Irish rapper Rejjie Snow is a polymath with a nomadic streak. A few years ago, his left-of-center pop appeal got him a deal with Elton John’s management company and a spot opening for Madonna on tour. He later signed with 300 Entertainment, home of Young Thug and Migos, and has since worked with Canadian dancefloor wizard Kaytranada, Chicago neo-soul mainstay Cam O’bi, French disco auteur Lewis OfMan, and Kendrick Lamar collaborator Rahki, churning out tracks in enough styles to suggest a one-man equivalent to the Odd Future collective. Through all his guises, though, Snow stays true to certain constants. He’s so dedicated to synthesizing his most obvious influences—channeling Tyler, the Creator and N.E.R.D. down to their throat-clearing ad-libs and neo-New Jack funk—that he hasn’t quite established an identity of his own. That failing doesn’t dull the jams or diminish his evident potential, but it does hold him back.
Snow spends most of his 20-track debut LP, Dear Annie, obsessing over a lover he abandons in order to live in Paris. The otherworldly, Aminé-assisted single “Egyptian Luvr,” produced by Kaytranada, and “23” showcase his laid-back delivery, futurist leanings, and ability to write tracks that sound like they should be hits. They fit in well with “Pink Lemonade” and “Spaceships,” both straightforward clinics in N.E.R.D.’s aesthetic. “Must be your birthday, the earth keeps spinning your tune…/The evening stars fall for you/Bet that’s your birthplace/The sun reminds me of you,” he croons over the former track’s interstellar synths and sunny, melodic thump.
In the album’s second half, though, Snow takes a sharp turn from sweet nothings and effervescent dance tunes to smoldering angst and solitude. By “Room 27,” heartbreak has turned to despair, as he contemplates suicide against dissonant, dreamy wedding bells. (The number in the title is a reference to the so-called 27 Club.) “Still I’m chasing demons/Best believe I ain’t been eating/Best believe I see my shadow checking on me like I’m Jesus,” he raps. Spiraling, he continues rattling off bars: “I don’t even trust myself/Feel like I just don’t belong/Feel like fucking flying, wish you’d understand my fucking thoughts.” A few tracks later, on “Bye Polar,” he swings between brooding, sinister tones and strip club bounce, somewhat randomly proclaiming himself “black,” “weird,” and “proud” along the way. Then he dedicates the next song, the cheeky “Charlie Brown,” to bad behavior and bubblegum pop.
That’s a lot of moods for one album, but Rejjie’s commitment to candor and his collaborators’ ace production keep Dear Annie from jumping the rails. It is a solid introduction to an able singer and MC who, at his best, recalls Kendrick’s knack for voicing a variety of characters. That progressive approach is something hip-hop needs in order to sustain growth. Though it’s become more common in the last decade, it still takes heart to lean into vulnerability in rap—to make music this deeply personal in a genre teeming with self-proclaimed bad actors who pride themselves on being impenetrable and emotionally unavailable. Throughout Dear Annie, Rejjie Snow is phoning home to Drake, André 3000, Pharrell, and Chance the Rapper, all of whom have spent years blurring hip-hop’s sonic and emotional lines. The most exciting thing about this album is the prospect of learning more about what he’ll do with the sense of freedom he’s inherited from them once infatuation subsides.
