SHIRT, a Queens, N.Y.-based rapper who just dropped his latest album Museum, is not what would be described as struggle rapper, but he is one—on paper, at least. He's an unsigned rapper, whom you've likely never heard of, who releases free and cheap music on the Internet—his latest is available for five bucks (via PayPal). He uses gimmicks to garner attention—whether that means faking a New York Times article or trolling pop stars or name-dropping streetwear power player jeffstaple and actually getting jeffstaple to lip-sync his video. He's a seemingly self-contained entity who considers himself one of the best rappers alive, who plays on the outskirts of rap with dreams of getting in by using the cheap and free DIY tools available to him. Yet, he's so much more.
Firstly, he's a beast of rapper who defines bully bars. His recently-released "I Don't Like Lorde" (which really is not too much about Lorde; the gimmick qua non-gimmick) features novel couplets delivered in a furious flurry: "Turnin' off your power switch/ I make it so your phone go silent—you think it's outages/ Nobody want to do it your way: let go the hostages/ I just came back from dinner—I had the octopus/ It's obvious—I'm a stand-up nigga, we the opposites," and so on. His music is rooted deeply in the kind of brash inner-borough boom and bap that the old guard of New York hip-hop has been clamoring for to "bring New York back" since the early aughts.
If rap were truly a meritocracy, SHIRT would be in the running for King of New York. Or, at the very worst, an aspiring prince with a kingdom of his own. But rap isn't a meritocracy; it's a game built on nepotism, co-signs and transfers of power. Even with the dissolution of cultural Empire and the creation of niche markets, audiences are still shepherded through new artists by established artists—whether that be Drake or Kanye's stamp or approval; or Nicki Minaj or Rick Ross making a "remix" of your track; or collaborating with ascendant rappers like Young Thug and Migos; or falling under the wing of a producer like Mike WiLL Made It or DJ Mustard. For all the past hype and current belief about the Internet democratizing the playing field, hip-hop still plays out as a lineage of inheritances, with the new guard being bequeathed the Emperor's old clothes as they ascend. Even A$AP Rocky, who seemed to be an organic case of a people's champion breaking into the ranks of rap's mainstream, was carefully orchestrated, a "long con" masterminded by A$AP founder and spirit guide, Yams.
Surely, there are artists who break through to different levels of success by using social media—whether that be Azealia Banks closing in on the Top 10 of Billboard's Hot Dance Club chart or Chance the Rapper finding live show success; folks become the avatars of a neutral playing ground, but hoisting them as examples of the whole is akin to saying black folk are okay because Oprah and Jay Z. The rising tide hasn't lifted all musicians.
It's not that SHIRT doesn't produce or use the means at his disposal—he's released at least a half-dozen albums since 2010, he's made numerous conceptual videos that, if not quite avant-garde, speak to innovation, art and downright silliness. He regularly releases non-album freestyles and one-offs. He's made a self-effacing video with Funny or Die that poked at rap stereotypes while pointing out his career highs, including his guest spot on Australian producer Flume's breakout album. But, to his detriment, he doesn't play the game full-bore. He's not SEO-friendly in so many ways. His name is SHIRT (formerly T.SHIRT), making Google-search evasive, even when you know exactly what you're looking for. There's no central clearing house for his music—there's some on Soundcloud, some on Bandcamp; some music can be downloaded, some can't; not all of his videos are on his YouTube channel—and his posts on his various social media accounts are not synced or syndicated. His third website is basically an "About" page with a non-branded URL. His blog and Instagram account are largely non-self-promotional aesthetic endeavors.
It's what Yams would do, but SHIRT is a guy that believes in the lie that art will win. (Tellingly, on Museum's "Rain Dance", SHIRT raps "I feel like this some shit that Yams would like" over a low-end, wailing horn.) He's also taken shots at this very website—"Fuck a Pitchfork writer, fuck the boys at Noisey/ They ain't do shit but but not support—it fuckin' annoys me," he spat on "Bengal Tiger". Which, again, is what Yams would do—but Yams would surely do it strategically.
SHIRT recently wrote to me via e-mail: "I don't understand the game man. Maybe never will. Thought I could make ill rap music and people would catch on. Not some Golden Era shit, like some shit right now talking about my life, right now." (Disclosure: SHIRT often sends me his music a day or two before it's released; many unsigned rappers do this. He's just one of the only rappers whom I'm genuinely a fan of and I find his music is worthy of listening to immediately. No monies have exchange hands and we don't RT or share IG pics for likes, because that's corny. More power to the rest of you who do so, though.)
The only reply to his lament is that commercial art is not a meritocracy, and never has been.
Even as this week brings a victory for Net Neutrality, the lofty promise of the Internet as an equal playing ground remains unrealized when an artist like SHIRT remains severely unrecognized—which is not to say that he should be a household name. He's not for everybody. But he is making the kind of music that many people are clamoring for. While he may be a struggle rapper on paper, in sound he's extremely confident, rapping about life and fashion and material shit over forward-thinking, aggressive beats with bars for days. He spins a good yarn, using non-linear literary devices that require multiple listens that serve as headphone and big truck music, all at once.
It's classic New York shit, the offspring of a pre-gentrification, pre-commoditized Downtown scene that melded high art with lowbrow aspiration; it's champagne and loosies, bottle service and MetroCards. And he pushes it all like he doesn't have a care in the world. Except when he does. On "This Pain", he flips Kanye West's "Grammy Family" to vulnerable effect. "It's not real pain, it's artist pain/ Getting mad you can't do your artist thing/ It's not that I'm hungry—it's a starving thing/ I wanna pull up, nigga, car insane." The struggle is real. The promise of the Internet is a lie.