Weight of the World

On paper, Maxo Kream has a lot to celebrate. In 2011, he turned a remix of Kendrick Lamar’s “Rigamortis” into a flurry of mixtapes and internet hype that, by 2014, had him opening shows for Chief Keef. All of this was before he released his 2015 breakout, Maxo 187, which shoehorned traditional Houston hip-hop values into rap’s then-current commodification of aesthetic in the wake of A$AP Mob and Raider Klan’s respective come-ups. Maxo’s studio debut Punken and follow-up Brandon Banks established him as a stylist unafraid to mix modern Texas bounce with deeply personal stories tackling the complicated web of crime, family, and lineage. For his trouble, he signed a massive $1.5 million record deal with RCA in 2019, and earlier this year, he became a father.

Rap’s spoils have pushed Maxo far, but on “Cripstian,” the intro to his latest album, Weight of the World, his mind is on anything but. The general paranoia that comes with his well-established Crip ties is bad enough, but his status report is packed with sorrowful snapshots: a cousin who recently died by suicide; a grandmother hospitalized due to COVID; a friend with a million-dollar bail. The beat—a storm of percussion, vocal samples, and synths courtesy of producers teej and Dom Maker—accentuates Maxo’s personal and familial anxieties, especially his attempt to bargain with God to visit his brother in Heaven: “Life without you is a struggle, I even had to scuffle, fight/They say I sacrificed your life like I had joined Illuminati.”

The moment is raw and tender, even by the standards of an artist whose last two albums have all the drug-pushing minutiae and family strife of a season of The Wire. As emotionally forthright as it can be, Weight of the World isn’t content to simply be a Brandon Banks redux. In fact, there is no broader concept or family tree narrative tying these songs together. On Weight, Maxo isn’t just a link in the chain; he’s become the whole piece, his successes, failures, pains, and triumphs forming the paisley patterns on the blue bandana wrapped around his heart.

Maxo’s music is deceptive because of how often he floats heavy subjects across varied beats. A song like Punken’s “Grannies” plays like a modern nursery rhyme, a light and bouncy melody paired with images of neighborhood stabbings, shootings, and illicit secrets. The trunk-rattling 808s and synths Maxo made his name on are still active and booming, but Weight expands his boundaries. His voice cruises over vintage soul samples on “Cripstian” and standout track “11:59.” Live bass and guitar bring new color and dimension to his thoughts of being robbed on “FRFR” and the frank admission of his drug problem on “Worthless,” while “Greener Knots” and “Mama’s Purse” are effectively boom-bap cuts. The fact that Weight features so many different kinds of rap across its 44 minutes and very little of it feels overwhelming or out of place is a testament to Maxo’s growing vision.

Maxo has never shied away from describing how familial ties have bound his life and forged his place within a network of criminals. But while Brandon Banks uses his father’s history and shortcomings as a framing device for Maxo’s coming-of-age story, Weight is told almost entirely through Maxo’s eyes. He’s surveying the battleground of his life with more honesty and maturity than ever. “I boast and brag ’cause it was not supposed to last,” he says at the start of “Whole Lotta,” summing up the album’s ethos. The most arresting record, “Mama’s Purse,” is dedicated to his mother, an examination of her trauma and history of shoplifting that fills in the gaps left by her absence on Brandon Banks. His admission that he “put a price tag on her love but can’t afford how much it’s worth” adds a tinge of sadness to every flex on the album.

And while Weight comes with plenty of trauma to unpack, it never feels portentous or gloomy. There’s still fun and plenty to be thankful for within Maxo’s chaotic world. He’s cutting up, even glowing, on tracks like “Big Persona” and “FRFR,” rhyming about getting his family out of the projects and how he’s moved more bags than Gucci. The secret to keeping every song so effortless and flowing, regardless of subject matter, is in the phrasing. He can boil something as complicated as friends betraying each other down to a simple and clever line like, “Seen niggas turn 12 like 11:59.” The rhyme scheme at the beginning of “Greener Knots” is an intricate chain of connecting memories: an uncle smoking a crack rock for the first time while watching The Rock before Maxo changes the channel to an episode of Rap City featuring the New York rap group the Lox. It’s a smooth first-person recounting of a traumatic experience buoyed by a pop culture reference and Maxo’s clear appreciation for wordplay.

Maxo’s love for rap and all the things it’s helped him accomplish is the beating heart keeping Weight of the World alive. For all the problems plaguing his mind—every family member he’s had to bury, every time he’s had to look over his shoulder for an unknown shooter—Maxo is thankful to have beaten the odds and to be rapping over Tyler, the Creator beats while building wealth for his newborn daughter. Weight is a complicated tapestry of pride, betrayal, and Houston hip-hop glory, every aspect of Maxo’s personality locking seamlessly into place to create the personal statement of his career.

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