Last summer, I saw 2hollis, a bleach-blond former theater kid turned rapper who is built like Bill Skarsgård’s Nosferatu, open for Ken Carson three nights in a row at Terminal 5 in New York. On the third night, exhausted from getting elbowed around by the suburbanites in Balenciaga moshpitting to his self-produced blend of hardstyle EDM, blissed-out Porter Robinson dance-pop, and Opium angst, I went to grab a seat in the upper deck. Up there were a bunch of suits—the older ones looked like SEC football boosters, the younger ones like fist-pumpers at a John Summit show—licking their chops, as 2hollis hit gym-class high knees and whipped around his wet, shoulder-length hair like Jeff Hardy amid a frenzied light show. In a cartoon, these guys’ eyes would have flipped into dollar signs. “He could be more than a rapper,” one jittery and impressed music executive said to a YouTuber filming the set. “He could be the next Charli XCX!”
That’s the exact sort of thinking that usually has my guard up when a new white boy or girl of the moment emerges from the internet rap scene. How long will it take for them to abandon the Keef, Carti, and Thug influences so they can get to the real bag? But, so far, that’s not my read on 2hollis.
Here’s the 2hollis story: He’s 21 years old, and he’s a bit of a nepo baby but only if you’re a little too plugged into the music industry. (His mother is the owner of a notable publicity firm and co-founder of Skrillex’s Owsla label; his father is Tortoise drummer John Herndon.) Really, he’s a rapper, producer, and singer who likes getting off pretty-boy photoshoots and making big, sexed-up rave-rap songs. It’s dangerously near parody, but the absurdity is part of the 2hollis charm. Plus, he’s got a natural and serious relationship to rap that makes even his goofiest songs really earnest.
Think of his curious new single, “Style,” where he’s rapping exactly like Drake on “The Motto,” down to the phone-sex-operator flow and hanging onto the final syllable of certain bars for too long. He’s not doing a bit; he’s fully committed to the sound; and even the beat lifts and reworks the thumping snares and hollow snaps of old Mustard strip club anthems. It’s a fun song to talk and theorize about: my take is that he was sitting around with his friends (I hope named 3hollis and 4hollis) bumping Take Care when they came up with the idea to make “The Motto” more erotic. The music video runs wild with that idea. It’s like D’Angelo’s “Untitled (How Does It Feel)” for the Twitch generation (I apologize for the blasphemy), with the way the camera oogles on the toned abs and pecs of his lotioned-up surfer’s body. Hanging from his neck are a crinkled white tee and thin gold cross pendants. He flips off the camera and almost gives himself a little titty twister. It’s ridiculous, but I’m still the one watching it, pretty much won over by 2hollis’ serious unseriousness.
The showy vulnerability of “Style” is a continuation of the best songs on his 2024 album, Boy. At times, it’s a breakup album from the perspective of the man who did the breaking up and feels really torn up about it. Sure, that’s a real thing, and dumping someone is hard and shitty, but nobody ever comforts that person. He taps into that loneliness with dubstep festival drops, blown-out bass, glacial Drain Gang ambience, frosted synths, and tormented lyrics that could be dialogue of the guy who carries a guitar on a teen soap opera. “Can you take my face and forget everything?/Throw you off, you’ve got to learn to spread your wings,” he tells the woman he’s trying to make feel better about getting dumped on “Sister,” where he also tries to cheer her up by saying he loves her like a sister repeatedly. It’s sappy but heartful and kind of moving, even if he’s being super melodramatic.
My personal Boy favorite is “Promise,” where he whispers, “Now she’s crying because of me,” blaming himself as his breathy voice is swept away by a wave of noise. Naturally, he channels the theatricality of a lot of melodic breakup rap of the past, from Wayne’s self-inflicted sulking on “I’m Single” to early Drake whininess to those Future songs where he’s in pain from cheating on his girlfriend with all of those strippers. Unlike say, Lil Mabu or Ian or Florida newbie 1900 Rugrat, 2hollis’ appeal isn’t centered around whiteness. Instead, it’s that he’s weaving together a candid mix of wide-ranging musical influences and emotions into sentimental, immature songs about failed relationships and getting ass. It’s not the coolest shit in the world, but that’s also the very thing that makes it feel real.
John Cena Finally Turns Heel With the Help of Travis Scott, for Some Reason
Last weekend, in attendance at WWE’s Elimination Chamber was hip-hop’s Big 3: Drake, Lil Yachty, and Nav. Also, there was Travis Scott, who didn’t do much, as usual, but he was part of a moment the wrestling world gave up ever expecting to happen: the heel turn of John Cena, who dropped the heroics to sell his soul to the Rock’s corporate-boss character. Scott played the role of Rock and Cena’s silent and twisted crony, entering the ring to “Fe!n,” which he has brainwashed the world into believing is a landmark of rage rap. His job was to burn sage in the corner and lean on the ropes in his dark shades and Oakley headband while Cena gave WWE champ Cody Rhodes a bloody ass beating. He got a little taste of the action when he slapped and held down Cody Rhodes so the Rock could whip him with his belt. Sort of weird, but that’s professional wrestling. Of course, it wouldn’t be a Travis Scott appearance if he didn’t get to do what he does best: squeeze himself into a photo-op. As the credits of the show rolled, Scott stood in between the Rock and Cena, an image that the WWE C-suite will shove down our throats longer than TDE did Sir. And, every time I see it, I know the same thing will come to mind: How the hell did Travis Scott weasel his way in there?
Kman 6ixx: “Bring It”
For years when I thought of the music of Trinidad, what came to mind was the feel-good rhythms of soca, steel pans, carnival, and backyard parties. But, like dancehall in Jamaica, popular music there has only grown more eerie, a reflection of the widening wealth gap, increased political corruption, and inflamed gang culture that is happening all over the world. Since roughly 2018, Trinibad—a blend of the brooding dancehall folks like Squash intensified in Jamaica, hearty Southern pain rap, and Trindadian zess—has been defined by thrilling musical highs and devastating lows. It’s a polarizing genre, but emotionally striking and melodically intoxicating music keeps coming out of the scene, especially from Kman 6ixx. His first single of the year, “Bring It,” is a gothic mood piece, kicking off with bone-chilling hums and nihilistic chest-puffing in the style of drill. The tinny, atmospheric beat escalates the wickedness, like a party that ends with a seance. It’s as hypnotic as it is unsettling, which tends to be the effect of Trinibad as the sound’s creators continuously push into darker territory.
What I’m listening to:
