Bout to Blow: 10 Dope Songs You Should Be Hearing Everywhere Soon

It's time for Bout to Blow: Spring Fling edition.

This column has two goals: 

1. To use the many tools available to us today to get some idea of what songs were really bubbling with "the people"—in other words, to insert some science into the process. 

2. To contextualize that information, because raw numbers in a vacuum would have you thinking an anonymous rapper dropped onto a stellar track was hip-hop's next big rap star when he was more like an empty, tattooed vehicle for a dope beat and a hook. 

The post is obviously intended to be somewhat predictive. There's also an element, though, that is cheerleading. Many of these songs might be flourishing in certain markets, but could use wider exposure. They're tracks where the metrics suggest some forward momentum, even if the clubs and radio play don't reflect that. 

What trends have we spotted as we enter 2015's fourth month? A perhaps unexpected hit record from Kendrick Lamar's "dense" album; Lil Durk reaching a true breakthrough moment; and Snoop Dogg returning to the Charlie Wilson well again.

Check out this edition of Bout to Blow: 10 Dope Songs You Should Be Hearing Everywhere Soon.

David Drake is a writer living in New York City. Follow him @somanyshrimp

I dunno what made Snoop, the Neptunes, and Charlie Wilson (the Gap Band kids, write it down) think it was cool to title a record "Peaches N Cream" when there's already an R&B classic with that title. And you can't rag on them too much for plowing familiar territory when that decade-old material was already a throwback to the '70s and '80s. Yet this record does show a lack of imagination on the part of all parties involved. All of these criticisms feel abstract and academic when the record is on, of course—because it's a relaxed, breezy party jam you'll struggle to find much fault with in the moment.

Now well past the waning days of Texas' historic run as a mecca of Southern rap tapes, a new generation of Texan rappers has made a push for recognition; some adopt outside influences—Sauce Twinz as Texas Migos, Maxo Kream as a more gangster A$AP Rocky. BeatKing's sound owes a debt to the titanic club beats of the crunk era, particularly the Memphis sound of groups like Three 6 Mafia—a much more refreshing influence in 2015. And thanks to his strong personality (and sense of humor), it's allowed BeatKing to stand out where other artists in the Lone Star State struggle for attention. (Of course, a side hustle flipping viral news into rap songs hasn't hurt his name recognition, either.) Originally released with 5th Ward JP and Yella Breezy on BeatKing's solid Club God 4, the single version of "Stopped" finds BeatKing solo dolo with an extra verse. "I used to give a fuck but then I stopped," is a great song concept; it's also just a funny line delivered totally straight. While the song isn't on the verge of taking over—Texas hasn't thrown too many numbers on the board in the past few years—it definitely seems like a record that could do well with a broad audience if given the shot.

Lil Durk's Def Jam debut, Remember My Name, is due out May 12. "Like Me," with high-profile production from Boi1da and Vinylz and a chorus by R&B's most effective hookman, Jeremih, promises to be the kind of record that could be Durk's true popular breakthrough. Its sparse, windswept production is closer to the style Drake's gravitated to over the years—the sound of Billboard—than it is to the synthesizer symphonies Durk built his name upon. Yet it works: in between Durk's words is his music's power, a haunted emotional grandeur. Although not as liable to be a radio hit, Durk's brutal underground record "Purge" might be even better. "Like Me"'s grisly flip-side, "Purge" paints murderous threats on a canvas of mournful torment. Rest in Peace to Durk's manager Uchenna Agina, who was killed last week in Chicago after attending an anti-violence event.

Yes, we've all heard it already—but it's on the verge of getting even bigger. Kevin Gates is an anachronism; while the rest of the industry throws "hits" at the wall and tries to locate a career after the fact—call it the OG Maco effect—Gates' long, slow rise was built by steadily capturing a broader audience—and refining and perfecting his own songcraft. Gates has had dalliances with hits in the past—"Satellites" did well enough to earn an inessential Wiz Khalifa remix, and "Posed to Be in Love" captured a very real raw emotion that may have been a little too real for the upper reaches of Billboard. But "I Don't Get Tired," named for Gates' ubiquitous catchphrase, has earned its spot in this list with a long, slow climb on radio more common a decade ago than in today's viral environment.

