A pretty clear line can be drawn tracing Yeat’s musical evolution since he first blew up in 2021. Initially, there was the incredible run of 4L, Up 2 Më, and 2 Alivë: a seamless melding of hungry delivery, bouncy and hypnotic beat selections, and playfully tongue–in–cheek lyrics, half of which stuck in the form of inescapable vocal stims (“I been spinnin’ off these percs like I’m a laundromat”was generational shit). 2023’s AftërLyfe took an abrupt turn, with fewer memorable bars, but a fruitful dip in experimentation and introspection.
But everything changed this February, with the release of 2093, a full–blown cinematic experience of an album, complete with dramatic–as–hell cyberpunk instrumentation that trap had never seen before. It was an exhilarating listen, the rapper's most critically acclaimed by far. But its audacity came at a cost: his signature hypnotism and clever hooks were almost nowhere to be seen. Novel, sure—but at the end of the day, it just wasn’t fun to listen to.
So where does that leave us? Does Yeat’s latest album, LYFESTYLE, live up to the high–concept peaks of 2093? Does it revive Yeat’s once–eccentric songwriting and delivery? Tragically, it does neither. LYFESTYLE feels like an empty husk, entirely too engrossed in a singular aesthetic of badassery that bleeds into and sours everything, from its vocals to its lyrics, and even the mastering. It’s sweaty as fuck, on its knees begging to be seen as cool—a need so palpable that you might get exhausted by the third track.
The root of the issue here is the instrumentals, marred by pale and airy imitations of 2093’s expansive arrangements. All over the record are fat 808s and distorted synths dragged out for maximum aural saturation, but that’s about it. It continues a trend that began with 2093: the instrumentals guiding the other elements, taking up so much space that they end up watering down the melodies and performances. It’s already a step down from Yeat’s earlier work, which fully utilized vocals for addictive hooks. Here, it’s at its worst, with painfully barebones and flat trap beats. The entire album tries but can't be sustained on movie trailer music.
Of course, this uninspired direction trickles into everything else. It’s whiplash–inducing to compare the bored, phoned–in delivery on nearly every track on LYFESTYLE to an older masterpiece like "Turban," where Yeat’s voice was the most dynamic instrument in the studio. Say goodbye to zany melodic switch–ups or off–beat inflections—all LYFESTYLE offers are the very baseline elements you need for a Yeat track. Some songs are worse offenders than others, like the mind–numbing "ON 1," but it’s hard to pick out examples when everything is so deeply same–y and sluggish—a stark falloff from the psychedelic flair that kept his work so cerebral and kinetic in the past. And the mixing doesn’t help at all; instead of leading the charge, Yeat now trails behind his worldbuilding with ostentatious word vomit from what sounds like a mile away.
Before AftërLyfe, Yeat’s lyrics were, above all, funny. Boastful but wildly unserious, his bars were full of nonsense phrases like “luh gëek,” and replete with alien typing quirks. Afterwards, he leaned harder into his otherworldly persona, but took a turn towards introspection and higher–concept songs. "Mysëlf" on AftërLyfe reflected on drug abuse. Nealry every track on 2093 was a meta–commentary on egoism. But on LYFESTYLE, there’s nothing to write home about—just endless braggadocio. It would be palatable if at least a bit interesting, but it feels like Yeat’s abandoned all sense of personality here too.
On 2093, Yeat took pride in overcoming drug addiction, something he had previously admitted to struggling with. On LYFESTYLE, however, Yeat seems to regress to his old habits, with lyrics replete with references to heavy drug use. "GONE 4 A MIN" feels like a celebration of addiction; although acknowledging the worst of its effects, Yeat still embraces drinking and doing lines wholeheartedly, with bars like “Why she like, ‘why you always high all the time?’ Goddamn it / I be out my mind on this shit.” "SO WHAT" doubles down on this, as he gets intensely defensive of getting high, seemingly to the point of anger (“And I’m fried, so what? / And I’m high, so what?). Within the context of his on–and–off struggle, outlined so illustratively in the past, the regression in 2093 is painful to listen to.
Yeat has another classic in him, but this record is a misstep in every way imaginable. LYFESTYLE is as much a failure as Up 2 Më is a success.
