People love to say rap is a young man’s game, but maybe what they mean is it’s one of reinvention. The way I see it, the youth should always be more concerned with molding the zeitgeist in their image than finding ways to recreate history. Regardless, it’s only natural for some young artists to start out with a sound that feels plucked from their influences. When PG County rapper and producer redveil was just 16, he dropped his full-length Niagara, a lighthearted meditation on growth that quickly placed him on the same toxic hype train as the teen rap prodigies before him. I’m thinking of dudes like Joey Bada$$ who were forced to deal with the requisite Yo, he’s not even 18 yet? He sounds just like so-and-so!-type reactions from faceless heads online. The way “Campbell,” Niagara’s grainy, sunworn intro, blossoms with acoustic plucks, organ keys, and hearty puffs of saxophone, it’s hard not to think of the mythic patina that colors Some Rap Songs and Let the Sun Talk. So, despite a sizable gap in writing chops, I get why the inevitable Earl Sweatshirt comparisons came flooding.
In fairness to redveil, now 21, his shrewd versatility and self-reflective ethos earned its props; he almost exclusively raps on his own beats and can easily fluctuate between sunny melody and somber deadpan. In the wake of Niagara’s acclaim, he’s been on a steady ascent: a breakout record in 2022’s Learn 2 Swim, a few nationwide tours, and a Camp Flog Gnaw set that went viral for its eulogy for genocide victims in Palestine. But how (or if) redveil’s precociousness can evolve into something innovative has remained the question of his career. As a writer, he approaches familiar themes of grief and triumph in ways that feel more accessible than awe-inspiring or inventive. (He’s much more like Cole than Earl in this way.) And as a producer, it’s tough to separate him from the influences he gushes over. On sankofa, his fourth studio album, the bright-eyed, down-to-earth workhorse who declared “I plant the seeds and watch ’em bloom” on “Campbell” aims for something grander—but his approach remains too derivative to fully hit the mark.
redveil has described sankofa as the album he “wanted to make since [he] was 12 years old,” and its emotional immediacy is apparent: redveil belts his loudest, most cathartic melodies to date, and swallows massive gulps of air between his vocal-straining raps. He anchors this energy with live instrumentation that feels too akin to the gospel and post-Tyler neo-soul he grew up on. The three songs that introduce sankofa–“time (a dream deferred),” “lone star,” and “history”–form one concise, homogenous replica of Flower Boy; the airy choir harmonies, sun-drenched synths, and punchy kicks that felt so fresh in 2017 feel anonymous here. The similarly cheery synths and warm bass of “brown sugar” are vibrant, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear this beat on a Call Me If You Get Lost reissue. At best, the sappy jazz palette that adorns tracks like “save” and “or so i” makes the most sense for passive listening at a placid barbecue.
Though redveil roots his songs in a singular first-person perspective, he tends to get lost in abstraction. “Do I use agency or not?/Lighter question, do I got solace?” he raps on “save.” When I envision the church pews he speaks of on “or so i,” I think of how MAVI nailed the same theme of religion as a cash-grab more succinctly on 2024’s “the sky is quiet.” Where MAVI’s perspective grows more refined with each line, redveil’s imagery feels jumbled and conflicted. But the deep love for home and familial roots that inform this record are its saving grace; redveil combs through deep-seated memories with care, naming names only he knows and reflecting on sentimental places. The album’s title, he’s said, is a concept derived from the Akan people of Ghana, meaning “it’s not taboo to go back for what you’ve forgotten.” On “buzzerbeater / black christmas,” redveil aligns his childhood growth with his fragmented relationship with his brother, who suffers from mental illness. The lyrics at the start are simplistic, but the storytelling is calculated, transitioning from playgrounds and Minecraft lobbies to a sold-out show at the Roxy. “The world don’t know that I’m your imposter,” redveil says directly, “But more important, I see through the characterization of you as a monster.”
redveil’s chameleonic nature takes a more distinctive shape through his cadence. There’s a little mixtape Chance in the soft singing that opens “glimpse of you,” a beautiful addendum to the brotherly ode that comes before it. There’s some Mick Jenkins in his gravelly roar on “pray 4 me,” a pained, double-sided musing on suicide and the violent psychosis his brother has lived through. On the pop-leaning freefall “mini me,” I hear shades of Saba at his most melodic. He pushes these influences to a more interesting place than pure mimicry, but it doesn’t fully solve my main problem with sankofa: I can’t really pinpoint a defining thread of redveil’s sound. Occasionally, like on “brown sugar” and in the bellowing hook for “mini me,” these songs provide vocal breakthroughs that feel uniquely his own. But at some point, I’d like to see redveil use his talents to tread a path he hasn’t watched his elders walk yet.
