G Herbo lives two lives. To some, the 24-year-old is simply a famous ex-boyfriend, an inescapable figure in the culture surrounding the Instagram-based rumor mill The Shade Room, which has closely documented his messy and complicated relationship with the IG-famous influencer Ari Fletcher (he pleaded guilty to misdemeanor battery earlier this year). At this point, I’m sure VH1’s Love & Hip-Hop would write Herb a blank check to let cameras into his life. But G Herbo doesn’t need reality television—at least, not right now—because he also happens to be a rapper that has helped shape the last decade of hip-hop.
In 2012, a 16-year-old Herb released “Kill Shit” alongside Lil Bibby, a breathless marathon about trauma, pain, and Chicago life that helped lay the foundation for drill, arguably rap’s premier subgenre of the 2010s. By the time Herb was 18 years old, he had a classic Chicago mixtape and multiple street-level hits—his 2012 single “Gangway” has become timeless, so much so that Lil Uzi Vert flipped it into his comeback track “Free Uzi” last year. If Herb didn’t release another song past his teenage years, his legacy would remain, but his transition into the major-label rap cycle has been seamless.
PTSD, G Herbo’s latest album, is proof that of his two lives, his rap half still takes precedent. Over glossier, high-budget production than usual and alongside a handful of rap’s biggest names, PTSD stays true to Herb’s core: first-hand tales of living with trauma and paranoia and failing to overcome that trauma and paranoia with drugs and success. He tells his stories in a fiery, deep voice, emphasized by a chilling album cover, which replaces the American flag’s 50 stars with faces of friends that he’s lost.
From the Don Cannon-produced intro, which samples JAY-Z’s classic (and basement freestyle standard) intro to The Dynasty, Herb learns that the hardest battle is with himself. “Ain’t no lil bitty pill just gon’ heal a man/He can’t chill, he need a pill, guess he too militant/Oh, you just like us, they robbed you of your innocence, huh?” he raps, in a rapid-fire delivery that could be air-dropped into ’00s Harlem. Listening to Herb on the intro (and for much of the album) is like watching him argue with a therapist through a crack in the door.
But Herb’s stories come to life when he has a partner to bounce off of. On “Party in Heaven,” alongside fellow former drill staple Lil Durk, the pair reflect over a beat chilly enough for a Drake time-and-location track. On “Lawyer Fees,” his rapping is so passionate he begins to swerve offbeat, interrupted only by Polo G’s grim hook: “Demons in my head, and I trip every time them voices speak.” Eeriest of all is the Juice WRLD-assisted “PTSD”: “I made it on my own, they said I’d be in jail or dead/I’ve seen my brothers fall over and over again/Don’t stand too close to me, I got PTSD,” wails Juice. It’s a bleak song made even more so by Juice WRLD’s recent death, but there’s still a world where you can imagine it being catchy enough to fit within Hot 97’s daily rotation.
PTSD’s missteps arrive when the album jettisons Herb’s rawness and begins to feel like any other album with access to major-label pockets. “Shooter” doesn’t sound like a G Herbo song; it’s like a record executive pieced together his vocals and tacked on a Jacquees chorus without Herb’s knowledge. The same could be said for the BJ the Chicago Kid-featuring “Gangstas Cry,” which is sappy, a tone Herb normally avoids.
“Feelings” feels like the unification of Herb’s two worlds. He balances his demons (“I got diagnosed but I don’t want no crazy pills,” he admits) with reflections on his highly publicized relationship. “Talked to my kid mom today, that was kinda hard/Sick of all the drama in my life, we ain’t gotta start,” says Herb. It’s the type of honest and thoughtful song that directly connects PTSD to his early raps like “Kill Shit,” as Herb refuses to become yet another artist known more for headlines than their music.
