Key Glock’s Yellow Tape 2 doesn’t have a single feature. In fact, featurelessness has become a defining trait of the 24-year-old South Memphis rapper’s work; aside from a supporting turn by fellow Paper Route Empire upstart Jay Fizzle on 2017’s Glock Season, none of Glock’s solo releases for the independent label owned by Young Dolph have included other voices—just the effortlessly confident Glizock all by his lonesome. He’s hesitant to offer his own services to other artists too, occasionally showing up on releases from Gucci Mane’s New 1017 but otherwise keeping his circle tight. As he explains on this album’s “Eve,” “They like, “Why you don’t do features?” ’Cause I don’t like meetin’ new n****s.”
Glock seems almost uniquely disinterested in playing games, kissing rings, or otherwise seeking approval, and defines himself as “in the streets, not industry.” Songs like “Ambition for Cash” lyrically reflect that emphasis on self-reliance and standing on one’s own. That’s not to say he’s allergic to collaboration: He’s proven his mettle as a tag-team specialist alongside his mentor, Dolph. The pair are more equal partners than teacher and student, their smooth flows interweaving with ease. If Dolph is the self-proclaimed King of Memphis, then Key Glock is somewhere between Merlin and Rasputin, a mysterious man of influence who keeps a low profile but pulls more strings than you’d think.
Without trading in nostalgic aesthetics or noticeable samples, Key Glock embodies the spirit of Southern rap more easily than any of the countless contemporary rappers who cite Three 6 Mafia as a formative influence. With a tiptoeing piano line and a little soul sample in the mix, the Juicy J-produced “Gangsta” is right out of the classic Hypnotize Minds songbook; it sounds like it could have been an unused beat from Project Pat’s Mista Don’t Play. Bandplay comes through with church organ swells on “Juicemane” that, befitting the title, sound straight out of a late-2000s OJ da Juiceman mixtape.
The drum patterns frequently follow a standard Memphis formula—a series of clean and sturdy kicks and claps, with a dash of trap hi-hat—but Glock’s beats are deceptively complicated, almost baroque, as liable to feature a harp or flute as an 808 cowbell or lighter click. There’s a sense of unease to the piano line 808 Mafia affiliate Pyrex builds “Da Truth” around, a scattered rhythm with sudden pitch shifts. “Can’t Switch” adds dubby drums and a little bit of reggae echo on the keys, not entirely switching up the genre but experimenting with the flavor. When guitars infrequently show up, like on “Luv a Thug” or “Quarterback,” they add a sultry, sensual flavor—a much-needed reminder that the history of Memphis rap is just as much soul music as it is horrorcore. It’s on a song like “Quarterback” where Key Glock demonstrates his greatest strength, not as a pure MC or lyricist but something close to a bandleader, slickly flowing over a clean bass guitar and traces of flute. The Dun Deal-led instrumental feels more like a studio session than a Logic project file.
Where another rapper might use a guest feature to effect a vibe change—an R&B singer on the hook of a slow jam, or an out-of-state MC to switch up the flow—Key Glock can encompass multiple moods with his voice alone. In some moments he’s overflowing with sensuality, while his flow on “Bill Gates” is slower and blunted, almost vocal fried. On more menacing numbers like “Ya Feel Me” he draws you in closer with a 21 Savage-esque croon, hardly speaking above a whisper, quietly walking us through the weights on his back and the voices in his head. Glock’s bars are seamless and looping in a way that is literally repetitive but doesn’t sound like it; they’re intricate without being dense, complex without drawing attention to themselves. If the metaphors and lyrical imagery aren’t always the most imaginative, Glock overcomes them with the kind of gritty aura that can only be earned through experience.
More than sound or delivery alone, it’s Key Glock’s palpable confidence that distinguishes him. But look closely and you’ll see faint cracks in the stone-faced persona, where brief but frank bars about family trauma and codeine dependency slip between the boasts and bold determination: “All these dead presidents, I hope that shit don’t haunt me.” There’s enough confessional honesty to make the music feel real, but Glock still keeps his guard up, simultaneously enigmatic and unabashed.
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