The Atlanta-based rapper Mulatto collects scraps of language on her iPhone, words and phrases that come to her suddenly, or that she's picked up while performing online during the pandemic. Not surprisingly, one of the words that has come to mind during the past year is “pandemic”.
Listen to Latto perform and you understand what she heard in that word. On the XXL freestyle, she raps “pandemic” fluidly over a lazy instrumental, so the word sounds like urgent speech. On “Youngest N Richest,” she raps it more deliberately atop a frenetic track fretted with a tense violin sample. “Pandemic” becomes “PAN-demic,” the stress displaced from its natural position. In reaccenting the word, Latto charges it with her Southern drawl. She puts Atlanta on it. She also does the very thing that makes rappers poets: She works the language. “Rap is definitely poetry,” Latto tells me. “We just do it on top of a beat.”
Many poets would agree with her. Nonetheless, a line of demarcation persists between rap and poetry, born of outmoded assumptions about both forms: that poetry only exists on the page and rap only lives in the music, that poetry is refined and rap is raw, that poetry is art and rap is entertainment. […]
But just try rapping to a beat. It requires the orchestration of lungs and vocal folds, teeth and tongue – not to mention rhythm and invention. […]
“You listen to the flow first, and then you catch the lyrics,” Latto says. She often starts writing by mumbling sounds, which she'll record on her phone, capturing the cadence in nonsense syllables. Later, she'll go back and fit words to the beats, but she starts with rhythm because she knows that her audience will, too. “After they get over the flow and actually listen to what I'm saying, they're like, ‘Oh, wow!'”