Whoever Jamie Foxx has writing his hits these days deserves a promotion. "You Changed Me" isn't a novel subject—Bernard Wright's "Who Do You Love" has my favorite take on the subject—but in its low-stakes ambition lies a successful hit record that is easy to forget but hard to deny. Despite living comfortably in his 40s, Jamie Foxx's work here successfully bridges generations, a kind of generalized blankness that lets it apply to everyone from the grown'n'sexy crowd to Weeknd fans new to the slow jam lifestyle.

Last month I threw the cards on the table for Meek Mill, Big Sean, and A$AP Ferg's "B-Boy," and as soon as I mentioned it, it was quickly overtaken by "Monster" as the Meek record of choice. As a showcase for Meek's own rapping, it is the superior release—"B-Boy" belonged to Big Sean, after all. But musically they're very similar, with "Monster"'s uptempo drums pumping like pistons over a subtle marimba loop. Despite its tense energy, Meek sounds reasonably relaxed, his athletic flow hitting its stride at a steady jog.

Since transitioning from their start as up-and-coming rappers from the jerk scene to Hit-Boy's own personal Rae Sremmurd, Audio Push have released a string of underrated singles—from the stoned menace of "Grindin' My Whole Life" to the martial strut of "Parade." "Quick Fast" is another hot one, its pretty loop polished to a chiming blur. More so than Rae Sremmurd, Audio Push have a nonchalant rappity-rap style that feels refreshingly out of time. On some records, the Kendrick influence can shine a bit bright, but over dynamic pop-rap beats like these, it's barely a concern. Wale ends up with the song's best line, though: "Watch gave her change of heart/Cartier? Cardio."

As someone who's followed Tink from her career's early days, it's been gratifying to see her ascend to her current position as one of Chicago's most promising young stars. Tink is a woman of tremendous talents, albeit one whose collaborators haven't always been up to her level; part of the reason her alliance with Timbaland feels so promising is that Tink feels, in some way, like an incomplete project on her own. She can sing and rap, and has that rarest x-factor of presence—star power. What she needed was material that matched her multivalent ambitions. As much buzz as she's gotten, she has fewer than a handful of truly great records to date. As a test case, "Ratchet Commandments" is promising, if a bit indebted to some of Timbo's past work. The song's themes are faintly ridiculous, condescending and slut-shaming the lost women of Instagram. Pointing the finger at men in a brief stanza toward the end feels like a halfhearted attempt to evade charges of sexism. But Tink's dismissive attitude is authentically felt, a dirt-off-your-shoulder anthem for when you're feeling a little bit righteous.

A song that's barely there leaves little to say, but DonMonique struck on something undeniably decent with "Pilates." Over understated snap production, lyrics tumble out as if by happy accident, rhythms slackened, a relaxed-fit record less likely to spark a party than a spliff. The all-casual-everything formula feels like an attempt to downshift to smaller, relatable motions. Like a hip-hop version of the rock band Pavement, and much like the crew at Awful Records, DonMonique seems interested in transforming rap music's big gestures into halfway ones, its grandiose moments to low-key conversations with shrugging self-awareness. It's hip-hop becoming more comfortable with half-stepping.

When it initially dropped, "King Kunta" felt like a minor rip of a DJ Quik record with Mausberg or Suga Free—which is to say, dope, but not exactly world-changing. "No idea's original," as Nas once said after having stolen it from someone else. Yet despite all the discussion of his album's denseness, "King Kunta"'s appeal is straightforward and long-lasting. Never mind the context of To Pimp a Butterfly—in the context of American airwaves, where DJ Quik hasn't been a presence since the mid-'90s, the sound of "King Kunta" would be absolutely refreshing. Long live the funk.