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If a video game allowed you to create a rapper with all the statistics needed to attract mass attention in today’s digital climate, the figure you end up with might look like Philadelphia newcomer Skrilla. Physically, he’s regionless—or, better yet, doesn’t read as belonging to a specific American city. His understated fashion sense (primarily all black) is indicative of present-day Northeastern simplicity, where Nike Tech sweatsuits, Under Armour tracksuits, North Face bubble jackets reign. His long dreads and mouthful of gold slugs could land him below the Mason-Dixon or even in the Bay Area. Musically, his work isn’t technically drill because it doesn’t prioritize violence but, in texture and sound, it evokes palpable darkness. The distribution and use of addictive substances is a recurring theme in his work. And, most crucial to his rise over the past year, Skrilla is adept at engineering a mixture of fascination and revulsion with his visual output; you’ll want to look away out of sheer discomfort while still sneaking a peek because you can’t believe what’s happening.
The rapper staunchly represents Kensington—or, as he calls it, ZombieLand—a section of Philly that has long drawn headlines due to what’s often called the biggest open-air drug market in the United States. Like many deindustrialized areas along the Rust Belt, the neighborhood is weathering an opioid crisis; images of folks maimed by faulty injections or inebriated to the point of immobility have become fodder for social media spectacle in a way that, at the very least, feels like barely cloaked exploitation. However genuine his connection to the area and its citizens, this is the foundation of Skrilla’s rap persona. For the past two years, his videos and performances have featured, to varying degrees, people noticeably dealing with addiction. Sometimes they surround him while he’s rapping, many clearly uncomfortable in front of the camera. Sometimes they gleefully dance along to the brooding production. Sometimes, he’s administering Narcan to save someone from an overdose.
Zombie Love Kensington Paradise, Skrilla’s late 2024 project, underlined his affinity for the neighborhood while displaying his vocal flexibility and off-kilter delivery. A new deluxe version, which adds eight new tracks to the existing 19, suggests that, at his best, the Philly native could very well be on the road to rap stardom. Zombie Love’s deluxe starts with the Thankutimmy and Paculiarbeatz-produced “Big Opp,” a convincing opener in which Skrilla makes a compelling case for his skill for knowing how to utilize space. Rather quickly, he goes from listing off a number of potent substances (codeine, horse tranquilizers, oxycodone) to gleefully talking about his taste in fashion before stressing that he has folks around him that’ll handle his dirty work. Delivered in a congested whine, it’s busy but still measured. There’s no hook—most of his songs don’t bother with having one. Instead, Skrilla administers chapter breaks with signature outbursts like “Goooo,” “What the fuuucck?” and “It’s me!”
Throughout the project, those vocal qualifiers are paired with a production style that’s become synonymous with Philly’s new wave of street music. From Ot7 Quanny to Hood Tali to Lil Buckss and beyond, the city’s rendition of drill is characterized by its minimalism: ominous chord loops, very sharp claps, spaced-out 808s, and not much else. That leaves ample room for Skrilla’s scattered musings. “Palo Mayombe,” which follows a similar template, continues Skrilla’s years-long interest in West and Central African spirituality—something he says he’s practiced at home since childhood. When he fantasizes about hopping out of his car to shoot an adversary, he stresses that he’s protected by Ogun, to whom he sacrifices chickens (if you follow him on Instagram, you’ve seen the aftermath). On the slightly more uptempo Prod.Yari-produced “NYFW,” he elects for a more animated flow and raises his voice to the point of cracking.
Zombie Love's most fun addition to its deluxe version is “ABC,” a song that was initially performed as an On The Radar freestyle in January of 2024 where Skrilla—exercising his love for spectacle—hilariously wore a brown Viking beard mask. Produced by Broward County’s Trippy XVI, Skrilla builds on the age-old hip-hop tradition of rapping your way through the alphabet. In his version, E is for the ecstasy he enjoys, R is for running on the plug, and, of course, Z is for ZombieLand. He cleverly breaks up the predictable nature of this formula by periodically repeating back letters to himself as to suggest he actually might be genuinely freestyling. The feverish way he powers through songs frames Skrilla as something of a twisted rap jester—a person who harnesses dark forces while appearing either indifferent or amused.
It doesn’t always click, mostly due to his inability to trim the fat. If most of Zombie Love Kensington Paradise—deluxe or original—had observed this balance of Philly drill, African spirituality, perfectly paced flows, and a healthy amount of shit-talking, it would be a much stronger project. Unfortunately, Skrilla often prioritizes collaboration with fellow upstarts, hard-to-turn-down features, and random experimentation. On “Maybach Seats” and “On That Money,” popular New Orleans rapper Rob49 throws around inconsequential lines; each song would have been better without him, but the way today’s street rap ecosystem operates, cross-country networking is essential to extend one’s reach. Lil Baby sounds lost on “Talk,” where he tries to adopt Skrilla’s start-and-stop approach to make his voice fit on a sinister Philly drill beat. “F.W.A.G.” and “Wockstar” are attempts at making melodic music aimed at a love interest, but both feel like bad impressions of South Florida’s Loe Shimmy.
Despite the missteps, Skrilla impresses when he dances through harrowing beats, coloring outside the lines to bring something jovial to what is otherwise sinister. He’s a rap weirdo following a long lineage of Philadelphia hip-hop outliers. At face value, maybe you don’t align his output to predecessors like Santigold, Tierra Whack (who has repeatedly shouted him out), or Lil Uzi Vert (the two have a handful of unofficial collaborations), but he’s closer to them than he is Meek Mill, Beanie Sigel, or even Ot7 Quanny. It’s just gonna take a little more time to find out whether his music will outshine his excessive use of shock value. So much music in the realm of drill already depends on caricature to accentuate its validity. If ZombieLand and its denizens are sources of Skrilla’s love and the cherished community he claims it to be, he should probably consider ways of exhibiting that relationship that run counter to treating it like a Youtuber conducting hood safaris.
