his voice was always the deepest — the baritone of an old bluesman, time-worn beyond his years. Labelmates at Atlanta's Quality Control Music had nicknamed Takeoff "the Silent Killer," frequently lost in his own zone in the studio until it was time to unleash in the booth. He had a thing for the cosmic. His only solo album, 2018's 

, sampled the broadcast of a record-breaking space jump; "I'ma ghost-ride the Wraith, I wanna look at the stars today," he rapped on the song "Casper." From the beginning, he had an air of gravitas. Senseless is the only way to describe his death early Tuesday morning, when he was 

 shot and killed outside a Houston bowling alley 

There would be no Migos without any one of its members — an uncle (Quavo), nephew (Takeoff) and cousin (Offset) who thought of themselves like brothers — but literally speaking, there would be no Migos without Takeoff. Back when Quavo was the high school quarterback and Offset was in and out of trouble in their hometown of Lawrenceville, Ga., a suburb north of Atlanta, it was Takeoff assembling a makeshift studio in the basement of his aunt's house, where all three boys lived: a sock-covered Walmart microphone, a free software program meant for making slideshows. Songs had to be recorded in perfect start-to-finish bursts, which wasn't a problem for Takeoff, hence the name. Later, while Quavo and Offset shopped their demos around Atlanta strip clubs, Takeoff — single-minded, baby-faced, without a fake ID — would be up all night, making songs to play for them when they got home.

It's clearer in hindsight how rare the Migos were. Upon crash-landing a decade ago into the twilight of the digital mixtape era, if not fully formed then pretty damn close, the trio had a sound and style that was fully, immediately its own. The style you can probably picture (

). The sound was where it got interesting, gesturing subtly back toward history (tight triplet flows echoing Bone Thugs or Three 6 Mafia, wordplay noir à la Gucci Mane or Lil Wayne, wisps of crispy late-aughts snap music) and ahead toward a glorious new era in Atlanta. Migos were famous early on for party raps with hooks that functioned like mantras, and compared with the city's more expressionistic fare, the members were sometimes painted as highly efficient but lowbrow mercenaries. Really, they were craftsmen, masters of rhythmic precision. In their own way, they were hip-hop classicists, a reminder of the format's power to elevate language that might not look like much on a page to something joyful, cool, spectacular. To that end, Takeoff, with his endlessly evolving flow, was the Migos' ultimate ambassador.

There was something beautiful in the shyest Migo's slow embrace of the spotlight. Takeoff never seemed much interested in being the guy in the front, but through his pure enjoyment of rapping, he found a reason to endure it and eventually, to own it. He was at his most charismatic and 

 going back and forth with his family, doing what they'd always done. The acclaim met Takeoff where he was; the harder he worked, the sharper his skills — it became impossible not to notice. In knowing his role, he flourished in it: He wasn't Michael Jordan, he was Dennis Rodman. He never needed to be Quavo, who fed off the attention. In embodying his greatness, he never had to step outside himself.

Just before the release of their best album, 2017's 

, I interviewed the Migos in Los Angeles. It was the last week of Barack Obama's presidency, "Bad and Boujee" was the #1 song in the country, and Quavo, Offset and Takeoff could barely sit still, bursting into giddy performances of their own songs every 20 minutes or so. To wrangle them on camera was a bit like herding cats; they'd much rather have entertained each other all day. At one point, I asked what each member of the trio brought to the equation. In their mischievous way, they let me know that was a question they had no interest in answering, instead joining one another in a rowdy chorus of ad-libs that led into another unplugged rendition of their No. 1 hit — a perfect response. But the Migos did have their own unique roles: Quavo floated out wavy auto-tuned melodies; Offset cut through beats like an adventurer with a machete. As for Takeoff, he was the group's gravitational force — he could hold it down for his partners, grounding their punchlines with blustery ad-libs, or he could flip a song on its head at will. In the typical arrangement of a Migos song, the Takeoff verse went last, for obvious reasons. In a 2018 radio interview, Quavo conceded the title of "best rapper in the group," handing it off to his three-years-younger nephew. "[Takeoff] just masterminded his craft," the leader admitted in awe. 

Two songs stand out as turning points in Migos' decade-long career; Takeoff helmed both of them. In the lull after their gate-crashing 

 mixtape (the definitive rap tape of 2013, straight down to the Trinidad James and Riff Raff features), some wrote the group off as a passing trend. Then came 2014's "Fight Night." Lots of songs at the time had a similarly springy West Coast beat, but nothing sounded half as dynamic as Takeoff did exploding into the hook — his authority was arresting. ("Broke n***** stand to the LEFT!") The performance felt like catharsis but was secretly about control, each inflection optimized for impact. "Fight Night" became the trio's biggest hit to that point; it felt like they'd broken free of a formula, arriving on the threshold of something bigger.

With 2016's "Bad and Boujee" (ironically, a 

, hence the famous lack of a verse from Takeoff) the trio proved its staying power — but it was "T-Shirt," 

's second single, that cemented its greatness. By no coincidence, it was another Takeoff showcase, a minute-long masterclass in rhythmic command. It feels practically pointless to type out the lyrics — "Young n**** poppin' with a pocket full of cottage / Whoa, kemosabe, chopper aiming at your noggin" — which are nothing compared to the way Takeoff says them, his voice its own percussion section and bass line. In a 

 Oscar-worthy, Takeoff's round face peeks out from beneath a bear pelt, iced in gold and diamonds in the tundra. They'd never been cooler.

It's possible to spend all day in a rabbit hole of great Takeoff moments. (I recommend it.) There's "

," a solid choice for best Takeoff verse ever, where he switches up his flow more times than I care to count, or the time he stole the show in a 2021 

, cracking up Offset by raising a double cup as he coolly spits, "They talking 'bout COVID — when I heard the news, I started sipping the remedy." He rapped on his solo album about his visceral early stage fright, but as his shyness dissipated, you realized he was funny, with a dry wit he'd 

Nothing captures the Takeoff experience better than the time in 2015 when he and Quavo performed some of their hits with a small 

, holding down the fort while Offset was locked up — a piece of content with great potential for corniness, which nevertheless still moves me. This was unfamiliar territory for the pair; you can almost sense some nerves. But Takeoff grounds the performance with quiet confidence, hyping his uncle with battle-cry ad-libs, keeping the whole thing in motion. And then — you can see it — he starts having fun, a smile building at the corners of his mouth as he meets the camera's gaze.   

Meaghan Garvey

The rapper, with his endlessly evolving flow, was the Migos' ultimate ambassador. He was at his most charismatic and comfortable going back and forth with his family.


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