In the upset of the century, Travis Scott’s voice is not the first that you hear on JACKBOYS 2, the second iteration of the Houston rapper’s Cactus Jack compilation project. Ushering the listener into the label’s renegade world is the legendary Bun B, one-half of Texas rap icons UGK, touting the potential of Houston becoming the next rap stronghold, delivered in the form of a faux-radio interview. A fair amount of mythmaking and shot-calling occurs in the 30-second intro: Bun evokes DJ Screw’s immense impact and idyllic candy paint imagery before dropping an eye-widening statement, promising that JACKBOYS 2 will be the record to convince the rest of the country that Houston is up next. The claim is uttered in such a terse manner that it almost feels sarcastic when it hits your eardrums.
Yet, it falls in line with Travis’ bulletproof self-efficacy. In the years since the 2019 release of JACKBOYS, his standing as one of rap’s resident raging superstars has rarely been challenged, despite all the tragedy and tabloid gossip. He’s ballooned to the size of a red giant star, wielding spectacles like Astroworld and UTOPIA to move weight in merchandise and ticket sales with an unnerving constancy.
But as Cactus Jack’s label head, Travis’ attention has been somewhat neglectful. It’s hard out there for the likes of Don Toliver, SoFaygo (one album and a slew of low-impact EPs after signing in 2021), Sheck Wes (one full-length project since 2018), and the newly signed Wallie the Sensei. JACKBOYS 2 is another attempt to rectify this situation, where Travis tries to build a blockbuster event to let his charges showcase their stuff. Though, similar to the first edition, the Cactus Jack roster is relegated to supporting roles, reducing opportunities for an already shallow talent pool. It’s especially magnified by paint-by-numbers trap and rage production that coasts on the tenets what’s hot right now instead of pushing the envelope with quirkiness and individuality—whirring synths and pounding snares bleed together for songs at a time— while feeling devoid of earnest effort by its spearheading figure, manifesting in a record that pushes you closer to sleep than it does to rage.
It’s as if the crew attempted to translate the “big cinematic event” feeling that colors Travis’ albums (and, to a lesser extent, Toliver’s solo releases like 2021’s Life of a DON) into a compilation mixtape without any of the foundation needed to support it. It’s obvious from the outset: “Champain & Vacay” should break the doors down with Waka Flocka Flame ad-libs, but the subdued, spaced-out synths combine with Travis’ uninspired rebuttals at Pusha T creates a distractingly incongruous energy. It gets to the point where you begin to take Travis for his word when he raps, “On tracks not givin’ a fuck/On wax not givin’ a fuck,” on “2000 Excursion.” Even the superstar bells and whistles seem to be perfunctory on JACKBOYS 2—congratulations to 21 Savage’s ghostly ad-libs on “Kick Out” and Future and Playboi Carti’s obligatory weave over an unmemorable F1LTHY beat on “Where Was You”—which seems counterintuitive at its core.
Very little room is left for the rest of JACKBOYS to display any chemistry (with Travis or each other) or aptitude. They remind me of an AAU basketball team that never practices together, only showing up to the gym once a tournament to grab highlights for their own IG pages. Worthy clips are welcome surprises: Toliver’s Auto-Tune croons trying to break through the atmosphere, Wallie the Sensei’s saccharine vocal runs on “Can’t Stop,” and Sheck Wes’ free-wheeling repetition over producer AM’s subtle electronic beeps and whirs on “ILMB.” But there seems to be a basic misunderstanding about what it means to put your crew in the best position to succeed. The dizzying list of production credits somehow results in a flattened terrain where stock, hyper-efficient rage and trap beats drone in the background, helping to ensure that the few opportunities for Sheck Wes and SoFaygo to do Opium-karaoke are wholly unremarkable.
What is the point of JACKBOYS 2? The most cynical reading is that it exists as a “Travis Scott featuring …” project, solely designed to give Harmony Korine another chance to make a short film and let Travis peddle another merch package. But evidenced by the fact that the Houston superstar is only a positive contributor in sparse moments—meeting the occasion earnestly to match Glorilla’s raucous energy on “Shyne” (justice for the dueling Barrington Levy impressions) and handing the ball off to SahBabii on “Beep Beep”—this doesn’t feel like an adequate answer. Showing the fruits of Cactus Jack Records’ roster also does not seem to be the priority, either, making one question Travis’ ability to boost anyone’s profile, save for Toliver and his nicely carved niche.
Occam’s razor, then, says this is a collection of loose cuts from each artist strewn together as physical proof that the JACKBOYS crew still exists, at least in name. It does make you think of Bun B’s unfulfilled promise on the introduction and wince, wondering what it means that the city’s biggest star’s vision for the future rings so hollow.
Bruce Springsteen was right. At the risk of simplifying the value of this impressive box set, giving away the main storyline of his new biopic, and flattening decades of mythmaking, the reality is just what Springsteen always claimed. Even when he tried the material with his closest collaborators, using some of the strongest songs he had ever written, the most powerful version of Nebraska is still the one he recorded at home in Colts Neck in January 1982. Just a lonely man in his early thirties with an acoustic guitar, a TASCAM PortaStudio, and an Echoplex, capturing solo demos for what he thought would be a full-band project. Everything that came after was an experiment.
