Peewee Longway was a star even before anyone had heard his music. In his recent autobiography, Gucci Mane recalls that the rapper “was always this little, funny, charming nigga whom people just seemed to gravitate toward” and that his widely respected “dealings in the streets” earned him a deal with Gucci’s 1017 label without so much as a demo. Five years, 11 mixtapes, and one official album later, the diminutive former hustler, who was raised a few doors down from Young Thug in the since-demolished Jonesboro South projects, is one of Atlanta’s preeminent rappers. But, beloved as he is in rap’s most influential city, he has yet to ascend to the same heights as his former neighbor. With his latest mixtape, Spaghetti Factory, Longway is still seeking the national renown that keeps eluding him.
He has two obvious strengths as a rapper: First, there’s his infectious charisma. He seems to have apprehended the crucial, if counterintuitive, lesson that gangster rap demands a sharp sense of humor. But there’s a fine line between making listeners giggle and becoming an exhausting punchline rapper, and Longway stays on the right side of it with lyrics that are plainly absurd and ribald. Central to the chorus of “Jumanji” is the frat-house refrain “rock out with my cock out.” On “Freestyle,” he’s both “shipping and handling through Amazon” and “putting dope dick on an Amazon.” “I Can’t Get Enough” follows up the line, “Iced out my teeth like I’m Mike Jones” with the spurious claim, “I don’t even talk with the lights on.”
Longway’s second great asset is his exacting eye for the material details of the drug business. He relishes the minutiae, single-mindedly monitoring stovetops, hoarding residue for addicted product testers, and wrapping brick after brick after brick. On “Crop It,” he sets the scene of a cannabis-and-poppy-growing operation: “Poppy seeds in the sun room/Ain’t answerin’ my phone ‘til June/October, November, December they bloom/We rewrap in black balloons.”
Unfortunately, that exacting eye doesn’t see much beyond avarice and black-market ambition. Spaghetti Factory is almost completely devoid of biographical or emotional details that would add depth beneath the songs’ charming veneer. Whether it’s due to studious avoidance of self-incrimination or a simple lack of artistic vision, this withholding is what separates Longway from Southern rap’s most compelling personalities. Kevin Gates, Boosie Badazz, and 2 Chainz flesh out their oversized personas with street names, sadness, mentions of their loved ones, memories, and worries—the bits that make them who they are.
It’s understandable to plead the fifth when federal agent DJ Vlad shines a light in your face and asks if you’re a Crip, but that doesn’t have to mean eliding essential parts of yourself from your art. As recognizable as he is on record, with his high-pitched dope-boy checklists, and onscreen, with his gold rictus and “get money gut” (as Waka Flocka Flame once dubbed his own belly), Longway remains a mystery. He might have seen every view from Atlanta’s curlicue Spaghetti Junction, sold every drug from Schedule I to IV, and loaded every caliber of ammunition into clips—but we still don’t know what effect any of it had on him. Longway may only find the audience he seeks, and that his talent deserves, when he steps back from the trap-house stove.