During a 2008 interview, Prodigy of Mobb Deep was asked if he ever feared death. Mortality followed him in every lyric he delivered, and few artists could capture that deep chill you feel when survival becomes part of your everyday life. His response carried the same tough energy that defined him, shaped by the reality of Queensbridge: “Every day I wake up like, ‘This might be my last day, and I’m not scared of it.’ I’m never scared to bite my tongue about something, or to come out and speak about something. Like, I ain’t scared of death. What you gonna do to me?”
Nine years later, at only 42, he passed away in a way that felt both tragic and strangely ordinary. While on tour with Havoc in Las Vegas, he was hospitalized for complications tied to his lifelong struggle with sickle cell anemia. There, he accidentally choked while eating alone and died. (His family would later file a wrongful death lawsuit against the hospital.)
Havoc spent years mourning his brother and bandmate, unsure how to properly honor him through music. “You wanna do something to send your comrade off with a 21-gun salute…because he deserves that,” he said recently on the Bootleg Kev podcast. With help from longtime collaborator the Alchemist, Havoc pieced together Infinite, Mobb Deep’s ninth album and part of Mass Appeal’s Legend Has It series. It marks the first posthumous release in the collection, which always comes with its own challenges. Yet Infinite flows as smoothly as any project of its kind. For better and worse, it feels like an album the duo could’ve released after 2014’s somewhat forgettable The Infamous Mobb Deep, an update to their signature gritty sound with a few hints of modern polish.
On paper, it feels like everything has been rewound. Aside from a brief COVID reference and one cringey Havoc line about getting canceled for a joke about chromosomes, most of the lyrics are either locked in time (“Taj Mahal” references the old Trump casino) or so universal they could live anywhere. Instead of calling on a team of producers like they did for Infamous, Havoc handles 11 of the 15 tracks himself, with Alchemist revisiting the dirty, menacing textures he perfected on Murda Muzik and Infamy for the remaining four.
The strongest Havoc beats from Mobb Deep’s golden era twisted familiar sounds into something dangerous. That edge is still there on songs like “The M. The O. The B. The B.” and “Mr. Magik,” where the tension mixes with the quieter, stripped-down percussion style he used on Kanye’s The Life of Pablo. It gives the low-end even more power. Meanwhile, Alchemist falls back into the rugged rhythms that made his name — dusty drums and echoing samples. The shimmering haze of “Taj Mahal” feels like something from an old Street Sweepers mixtape, while “Score Points” and “My Era” would fit perfectly on one of his earlier collaborations with Prodigy.
Prodigy is present on every track, never halfway in. He raps at least one verse on each song and even takes on some of the hooks. His voice is as cold and sharp as ever (“RIP, you can’t son me/My pop’s dead,” he spits on “My Era”), even when his writing circles back to familiar themes. There are still small gaps here and there, but Havoc and Alchemist treat his vocals with care. What matters most is that the bond between Havoc and Prodigy still feels unbroken. They were never flashy lyricists or complex writers — their power came from directness, from how rooted they stayed in LeFrak City no matter how far their fame reached. “Mr. Magik” gets closest to that old-school Mobb Deep feel, especially when they pass the mic back and forth, going at rivals, dodging CIA agents, and spending nights with mistresses. The same goes for “Easy Bruh,” a song driven by drums, faint piano keys, sirens, and some of Prodigy’s sharpest lines on the album (“Niggas mad? Put a cape on ’em/Now they super mad” actually made me laugh out loud). At its best, Infinite feels effortless, Mobb Deep comfortable in their seasoned, world-weary selves.
Things drift off when the production stretches too far or leans toward trends. Some guest spots make perfect sense, like Big Noyd showing up on “The M. The O. The B. The B.” with his trademark nasal intensity, or Ghostface and Raekwon bringing color and life to “Clear Black Nights.” But the Clipse feature on “Look at Me” feels more trendy than meaningful, and Nas, another close ally, drops in with one of those standard Mass Appeal-style verses that sound recycled from his recent albums. “Down For You,” which flips Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” into a hard-hitting love track, is a welcome addition to Mobb Deep’s catalog of street romance. Still, it loses impact when it reappears later on, this time swapping Jorja Smith’s hook for one by H.E.R. I can understand the decision, the beat goes hard — but it’s hard to take Nas seriously when he’s rapping about keeping a side chick like Tony Soprano. It’s one of the few moments that feels forced, and because there are so few, they stand out more.
Posthumous rap albums in the last decade have often been tangled in questions of control and exploitation. Thankfully, Infinite avoids those traps. It doesn’t carry the awkward tension that surrounded Gang Starr’s One of The Best Yet, nor does it feel stitched together the way DMX’s Exodus did. It never feels like Havoc or anyone else is cashing in on Prodigy’s legacy. In fact, it’s moving to hear them side by side again, even when Prodigy’s words hit too close, meditating on death while “staring up at the cosmos” on “Pour The Henny,” or dodging enemies both real and imagined as he gambles in Atlantic City. Still, much of the album feels like a return to familiar ground, reworking echoes of their strongest years. There are no moments that reach the levels of The Infamous or Hell on Earth, but Infinite does succeed in giving one of hip-hop’s greatest duos one final, heartfelt ride.