But what an experiment it turned out to be. For those who don’t know the story, here it is in brief. After the success of his upbeat 1980 single “Hungry Heart” and a long streak of relentless touring and critical praise, Springsteen entered one of the most creatively intense chapters of his life. He began by writing the grim ballads and shadowy lullabies of Nebraska, which he then tried to recreate with the E Street Band and in solo studio sessions before ultimately choosing to release the home demos. He did no press and no tour, which left him free to keep writing, and that work became 1984’s massive commercial hit Born in the U.S.A. During that time, he tossed aside enough songs to fill multiple albums, later shared through collections like Tracks and Tracks II: The Lost Albums. He also found time to help revive the career of early rock’n’roll icon Gary U.S. Bonds, co-writing and co-producing two comeback records, contributing a Grammy-winning song to Donna Summer, and hitting the gym with enthusiasm.
It might sound like a golden moment, but for Bruce, it felt like a creative cage—the kind of brooding, restless chapter that inspires a filmmaker to cast Jeremy Allen White to play you on screen. The twist is that the most crucial moments, from the original Nebraska to the electric and explosive version of “Born in the U.S.A.,” happened quickly and naturally, before anyone could complicate the process. Unlike anything else in his official catalog, Nebraska 82: Expanded Edition offers a clear window into that moment. Within this tight collection is a sharper, more complete image of one of Springsteen’s most legendary and personal records—still the one he treasures most—along with rare insight into his creative rhythm.
The set includes a newly remastered version of the album, a disc of solo acoustic outtakes carrying the same raw emotion, the legendary Electric Nebraska sessions, and a live album and film capturing Springsteen performing the record start to finish in an empty New Jersey theater earlier this year. The live material feels reverent, with beautiful support from former Bob Dylan bandmate Larry Campbell. The remaster reveals that, despite the album’s association with the birth of lo-fi, the sound is richer and more intentional than much of what followed. Listen to the last half minute of “Atlantic City” through headphones and focus on how the acoustic guitars, mandolin, and background vocals fade away layer by layer. It’s a reminder of how much careful craft went into creating such stark beauty.
Unlike his earlier box sets for Darkness on the Edge of Town and The River, this one isn’t about showcasing how many different paths he could have taken. It’s about sharpening the vision. Where Nebraska is known for its unbroken mood, Electric Nebraska jerks between heartland laments and roaring rock songs across its eight tracks. These takes feel like rough sketches more than finished recordings—mostly Springsteen on electric guitar and vocals, Max Weinberg on drums, and Garry Tallant on bass—hinting at an album that could have been more accessible and mainstream in 1982. And yet, this raw version of “Downbound Train,” with its clanging rhythms and unsettling bridge, may be one of the strangest things he ever put to tape.
It’s easy to see why Springsteen thought these sessions didn’t work. Versions of “Open All Night” and “Johnny 99,” which on the original album burn with desperate energy, sound here like something a bar band could fall into with a casual count-in and some good-natured rockabilly riffs. On one hand, it highlights how his delivery gives shape and gravity to his songwriting. (Compare the early acoustic “Thunder Road” to its triumphant album version for proof.) On the other hand, slipping into different musical skins was a key part of his process then. He could turn something as playful as “Pink Cadillac” into a moaning, shadowy reflection of itself, as if the character had returned to earth wrecked and hollow, fixated on one thought.
For devoted fans, these shifts are what make the box set essential: witnessing how songs like “Working on a Highway” transformed from a chilling ballad called “Child Bride” into a loud, laughing, raucous number. Some of the outtakes, like the quietly devastating country song “Losin’ Kind,” have been passed around unofficially for years. But this set also reveals two entirely unheard songs: “On the Prowl” and “Gun in Every Home.” In the first, he ends with a dizzying repetition of “searching,” drenched in slapback echo that mimics the sound of a live band. In the second, he paints a nightmarish portrait of suburban life and ends with a bare, defeated admission: “I don’t know what to do.”
Within a single song, Springsteen might take the role of a killer hiding in the dark or a runaway on the move, either escaping or facing the question of whether being caught is actually a strange kind of salvation. That’s the point of sitting in the dark: you can’t see the exit. Yet sometimes he caught brief glimpses of where it all might lead. Along with the original demo tape, Springsteen sent a letter to his manager, Jon Landau. He went through each track, detailing the grim subject matter, floating arrangement ideas, and occasionally letting a sliver of optimism shine through.
He scribbled a note next to “Born in the U.S.A.,” which appears here in two early forms: a heavy acoustic blues and a full-band rocker stripped of its later synths, leaving no doubt about how the narrator feels. “Might have potential,” he wrote. That small spark of belief carried him through. He knew these songs would take work, and that truly understanding them would take time. But he also trusted that at the end of each hard-earned day, there would still be magic in the night.
