Bryce Vine describes himself as “OutKast and Blink-182 got drunk with the Gorillaz.” Perhaps a more apt comparison is KYLE taking bong hits with Dave Matthews Band, or Jason Mraz sniffing poppers with Doja Cat. At 31, Vine is at an unconventional age for frat-rap prominence. He established a fanbase nearly a decade ago, as a contestant on “The Glee Project,” a reality television show based off the Ryan Murphy high school drama. His real rise came with 2017’s “Drew Barrymore,” a swirl of neon synths that went platinum, possibly by being added to every “Chill Vibes” playlist in existence.
“Drew Barrymore” is the best song on Carnival, and the best encapsulation of Vine’s problems and promise. It leans into the grit that his other songs just wink at; when the computerized beeps and buzzes fall away in the chorus, a more muted drum and Bryce’s unfiltered rasp take over. But the words are inane: “You’re the next Drew Barry, and I want more,” he sings, taking pains to emphasize the wordplay. Glimpses at specificity slice through the bullshit. “Coffee on the Flintstone, jewelry on the ottoman,” he croons, before sliding into this portrait: “The TV hasn’t worked in ages/Probably got a shorted cable/Way too busy fucking on the sofa or the kitchen table.” It’s not poetry, but it conjures something akin to a real relationship.
Compare that to the album’s first song, “Classic and Perfect.” Gleaming piano chords and ra-ra handclaps almost beg you to ignore the lyrics, a cringey pastiche of Bruno Mars, Ed Sheeran, and One Direction. “You’ve got a mind and you’ve got a soul,” he chirps, sounding shocked. In “Drew Barrymore,” he sings the creepy line, “Baby let me in/’fore I get way too adamant about it.” This ignorance extends beyond women. “Factory Love,” an unconvincing strum-along ode to “pharmaceutical pleasure,” sounds like it was written by Googling drug lingo.
But Carnival isn’t designed for conscious, focused listening. It’s a mood-setting operation: a fog of layered vocals, splashes of trumpets, guitar licks that sound like an impromptu dorm-room jam session. Production flourishes are precise: a chime-like sound effect here, a splatter of drums there. This is music for poolsides and basements. Lyrics exist to fill a void in a vibe.
Vine strikes an odd tone in rap-adjacent music: not the melodic, death-consumed teenagers who sing their verses instead of speaking them, nor the buoyancy of Chance the Rapper, nor the sex and money flexes that clog SoundCloud. His stage name is short for “vinyl,” and many of his songs feel nostalgic for the stolid inertia of story-centered, good-times pop. He used to tour with Hoodie Allen, patron saint of frat boys turned rappers. He could very well continue on that path, doubling down on bad puns and frenetic drum loops, writing about objects with more clarity and grace than he writes about women. Or he could embrace Carnival’s rare moments of authenticity, and sharpen his music into something that sticks.
