Jack Harlow Jackman Review: A Self-Conscious Attempt at Semi-Conscious Rap

Jack Harlow wants us to start taking him seriously, and Jackman, the Louisville rapper’s third studio album, seems hellbent on confirming exactly why he’s deserving of this newfound respect. Clocking in at a brisk 24 minutes, the album’s 10 songs are tight, tautly delivered verbal torrents that carry little of the pop-crossover appeal that Harlow has become known for. Instead, he gets introspective—or, at least, gets as introspective as one could expect from the dude who’s written songs like “First Class” and “What’s Poppin.”

Jackman’s minimalist approach feels like a conscious rebuke to the commercial trappings of last year’s tepidly received Come Home the Kids Miss You, and is, oddly enough, reminiscent of J. Cole’s similarly spartan 2014 Forest Hills Drive in terms of its form and content. Jackman is filled to the brim with humorless Cole-esque struggle bars about how Harlow is putting in more work than just about everyone else in the industry. Both Harlow’s and Cole’s albums serve little purpose outside of flagrant ego-tripping while simultaneously operating under the pretense of “keeping it real” (both also share an equal number of questionable references to ejaculation).

In true populist fashion, Harlow conflates modesty with wisdom, at one point condescendingly rapping about wanting a girl who’s “natural” on “No Enhancers” as proof of how down to earth he is. There are limits to how far he can really delve into a weighty topic while still operating within the parameters of his chummy every-dude persona. It’s not that Harlow is unwilling to tackle risqué subject matter, but he lacks a unique perspective—or anything that suggests that he’s seriously thought about any of these matters for more than a few seconds.

For the most part, Harlow operates in two contradictory modes: pedaling universal surface-level platitudes about relatable matters such as “the grind” or going for easy humble brags about receiving Sunday Service FaceTime calls from Justin Bieber, which he gleefully does on the limp “Ambitious,” which is barely kept afloat by its plaid-out soul sample. Even when Harlow is finally able to string along a few compelling narratives on Jackman’s final two tracks, “Blame on Me” and “Questions,” it doesn’t amount to much beyond engineering surface-level pathos.

Whenever Harlow does try to dig a little deeper, like when he clumsily raps about cancel culture on “Gang Gang Gang” or cultural appropriation on “Common Ground,” he speaks on these issues with some semblance of authority but little self-awareness. On the latter track, he’s quick to go after “condescending suburban kids” who grow up to be “rap journalists,” as well as “frat boys” liberally slinging “ebonics” around their predominantly white neighborhoods.

Where does Harlow see himself in this racially charged scenario? Seemingly nowhere. Or worse, when he finally addresses his whiteness, as he does on “It Can’t Be,” he turns the moment into a punchline, making it rather difficult to take him or Jackman all that seriously.