The lyrical universe of Rick Ross, where exploding helicopters smash-cut to mansion pool parties, resembles one of the more internally coherent Michael Bay movies. And when the lumbering Floridian became successful enough to form his own label, he took a similar blockbuster approach with Maybach Music Group, forgoing Miami cronies to sign MCs and singers who were already established names: Meek Mill, Omarion and, unaccountably, Wale. The exception, in every sense, is Gunplay, a former Rozay weed carrier with the build and bearing of a frenzied meerkat. Outlasting his undistinguished, unmourned Miami trio Triple C’s, the “human L.A. riot” gained sudden and widespread respect over the past year or two, thanks to unhinged mixtape cuts, striking guest verses, and clips where he does things like dancing to Michael Jackson at Six Flags. His flow sounds like it came about through experimental combinations of cocaine and molly—or, looking at that hair, his finger and an electrical socket. He’s a punkish provocateur on an unrelieved level that hip-hop may not have seen since ODB’s death, right down to his senseless/tasteless Nazi fixation.
Gunplay’s debut LP was supposed to come out on MMG several times by now, perhaps impeded by some record executive realizing, oh my god, we agreed to market an album by a guy with a swastika tattoo. (His varying explanations for the ink include “just my symbol of genocide to the bullshit”; I own a very nerdy T-shirt hat plasters “GUNPLAY” above a design belonging to the genuinely fascistic black metal band Burzum.) In the meantime, he’s been stuck dashing off mixtapes with titles like Bogota Rich, and the purgatory seems fertile, even when they have unlistenably bad mastering. The Bilderberg Group enthusiast still never stops yelling, for which we can all be grateful, but now he’s sneering succinct one-liners such as “get Franklins, no Arethas,” or exulting in every syllable of “salamander.” If Waka Flocka Flame remains unsurpassed in terms of sheer charisma, his closest parallel quietly became a better writer (and far more likely to talk you into a statewide manhunt).
Whether due to label vagaries or the kind of attention span that can only be attained by doing five different drugs simultaneously, Gunplay hasn’t dropped a single definitive tape. Maybe he never will. Maybe (quite possibly) the album he ends up releasing will have a lesser tracklist than one you could piece together from free downloads. But even if his new stopgap Acquitted features talentless underlings or a recycled highlight like “Bible on the Dash,” its 30 minutes still include a Dr. Seuss rhyme about cocaine trafficking, Gunplay asking “think I give a fuck what your computer say?” and the DJ drop “EVIL EMPIRE GANGSTERS…THEY’LL EAT YOUR LUNCH AND WRINKLE YOUR SCHOOL CLOTHES.” It would be a shame if the music industry ceased imploding for a moment and somebody tried to regiment him. As the man says here, “when I go, write my testament in graffiti.”
