Chicago hip-hop’s always had something of a split personality, and the recent global attention on the scene has only served to heighten the contrast between Chief Keef and the giddily sociopathic drill scene on one end of the spectrum, and on the other, Chance the Rapper and a new generation of artists looking to reinvigorate a conscious rap scene that was last at its peak back when Kanye was still a backpacker. And almost exactly halfway between the two ends of the spectrum sits an MC named Tremaine “Tree” Johnson.
Last year Tree released a mixtape called Sunday School. It was a rough record released in an unmastered, unpolished state, but it managed to establish him as something like the David Banner of the Midwest: a rapper/producer with a carefully considered aesthetic that’s organic and insightful, but who doesn’t consider himself above writing songs aimed at the street, the club, or the bedroom. Sunday School II improves on its predecessor in almost every aspect. The songs are stronger, his performance is more assured, and the production-- with assistance from Chicago hip-hop recording kingpin Michael Kolar-- is deeper and denser. He doesn’t feel like an artist sitting between two scenes, skimming off ideas, but one strong enough to stack them atop one another and climb on top.
Tree calls his artistic philosophy “soul trap,” and it’s as honest a name as it is catchy. On a basic musical level, it accurately describes Tree’s preferred blend of soul music elements-- warm, churchy organ lines and vocal samples pitched up, Kanye-as-chipmunk style-- with beats built around the kind of booming 808 kicks and snappy, precisely machined hi-hats that have been a feature of Southern rap mixtapes for years, and which have recently taken hold in the Midwest.
Taking a deeper view, “soul trap” can also describe the emotional and intellectual heart of Tree’s music. A native of the city’s notorious (and now demolished) Cabrini-Green projects, his roots are deep in the street-- in his lyrics Chicago gangs like the Black P. Stone Nation are features of the neighborhood just the same way brick high rises are, and he makes multiple references to a brief stint selling crack at age 13. He sees the nihilism that pervades the gangster lifestyle he opted out of, and wants to stay as far away from it as possible. In Tree’s capable hands these two elements, which on the surface seem so contradictory, combine into a raw but subtly layered portrait of life in black Chicago, one that’s miles away from Keef’s in tone but just as bracing and honest.
Tree delivers this portrait with a ragged melodic howl that recalls Chicago bluesmen as frequently as it does other rappers. Despite the sometimes weighty nature of the material he tackles lyrically, he’s a pop artist at heart (on “King” he gives the chipmunk-soul treatment to a snippet of Elvis’ “Can’t Help Falling in Love With You”), which helps set him apart from many MCs who get tagged as “conscious” and makes Sunday School II a pleasurable repeat listen.
And even when he’s being conscious he’s not a drag about it. On “So Bad” he describes a dream woman who’s independent, intelligent, and self-actualized, but also stacks paper, flashes diamonds, and projects the kind of intensely confident not-giving-a-fuck that’s more common to rappers than the women they write about. The song describes a combination of virtues that also fit Tree’s music: flashy enough to grab your attention and smart enough to know what to do with it, brainy but sensual, and easy to get hooked on.
