JT isn’t fairly an afterthought, but it surely typically looks like she’s clocking in. Her solo monitor “No Bars” is meant to be her close-up, and the thudding Michigan-style beat makes you consider that she’s about to black out. As an alternative the music is fairly tame, filled with clean-cut bars about which manufacturers she want to be sponsored by. (“Acquired bitches tannin’ for this darkish pores and skin” is an effective one, although.) There’s a bit swag to her opening verse on the Magnolia Shorty-interpolating “What You Need,” even when it’s shortly upstaged by Miami going for broke: “Fuck them children, I’ma swallow that jit.” As a unit the Metropolis Women are at their greatest when JT is the core and Miami is the wild card. That’s the case with “I Want a Thug,” a twist on LL Cool J’s “I Want Love.” The best way JT rips into her verse (“He stroll in events and you already know the sticks is up/I stroll in events and you already know the dicks is up”) permits Miami to behave extra like Freaknik host.

By now you’ve most likely observed that there are a ton of apparent samples on RAW, as is the pattern in widespread rap. I’m not in opposition to that so long as the flip has a degree except for nostalgia mining, and for essentially the most half, the Metropolis Women are good about that. Turning “From the D to the A” into “Fuck the D to the A” (certainly one of their earliest loosies from 2017, sentimentally repurposed on this album) is intelligent and spiritually proper. The Usher hook on “Good Love” can go, however one factor the Metropolis Women ought to at all times do is reimagine bass throwbacks. The spin on the “Int’l Gamers Anthem” pattern on “Fancy Ass Bitch” is on the boring aspect, although with out it we wouldn’t have that explosive Miami verse the place she breaks out some French: “Hit Paris, oui oui.”

Then there may be “Face Down,” straight up first-rate Metropolis Women. Miami and JT take the idea of one of many filthiest—and most degrading—2 Reside Crew time capsules and reclaim it by flipping the facility dynamics. Because the pummeling Mike WiLL and P-Nasty beat goes, Miami lays down imagery that on this day and age might get its personal obscenity trial (“I make him face me, nasty, squirt in his mouth”) and JT units the tone with a type of bars that you simply wish to yell each time, even in case you’re a part of the demographic whose pockets she’s making an attempt to harm: “Shoutout my bitches gettin’ luggage out of niggas.” It’s two racing minutes that may make you assume that the Metropolis Women nonetheless obtained it.