The first thing Shy Glizzy says on Young Jefe 2, the sequel to his breakout 2014 mixtape, is “Rest in peace that nigga Soulja Slim, man...free C-Murder.” A little more than 20 minutes into the new tape, C-Murder himself checks in by phone from the Louisiana State Penitentiary at Angola, one of the country’s most notorious maximum-security prisons. (The one-time No Limit star—and brother to Silkk the Shocker and Master P—is serving a life sentence stemming from a 2009 murder conviction, but is appealing on the basis of juror misconduct.) In the phone message, called “OG Call (Skit),” C-Murder details the fake people he’s met on the inside, then turns his attention outward: “This world is full of chaos right now, bro.”
So on the next song, the sprawling “Rounds,” “Club pay me ten thou just to come stand on the couch” sounds particularly defiant. In fact, that’s the throughline of *Young Jefe 2—*material concerns as symbols for something bigger. In the first eight bars of opener “Let It Rain,” Glizzy’s mom swaps her Corolla for a Range Rover; later he sneers, “I seen a couple niggas in my same kicks/Tell them lame niggas, we ain’t got the same limp.”
Both times, Glizzy’s vocals are injected with such dread, such conviction, that they throw you into his psyche, where you stay for the rest of the tape’s brisk running time, save for that call from Angola. The Washington, D.C. native is simply a joy to listen to, one of the most distinctive and technically adventurous rappers working today. On the Zaytoven-produced “Bankroll,” the musical structure of each bar (half-sung, the intensity peaking at the end) serves as a writing constraint that brings out his sharpest work.
Speaking of “Bankroll,” the song nearly shares a name with the “Bank Rolls” remix that was a star-making turn for Tate Kobang. Hailing from just up the corridor in Baltimore, Kobang is also signed to the same label as Glizzy, the Lyor Cohen-headed 300 Entertainment. Each artist finds himself at a sort of commercial crossroads: uniquely of and for his region, but on the precipice of crossing over nationally. In Glizzy’s case, it can seem like he’s been stuck there for some time. While *Young Jefe 2 *is engrossing and, in some ways, a remarkable testament to his talent, there’s no breakout single, no “Awwsome” or “Funeral.” Either of the back-to-back “New Crack” and “Ride 4 U” could make it into radio rotation, but each is a slow burn and unlikely to expand the base.
So where does Shy Glizzy go from here? He’s already folded elements from other cities into his sound, usually to impressive effect: His ad-libs owe plenty to Atlanta, as does his affinity for rolling hi-hats. “Funeral” has cast him as joyous and lovable; the album cuts round out a more menacing persona. And while he’s a tremendous technician, he keeps gesturing at a fascinating internal life that hasn't been mined to full effect yet.
Barring a world-beating single from left field—like “Trap Queen,” which turned Fetty Wap into a goldmine for 300—the answer might be to double down on his hometown. The national discussion about D.C. rap has always been frustratingly reductive, treating the District’s love for go-go and other genres like a barrier (as if juke and footwork hampered young rappers in Chicago). But with Wale mostly relegated to lounge music and with Fat Trel having receded to the background, Glizzy might become the commercial counterpoint to Oddisee’s reliable underground stature. If the urgency from “Waiting on my Time,” one of *Jefe’*s most affecting cuts, is to be believed, he’ll make sure that moment comes before too long.
