There’s a track that came on my playlist the other day, a bona fide smash from about 2012. The beat was undeniable, a time capsule of trunk-rattling 808s. But as I listened, really listened, to the lyrics—a sprawling manifesto of unchecked machismo, casual conquest, and a parade of relentlessly objectified women—something unexpected happened. I didn’t feel hyped. I didn’t feel nostalgic. I felt… a little embarrassed. It sounded, for lack of a better word, corny.
This isn’t about dismissing an entire era. The early to mid-2010s were a powerhouse moment for rap, birthing subgenres and superstars who dominate today. The production was innovative, the energy was infectious, and the swagger was the point. But that specific brand of swagger—the one-dimensional, chest-thumping, hyper-heteronormative fantasy—hasn’t aged so much as it has fossilized. It feels less like a flex and more like a relic.
The core of the corniness lies in its exhausting simplicity. That era often presented a cartoon of success, where wealth was only validated by the number of “foreign” cars and “ices” on the watch, and where masculinity was a fragile performance measured by sexual dominance. Women in these narratives weren’t characters; they were set dressing, accessories with names, existing only to validate the rapper’s status. The bravado was so loud, so incessant, that it looped back around from intimidating to insecure, like someone constantly reminding you how tough they are.
The modern landscape, thankfully, got bored with the cartoon. Today’s hip-hop, at its best, thrives on nuance and interiority. We have artists like J. Cole wrestling with fatherhood and infidelity, Kendrick Lamar dissecting trauma and therapy, and Megan Thee Stallion reclaiming sexual agency with a power that turns the old objectification trope on its head. Rappers like Noname and Saba explore societal structures, while others like Lil Nas X and Frank Ocean have openly expanded the very definition of identity and desire within the genre. Vulnerability, introspection, and specificity are no longer kryptonite to credibility; they are its foundation.
This shift reflects a broader cultural awakening. Conversations around toxic masculinity, consent, and the spectrum of human experience have moved from the fringe to the forefront. Listening to a song that reduces half the population to prizes feels out of touch, not with the “old school,” but with the current school of thought. The performative hardness feels like a costume, and we can all see the zipper now.It’s crucial to say this isn’t a puritanical scolding. Hip-hop has always been, and should always be, a space for fantasy, for boastfulness, for celebrating success hard-won. The difference is texture. The braggadocio that resonates now often comes with a wink, a layer of self-awareness, or is balanced by other human dimensions. It’s the difference between a character and a caricature.
That hit from 2012 still has a great beat. I might even let it play through for the memory. But the lyrics no longer sound like power. They sound like a lonely guy shouting in a room he built himself, wondering why the echo is the only thing that answers back. The swagger didn’t disappear; it just grew up. It learned that real confidence is quiet enough to hear someone else’s story, and complex enough to tell your own. And compared to that rich, complicated sound, the old bluster doesn’t just feel corny—it feels curiously, and tellingly, small.
