early life crisis

Every age feels old when you’re in it. At 18, I sighed and wondered if I’d ever recapture the carefree ease of 16; at 22, I mourned the fancy-free 18 year old I’d been. I’m sympathetic to Nettspend, the 18-year-old white rapper from Richmond, Virginia, who’s mythologized by his fanbase, dismissed as a juvenile culture vulture by detractors, and self-styled as “Future, but Gen Z.” He’s spent four years in the long shadow of cloud rap’s mainstream explosion at odds with uncs and peers alike, all while most kids just listen to Don Toliver anyway. What’s a worn-out, mid-career teenage trap star to do?

In Nett’s case, announce and then roll back announcements of a new album that’s been prone to leaks and sandbagged by indecision. early life crisis, which finally dropped last week, feels nostalgic for the present, trying to make something work with a blend of late-stage rage production, Cartispeak, and faux pain rap that never quite becomes his own. The album foregrounds Nett’s ear as a selector and his charisma as a bad influence, giving producers like CXO and Rok room to stretch out their wildest ideas while he spiritually rubs his hands together. But when Nett abandons the disaffected rapscallion bag he controlled on his 2024 mixtape BAD ASS F*CKING KID, the project faceplants into overfamiliar rehashes of Rolling Loud headliners past: too much “I Miss the Rage,” not enough smiling because it happened. It’s as if he’s outgrown his own references, but can’t fathom what to try next.

Nett’s big studio record poses an inopportune question: Is he just getting too old for this shit? Perhaps it’s because, much like adulthood itself, the album arrives after five to seven false starts, as well as the 15-track BAFK. On his proper introduction, Nett seems keen to fashion himself in the mold of new-wave rage stars like Che and Osamason, burning his low-end to a crisp and putting on his best Keef squeak. But he’s not ready to eschew the Justin Bieber comparisons yet—not now that the crooner’s stock is back up. “I get soft-spoken, girl, when I’m talking to you,” he mews on closer “lil bieber,” on the hunt for his one less lonely baddie. Among the strongest moments on the album, it’s a “Don’t Stop Believin’” for the Twitch generation, riled up by writhing ad-libs and sprinting timpanis.

The sit-forward-and-lock-in moments on early life crisis are unassuming: cheekily rhyming “limoncello” and “mellow” like Tobehanna’s finest on “hey, hello”; the nasty, dirtbike-revving bassline on “sick” that keeps an otherwise laggy song in perpetual high gear. Nett isn’t exactly known for lyrical acumen, but his punch-in-and-trail-off delivery stands out on an album that oscillates unevenly between party highlight reel and war story. “When I’m in the jet/I get to put up my legs,” he preens on “stab,” a CXO and Lg joint that brings to mind Tokyo Drift and “steep one” sent simultaneously through a shredder. In this mode, Nett is a ball, a regular Jason Shepherd having his way on Universal’s dime.

On occasion, the obviousness of Nett’s references does pay off. “crank” successfully channels the bounce of Carti’s “Slay3r” and Thug’s So Much Fun era, something Nett rarely manages to do on this album. early life crisis’ hit, “shades on,” kits out a nasty sample of Mike WiLL Made-It, Miley Cyrus, et al.’s “23” into Project X-style rhapsody. If BAFK’s “Skipping Class” tricked the 30-and-over set into connecting with their inner teenage truant, this one is for the weathered zillenials who remember Miley gyrating on a foam finger at the 2013 VMAs. Wider implication of referencing Cyrus’ own dalliances with AAVE aside, “shades on” is a blast—Nett mixing left-field references to Ray Charles with flexes about his skincare routine (“Ooh la la, my face soft”). The track works so well because, not in spite of, its slapdash vibe: a Notes app one-off spit into BandLab for the love of the game.

But when Nett focuses too hard on being someone else, early life crisis suffers. “pain talk,” a low point, puts him opposite Osamason, whom Nett simply can’t out-Carti, even if you’re willing to believe his claim that “me and you don’t trap the same.” (YoungBoy Never Broke Again makes for a better pairing on “masked up,” bringing some refreshing tonal urgency to Nett’s characteristic half-thoughts.) The pairing of “who tf is u,” where Nett pushes the benefit of the doubt to its outer limits with bars like “my baby mama batshit,” and “trap house 2016,” where he resolves to “burn the trap house” like Elmo engulfed in flames, is also a tough hang. The Nettspend fantasy works best when the tone is Home Alone, not 8 Mile.

For better or for worse, BAFK leveraged Nett’s youth, race, and aura-based kayfabe to position him as the little post-SoundCloud engine that could. On a commercial level, it worked—his tours sell out, he walked for Gucci at Paris Fashion Week, Paris Hilton likes his song “paris hilton.” But artistically, Nett seems adrift in the sprawl of hip-hop culture, uncertain of what he brings to a moving-target table that’s more crowded by the minute. “Do you miss the view at the beach?” he flirts with a fan on “stab,” as if yearning for the playful stoner romp of BAFK highlight “Beach Leak.” Stuck in the debaucherous fun of the past and paralyzed by competition in the present, early life crisis sounds more like a case of early-onset arrested development.