Kanye Was "All Over" French Montana

French Montana and Kanye. Photo by some guy with a shitty camera-phone.

When the New York Post’s “Page Six” gossip trawl reported on Jay-Z and Kanye West’s "Watch the Throne” concert in New Jersey, there was an item that must have seemed bizarre to the majority of their racist, glassy-eyed, drooling readers. Backstage, Rupert Murdoch’s spies whispered, Kanye was “all over” French Montana, a rapper who few people outside the New York City mixtape circuit have ever heard of. The blurb of gossip was designed to make Kanye sound like a trolling homosexual, but it contained a crumb of truth: if the Louis Vuitton Don, arbiter of credenzas and leather kilts, thinks French Montana is worth propositioning, you might want to know who he is.

Yes, “French Montana” sounds like a variety of coffee roasted somewhere in Red Hook by a dude with a beard hanging in front of his neck like a ginger proboscis. It would have notes of vanilla and hints of smokiness from a distant forest fire. Or it could be a delicious granola mix, one of the popular kinds that is always too shallow in the plastic supermarket bins and includes more moth larvae than raisins. It wouldn’t be surprising if French Montana was also the name of an acrylic paint shade that falls somewhere in the ovum-hued space between eggnog and eggshell.

Exciting flavor profiles aside, Montana is a rapper from the Bronx. He’s originally from Morocco, but, in stereotypical terms, seems most like one of those hood Arabs who have spent lots of time selling vanilla Dutches and loose razor blades in a bodega. French does not officially speak for the underappreciated population of nutcracker brewers and Boar’s Head turkey slicers, but it’s nice to imagine that community has a representative in contemporary rap. His nasally voice is devoid of ethnic markers outside of a distinct New York City accent, and even that can be camouflaged in Southern inflections and singsong cadence. Any group can claim French Montana as one of their own, and he would probably be cool with it.

For the last few years, Montana has been cranking out mixtapes for an audience of teenage weed dealers. Like Lil Wayne, he’s from the generation that values prolificacy over all else. Newcomers such as Kreayshawn and ASAP Rocky inked lucrative record deals off discographies that were as miniscule and painstakingly pruned as Bonsai trees, but Montana’s resume is more like a wall covered with vines of ivy. His recent output includes Mac Wit Da Cheese, Mac & Cheese 2, Casino Life, Coke Boys, Coke Boys 2, The Laundry Man, The Laundry Man 2, Cocaine Konvicts and Coke Boys Run NY. Alongside Max B, the adorable Harlem rapper currently serving time for felony murder, armed robbery, and kidnapping, he recorded Coke Wave and Coke Wave 2. That’s just newer stuff. For the greater part of the last decade, French has been putting out Cocaine City DVDs, battle rapping and periodically beefing with uptown rappers like Jim Jones and Hell Rell. His affiliations have included Akon’s Konvict Music, Debra Antney’s Mizay Entertainment and Rick Ross’ Maybach Music (sort of). He’s not hard to find.

Diving into Montana’s catalogue is enjoyable, but unnecessary to understanding his appeal. It would be like shoving your face into a bucket of buttered popcorn to figure out what one kernel tastes like. While his recent production spans from Lex Luger’s methamphetamine horror movie music to Harry Fraud’s slick repurposing of samples from the Animals and SNAP!, Montana always bobs along with a drowsy consistency bordering on the autistic. Every verse is the same: vague boasts, non-specific threats, simple punch lines, echoed words in a neo-Greg Nice style. That last technique makes his lyrics memorable—you can just regurgitate his last word and feel as if you’re rapping along with him. For example, on MMG compilation’s “Big Bank,” it goes like this: “50 thou on that Rollie (Rollie) / 50 thou bet on Kobe (Kobe) / 62 on the Maybach (Maybach) / hundred-clip for the payback (payback).” Besides the Kobe reference above, he has compared himself to NBA players Chris Paul, Carmelo Anthony, Dwight Howard, and Gilbert Arenas—each time with lines about being a “baller” or a “shooter.” Montana likes basketball more than baroque similes.

If the preceding description of Montana reads like criticism instead of praise, it’s because he’s an acquired taste. He doesn’t have artistic characteristics that leap out with the immediacy of man on fire. His voice lacks Tyler, the Creator’s demonic huskiness. He doesn’t display the polysyllabic jiggling abilities of Kendrick Lamar on his newer material (his battle raps did, though). MF DOOM is an entirely different creature, one who strings together sticky webs of arcana. But, for me, the shift from disinterest to passion was similar. One day, it clicks: you’re suddenly a fan, and all you want to hear is French’s lethargic-ass raps. His greatest strength, one both obvious and overlooked, is that he makes good records. Repeatedly. He never ascends to glittering acmes of artistry, but his baseline performance includes catchy verses, dope production, and hooks that stay so anchored in your brain that you inadvertently spout, “You can call it that (Hey)” while buying generic cream cheese at C-Town.

In an era when an interesting YouTube video and a blizzard of Tumblr reposts can transform a fledgling musician into a paradigm-shifter worthy of thinkpieces on misogyny, cultural appropriation, and post-regionalism, Montana is unlikely to inspire Slate podcasts. He’s a Bronx mixtape rapper who wears fitted New Era caps and riffs about stacks and choppers. This does not plot him on any unique axis of urban culture that collides with skating, Goth, #whitegirlmobproblems, frat-core bro-wave, or David Guetta. Montana is fully formed, easily explainable, and understood. He’s not a slimy fetus, glistening with amniotic fluid that we prod and sniff in hopes of predicting future reach or predestined greatness. Potential is a seductive quality—sometimes Lil Wayne becomes Lil Wayne—and Montana is not a mysterious 7-foot basketball prospect who wrestled panda bears before being discovered by an alcoholic coach searching for redemption. But he will not disappoint you. If you enjoy music that is described as “likable” and “listenable” instead of “challenging” or “important,” French Montana is a brand you can trust.

Montana’s biggest hit to date, Shot Caller, was a perfect New York City summer record. It borrowed a breezy horn sample previously used on Lords of the Underground’s 1992 track “Funky Child,” cribbed lines from Busta Rhymes and Black Sheep, and sounded fucking fantastic while played in a tinted-out Maxima gliding down the West Side Highway. Because I live in a bubble, I couldn’t tell you if the song was well-received anywhere else (probably not). But the track helped raise Montana’s notoriety to a plateau where he has been courted by both Kanye and Rick Ross. It’s unclear if they share my enthusiasm for his refreshing predictability, knack of living up to modest expectations, and command of negative space. But they’re clearly enamoured by the role he has wedged himself into: the hottest dude on the streets in New York. It’s a position someone always occupies—whether it’s 50 Cent, Maino or Uncle Murder—but besides the imaginary throne and scepter, it’s not a foolproof indicator of future success. Still, it’s rewarding to root for a dude who marched a long slog to relevancy instead of finding a shortcut to overnight success.