PLAY CASH COBAIN, the new full-length erotica from Queens horndog Cash Cobain, may have the most mentions of pussy eating of any album in existence. Honestly, what else could you want? Cash, a rapper and producer, is one half of the duo (with Chow Lee) who made 2 Slizzy 2 Sexy, a 2022 mixtape that loaded familiar samples into the club-drill blender, slurring melodies and generating too many deranged, pornographic punchlines to keep track of. That project was provocative, fun as hell, and hyper-fixated on the five boroughs and Long Island, coming at a time when a lighter, lower-stakes alternative to NYC drill—increasingly defined by death, jail, and opportunism—was needed.
Fast forward to 2024 and somehow, those roots have bloomed into an entire subgenre that I have reluctantly accepted will be remembered as “sexy drill,” a fusion of New York drill, Jersey club, and player R&B like Brent Faiyaz and PND. Damn near every week it feels like there’s a new rapper in the towns or from out of state riding the wave started by Cash. The excess supply has watered down the sound a bit, but I can’t say I’m ever mad to hear his producer tag: “This beat from Cash not from YouTube.” Actually, I can barely remember a day in New York this summer where I didn’t catch one of his freak-a-thons blasting in the wild. There was “Dunk Contest,” a breezy shoutout fest to all the real-life girls he’s thirsting after—it’s dirty but also kind of sweet. Also “Fisherrr,” a lush back-and-forth with Queens’ Bay Swag that manages to pay homage to Black New York (“And yo’ ass fat, know you eat your rice and your cabbage too”) while remaining so relentlessly horny. And “Rump Punch,” a seductive groove that sounds like having a drunk, sloppy grind session at the West Indian Day Parade. All three singles are on PLAY CASH COBAIN, a 19-song test of endurance that effectively stamps this summertime moment by doubling down on his city-specific sexcapades.
Sidestepping the open arms of mainstream rap, Cash takes the album in an intimate and moody direction. His tequila-breathed, speak-sing serenades make me think of Future songs where it feels like he’s stuck in a loop of club nights and one night stands that only leave him more empty. Cash is having those same types of nights, except less lavish, and when he leaves the next morning he’s caught in an obsessive sexual tryst like William Hurt in Body Heat. “When your friends ask who your nigga I just hope you mention me/And whenever I’m not with you I just hope you missing me,” he sings on the featherweight “wassup wya,” completely infatuated. On “Turks (I Apologize),” it’s as if he’s whispering a combination of dirty talk and promises he probably won’t keep in the ear of the woman he’s trying to win over. That’s true of the sultry second half of “cantsleep/drunkinluv,” too, where he begs, “Baby tell me when you’re pullin’ up/Or I can come pick you up/Or I can send a black truck,” like he can’t live without her. Seconds later, in a near-falsetto, he admits what it’s really all about: “I’m in love with your fat butt/In ’n’ out til’ I get that nut/In ’n’ out til’ I make her cum, like damn.”
To be real, Cash’s lyrics are more often silliness like, “She got a nickname for my dick, it’s Ed, ’cause it’s Hardy/The other nickname for my dick is Jeff, it be Hardy.” His self-produced beats do more talking than his words, filling in emotional blanks with a 4o-esque fogginess and R&B samples that add some longing to his nonstop raunchiness. The Tyrese flip on “Act Like,” merged with Cash’s clubbish laser beams and lunch table drums, gives the feeling of falling hard after a lapdance at the stripper joint. On “Slizzy Poetry Pt. 2,” he dryly goes, “I’m tryna’ eat your pussy in the tropics/I’m tryna’ eat your pussy on an island/I’m tryna’ eat your pussy like it’s salmon,” but the stripped-down Hawaiian steel guitar sample makes it feel romantic as well as thirsty. Not all the beats have that quality—in an effort to broaden his sound, a few are uncharacteristically generic. I’m thinking of the dancehall-infused “Luv It,” which sounds like a More Life reject, and “Dunk,” a rework of the Soulja Boy anthem that has a little Milwaukee lowend charm but not enough to shed the feeling that it’s played out.
I’m surprised that’s not the case more often. Given Cash’s current status as the hottest new thing in New York rap, I half expected PLAY CASH COBAIN to cap off this run by filling out the tracklist with the Travis Scotts and A$AP Rockys (shudder) of the world in chase of a chart-topper. But there’s only a few cases of that in the forgettable megamix “Problem,” and the sterile melodic posse cut “slizzyhunchodon,” with Quavo and Don Toliver. Other than that, it’s just Cash over his own sin city beats, calling out to the same New York friends he always has, daydreaming about all the oral sex he wants to perform. “Sexy drill” may be getting beat into the ground, but when Cash is involved it’s not old yet.
