Good and bad, Nashville extends far beyond the world of that memorably poor episode of Master of None, a truth that Starlito seems intent on proving. Why is it that only the largest cities may contain multitudes? Here, too, I suspect that the mythical Nashville of the Grand Ole Opry (the Detroit of vacant blocks, the Minneapolis of sub-zero temperatures) proves an easier compartmentalization than the mixed bag of reality.
With regards to the latter especially, “the struggle” carries a certain cachet when centered in Compton or, once upon a time, Brooklyn that simply doesn’t carry over to Nashville. Starlito’s stories are truths inconvenient for the nouveau Nashville resident, but they’re never anchored exclusively in glamorization or poverty fetishism, the narrative binary of which today’s rap public favors the extremes. It’s not that Starlito’s music lacks compelling facets rather, they are rarely so black-and-white as to make for convenient summarization.
Consider Future, from whom we now wish to hear only a single type of song consider XXXtentacion, who has proven so irredeemable by critical facelift that his enormous success is scarcely reported upon. Those who achieve both critical and commercial success rarely find the former first just as a deplorable chef might claim to have elevated, say, hot chicken, there’s a dangerous tendency to raise up rap specifically in the face of its perceived objectionability, projecting upon it a proprietary blend of 11 herbs and repentance narratives by which the visiting listener might render its themes acceptable. The grand intersection of rap and pop has made a conversational awareness of the former something of a necessity, which is a great victory for critics and a great loss for artists. There’s a lot of talk about gentrification on Hot Chicken, most directly in what could be the album’s mantra: “They’re trying to gentrify rap.” It’s true.
As much as we pay lip service to rap’s supposed post-regionalism, there remain formidable, if archaic, barriers to nationwide stardom (how New York rap radio managed to outlive New York rap, I’ll never know). The Mid-South is the last bastion of truly regional rap superstardom perhaps its native sons feel the need to leave their mark upon the city, or perhaps the city leaves it mark upon them. Not that Starlito’s going anywhere - as far as I’m concerned, he’s achieved a statuesque permanence in the city’s landscape.