Daniel Son and Futurewave are two artists who deserve the hype, no questions, no qualifiers. There’s a lot of cats in 2024 getting a pass off sheer social ape politics; they’re constantly releasing new albums, they’re moving units through the fancy vinyl boutiques, they’re doing tours. They’re everywhere. The product might be a little lacking, but they’re here full-time and it’s a small world.
What Futurewave built with Daniel Son is very different: the quality control has been world class, and their allegiance to the filthiest of boom bap dirt sermons has earned them the respect of their peers and their idols. No amount of work ethic or bribe money can replicate that.
It might seem ridiculous to say their crew put Toronto on the map, but: they did. No disrespect to Ghetto Concept, either; that catalog holds up today but they could never write or spit like this. You can talk about Billboard numbers all you want, but Choclair, K’naan, K-os, Snow, Drake, none of these cats are really moving the dial in terms of the kind of authenticity that DITC or Mobb Deep are synonymous with. That’s exactly what Futurewave has built for his team, one flawless beat at a time.
Flawless is important to quantify here. I’m sympathetic to producer snobs who feel his stripped-down canvases are too simple, but that’s because I, too, still make the mistake of trying to over-complicate the funk. We’re the ones doing it wrong, not Nicholas Craven or August Fanon.
So it’s not that every beat Futurewave signs his name to is revolutionizing the artform; it’s that nothing he’s ever dropped has a single detail out of place. That only sounds easy or simple to people who have never seriously attempted this. That goes triple for those of you who own great gear, been doing this for decades, and you’re still posting up mediocre microwaved meals on your little digital platforms.
“No Man’s Land” is potent writing, full of rich sensory details, juggling flow patterns like a professional killer. His pen game is subtle & smart brutalist architecture. Daniel Son loves to sound simple for a few bars then bend a steel chair over your skull a few seconds later. His delivery has always been his greatest weapon, tucked in the acceleration space between 60 mph and 90 mph. Even his most laid back verses bring more juice to the booth than 99% of his living competitors.
I had to run this back a few times to make sure I wasn’t being too generous, but facts are facts. This is a single, bud. No notes on this one. A short, urgent blast of spoken cinema over some luxuriant grime, I believe this this to be a more or less perfect rap song. Five Dickies.
