From the off-the-cuff absurdism of an Ayoolii upload, to Mula Mar’s squeaky experimentation with Autotune, Milwaukee is home to one of America’s most eccentric regional rap scenes. Capitalizing on nostalgia for a local micro-genre called “jack music,” which reached peak popularity during the late-aughts for its extreme tempos and unique clap patterns that hit on all four beats per measure, this new wave of Wisconsin rappers have launched the sounds of their city’s past into the future.
In 2022, Certified Trapper rose to prominence as the unofficial ambassador for Milwaukee rap’s insular, D.I.Y. ethic, dropping self-produced, home-recorded music videos almost daily, brute-forcing his way into the underground’s collective consciousness. Though his music is amateur in practice, laden with kitschy stock synths, offbeat flows, and detuned basslines, Trapper manages to break all the rules in a way that sounds unmistakably his own. Though jarring on first listen, subscribing to his YouTube channels tends to rewire listeners’ brains over time: Sure, some of Trapper’s cult following stems from how funny his music sounds, but at a time when it’s easier than ever to make professional-quality, well-produced trap music from your laptop, his bare-bones artistry feels transgressive.
Though Certified Trapper has unceremoniously uploaded dozens of mixtapes to DSPs since 2020, Trapper of the Year is his first full-length project of new material since signing to Columbia imprint Signal Records last year (or his sophomore record if you’re counting December’s I’m Certified, which collected hits from his massive back catalog). It’s also his first record to feature collaborators from outside of his home city, seemingly in an attempt to align Trapper with the similarly frenetic, punchline-heavy sounds originating from the neighboring scene in Michigan.
Early single “Orthodox,” a back-and-forth with Detroit’s Babytron atop outsourced DamJonBoi production, was jarring upon release. The track pushes Trapper out of his wheelhouse and into the tryhard, Lyrical Lemonade-adjacent sphere of memeable rap that’s still palatable to the average listener. The jittery beat locks into rigid quantization, and the additional clarity accentuates the disparity between the two rappers, unlike the lo-fi, Certified-produced cut that appeared on Tron’s Out on Bond EP in February. While Babytron’s delivery is deadpan and technically proficient, drawing from his usual rolodex of sports and video game references, Trapper’s appeal comes from the way his punched-in bars stutter, overlap, and flutter. “You ain’t get your shit from Johnny? I don’t give a fuck,” he raps, interrupting his sentence mid-bar with the following line: “Glock on my body—I mean, body on my Glock.” His creative process plays out in real-time: as if he’s slamming the backspace key or cut-and-pasting sections of his own voice. Though this collage-like writing style usually fits with his unusual beat selection, here it sounds incongruous with its surroundings.
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Fortunately, the remainder of Trapper of the Year is entrenched in the distinctive aesthetic he’s known for. Its self-titled opener demonstrates the sound at its best. On the instrumental front, Trapper weaves a tangle of buzzing lead synths, chintzy pianos, and arpeggios that swerve in and out of key: The beat feels equally indebted to early electro or Detroit techno as it does the ringtone rapper era, two movements that reached far beyond the limitations of their practitioners’ equipment toward an imagined future. While the accompanying verse deals in vague imagery of firearms and brick fares, it’s their delivery that sells the song. “I’m the trapper of the year,” he repeats, letting the Autotune warble and drag at the end of each line. It’s alien, it’s cacophonous, and it’s wonky as hell, yet the sheer maximalism of it all is trance-inducing, especially as one track bleeds seamlessly into the next.
As the album progresses, Trapper tinkers with his own formula to enter even more experimental territory. On sections of “Wassup,” he’s flowing over little more than a pillowy sub bass and distant flicker of synth, chanting in a whispery, sing-song register. “Do the Extra” is backed by programmed guitar riffs that sound like they were lifted from a late ‘70s no wave record, carving sinister pathways across a canvas of droning 808s. Adlibs echo and intersect. Hooks plunge into an abyss of dissonance. In the end, though, the chaos is controlled and contextualized by those steady 8th-note claps: It takes skill to make music this weird that works in a club setting.
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In the tradition of Lil B, Jad Fair, and The Residents, Certified Trapper’s music vaguely colors within the lines of pop conventions, scribbling feverishly—sloppily, even—with every crayon in the box until he’s invented brand new hues. Though the additions of Babytron and BLP Kosher feel a bit forced, the pro-grade mastering and cleaner mix on Trapper of the Year emphasize his quirkiness without buffing out its edge. For those bored with diatonic scales and triplet patterns, the album offers a chance to explore avant-garde composition while testing the limits of your car’s speakers.
