One of 21 Savage’s earliest forays into letter-writing came on the penultimate track of 2018’s i am > i was, where he penned an apologetic and appreciative tribute to his mother, Heather Carmillia Joseph, for dealing with his teenage mischief. It wasn’t the first time that he’d revealed such an interior window—all over the album he posited himself as a tormented agent of the macabre, unable to shake the traumatic memories while also enjoying the spoils of his riches—but it signified a unique willingness to go long on personal soliloquy. On his latest release, american dream, his mom returns the favor, opening the album with a spoken-word dedication that alludes to the countless sacrifices she undertook to help him achieve his wildest dreams. Instead of nestling the emotional weight away in the corner, 21 uses it as a battering ram, bursting through the door to begin to try to paint the full picture of who he has become.
And it’s a tall task. 21’s profile has grown in recent years, with a collaborative album and tour with Drake, humanitarian initiatives that made him a community leader in Atlanta—hell, even the teaser “trailer” credits for american dream read like an Emmy after-party invite list. His third solo album attempts to balance reveling in his newfound elevated celebrity and retaining the tortured persona that relishes in recounting the gruesome details of his journey. This produces some missteps, but the 31 year old cuts through the glossy excess with clarity and lyrical self-assuredness, producing enough sterling moments to show that he’s still a star worthy of fanfare.
The line between inventive use of samples and cynical nostalgia-bait is thin; maybe 21 learned from the disastrous hijacking of Daft Punk on Her Loss’ “Circo Loco.” The crack team of producers on american dream—including Metro Boomin, Cardo, Coupe, London on da Track, and OG Parker—attempt to string together more moments of harmony between 21’s reserved register and the production landscape, rather than taking big swings at grandiosity. Rose Royce lead singer Gwen Dickey’s lilting voice echoes in the background of “all of me,” creating a morose arena in which 21 dwells upon the violence and backstabbing he survived to reach this stage of his life. The album’s crate-digging finds (like Brazilian singer Elza Laranjeira’s angelic crooning from “Serenata do Adeus” on “redrum”) mesh better than the easily recognizable tributes (Faith Evans and K-Ci loops on “prove it” and “should’ve wore a bonnet”), but the overall cohesion of the production is a welcome sign.
Understatement has suited 21 for years. His effectiveness stems from minute tweaks, mutating his low register and delivery to imbue emotion and variance into his stone-faced raps. The drawn-out distribution of his murderous wordplay on “redrum” makes it feel as though he’s almost veering off the tracks. A heightened version of his whisper flow arises on the hook of “sneaky,” before returning to truncated one-liners about Flipmode squad and sneaky links that hit like prizefighter jabs. “Head so good, she could eat ice cream with a straw/I’m too fertile to be goin’ in you raw,” he raps, over a Coupe-produced trap beat that leaves you bouncing your shoulders without even noticing.
It’s not high-profile moves that make 21 great. As much as he’s trying to capture the essence of those R&B classics he cherishes on Instagram, the Summer Walker-assisted “prove it” falls short of the intrinsic charisma produced by the likes of a Busta Rhymes and Mariah Carey collaboration: 21’s materialistically vapid bars are washed away by Walker’s runs, which feel as though they belong to one of her emotionally charged ballads. Celebrity guests Burna Boy and Travis Scott register as vestigial appendages—a sharp contrast with the gratifyingly grimy murkiness of Young Thug’s brief cameo and the aloof whispers emanating from Doja Cat. The attempt at a cinematic pop-rap track with Tommy Stewart and Mikky Ekko on “red sky” lands like a forgettable deep cut from the Furious 7 soundtrack.
As 21’s status has shifted, he puts the realistic contradictions of his existence on display with a steely neutrality. He can oscillate between acknowledging the devil on his shoulder, memorializing his fallen loved ones, and executing an enemy in his own backyard in consecutive breaths. He can lament the fatal ramifications of “standing on business” while slandering those who turn witness for their own self-protection. On the closing “dark days,” he reflects on the merits of his self-improvement, doling out wisdom like “stay in school” and “put the guns down” to teenagers who run the streets. It’s a sensitive affirmation that unravels the violent persona he’s created, an honest assessment fueled by confidence in who he’s become and what he wants to do. It is the crux of the freedom that his mother strived for from the beginning.
