Pitchfork writer Alphonse Pierre’s rap column covers songs, mixtapes, albums, Instagram freestyles, memes, weird tweets, fashion trends—and anything else that catches his attention.
The “Notti Bop” represents the worst of New York drill
Since drill became New York rap’s dominant mode in the mid 2010s, it’s been met with mixed feelings. On the music tip, a portion of fans have rejected the subgenre as a dilution of the lyrical, trendsetting styles New York rap is known for; the city is not supposed to be following in the footsteps of Chicago. On the cultural end, some have wondered if drill is simply a reflection of everyday life in certain corners of the city, or if it’s actively rousing tensions and leading to violence.
Earlier this year, Brooklyn drill star Fivio Foreign said, “It’s not the music that’s killin’ people, it’s the music that’s helpin’ niggas get out the hood.” Meanwhile, local radio DJs spoke out against diss tracks, and even Mayor Eric Adams opened up a temporary fight against the subgenre—though, of course, he just snapped a couple of photos and moved on. The recent murder of a 14-year-old rapper, and an ensuing viral drill hit capitalizing on that murder, has brought it all to a head.
Like Chicago’s scene before it, New York drill has raised a raft of thorny questions. At what point is the line crossed? What is considered censorship? Does moralizing have a place in art? And when does music stop being art and become something else entirely? A lot of times, these concerns are pointed at the artists, as the record labels lurk in the shadows. But as the subgenre has grown and spread throughout the city, labels have swooped in with big checks, hoping to snag the rappers who may spearhead the next wave.
This summer, Brooklyn’s Kyle Richh, TaTa, and Jenn Carter apparently signed a major label deal with Republic Records. The trio made noise for reinvigorating a Brooklyn scene that had lost many of its biggest stars to death (Pop Smoke) and jail (Sheff G and Bizzy Banks), as movements in the Bronx and Harlem picked up steam. Like most drill rappers, their lyrics were cutthroat and ruthless, but they also captured a refreshing playground-cypher spontaneity in their tracks—a feeling that wasn’t always true of Uptown drill, which had become nearly as popular for being documented on YouTube beef pages as it was for music.
