Roc Marciano is the butter-smooth pimp, with a melt in your-mouth flow and silky punchlines to match. Action Bronson is the melancholic Albanian foodie with a persistent fear of death and a love for pulp romanticism. Ka is the cold-as-ice gangster veteran from the tough streets of Brownsville. Heems is the internal-rhyme instigator, fiercely proud of who he is, and willing to defend his right to eat at the rap roundtable. The outer borough rap scene is currently filled to the brim with larger-than-life personalities. So what room does that leave for a rapper like Meyhem Lauren, who, despite his linebacker-size and occasional wit, has yet to flesh out a recognizable persona in the midst of the flashy characters that surround him? It leaves him, in a word, forgettable, and in danger of joining the tradition of B and C list New York rappers who were blurrier shadows of their more talented counterparts. (Think of the way a gangster-lite, punchline rapper like Papoose consistently echoed the more charismatic Fabolous).
Lauren's recently released mixtape, Mandatory Brunch Meetings, doesn't do much to rectify the situation. It's a perfectly adequate listen, upgraded by beats by underground heavies like Mike Finito and Harry Fraud. And yet, even with 17 tracks to explore his options, Lauren still seems unable to decide, or unwilling to reveal, exactly who it is he wants to be.
That's not to say that the man they call Laurenovitch is without a personality. It's just that there's no real way to tell, over the course of his overstuffed mixtapes, which character is the true Lauren. Is he a fun-loving behemoth or a raw Queens goon? Is he sensible, an endorser of condoms and money made legally, or totally absurd, always out for a laugh, with a shottie cocked underneath the seat? There are lines on Mandatory Brunch Meetings that indicate all of the above, along with a host of other possible options.
On the Harry Fraud-produced standout, "10 Dollar Lap Dances", he's an aggro punchline rapper, a "raw dealer fly like Blake Griffin over a four-wheeler" who smashes women like "negligent pedestrians." "Kelly Kapowski", a should-be nostaligic ode to the Saved by the Bell pinup, finds him in romantic mode, describing the perfect woman in the most generic terms imaginable. And "Burgundy Guess Jeans" is all over the place-- on the chorus his "gun sings," then he's all alliteration, "provocative, producing pargraphs professionally," and then, suddenly reflective, wishing he "could put time in a freezer…you only live once on this Earth, gotta explore it." These consistent switches in subject matter leave you with nothing to latch onto, nothing to render the song memorable without the help of a catchy beat.
To add to his problems, Lauren never really bothers to switch up his flow or tone, consistently rapping in the aggressive half-shout which is the official rap equivalent of a monotone. You would think a song on which the rapper admires a pair of "Beautiful Areolas" might actually consist of some admiration, but even an admittedly hilarious line like "her nipples look like silver dollar pancakes" is delivered with a nonchalance that dulls what should be a standout bar.
The tape has two significant redeeming qualities-- consistently excellent gritty New York beats and outstanding guest features. Tommy Mas makes strings sing on "Thousand Dollar Gym Shoes" while Lauren delivers perhaps his best line of the tape, informing the listener that "how to be a stupid nigga is the class we skipped." But Bronson, who guests on the song, outdoes him without even trying, stringing together a couple of phrases that actually make sense consecutively. The end of his verse-- "selling salmon so my son can eat, I'm trying to have a little taste of this life until I'm underneath"-- gives you a perfect idea of who Bronson is, even if you've never heard him spit a bar before.
The surprise guest of the tape is Gabbie Giftsz, a Brooklyn rapper with the accent of Nicki Minaj and the attitude of Ms. Roq. She's hugely entertaining on "Silk and Leather Rap", sing-songing her way through Freddie Krueger comparisons and launching into double-time for some charismatic brag raps. And her ad-hoc shit talking is probably the funniest moment on a tape flooded with ridiculous ad-libs.
Part of Lauren's appeal is his group mentality; this willingness to entertain guests like Bronson, Giftsz, Heems, Hologram, and other rappers on his projects can sometimes make his mixtapes seem more like block parties. This was true on last year's Respect the Fly Shit, on which a South by Southwest hotel room hosted a revolving door of capable rappers. That project flattered perceptions of Lauren by showing him to be a solid player in a vibrant, ascending musical scene. But when the group falls away, and Lauren is forced to make a track stand on its own, he becomes a cipher, refusing to belong to any kind of definable category. MC can stand for many things but it should never stand for miscellaneous-- Lauren's inability to pick an angle leaves him standing behind the brightest stars in his class.
