This doesn’t mean sticking to her style of mass appeal: “You’re very different from me-I’m selling boobs, I’m selling ass and everything, but if I was to hear your song, I wouldn’t care,” she says to a more bookish type. But she’s also Rhythm + Flow’s voice of reason, verging on cynicism as she tells contestant after contestant to focus on marketability. Her flamboyant outfits and voices-she’s lately loved affecting a Mafia-don mumble-liven up the first two episodes. “Because these kids nowaday, they really like simple stuff.”Ī new superstar herself, Cardi is the show’s most reliable entertainment. “You definitely can rap, but I’m trying to see you on the outside,” Cardi B tells one. In place of the Mariah Carey melisma that many young vocalists try to use to prove their chops, a lot of the newbie emcees attempt the high-speed, rat-a-tat delivery of rappers such as Twista and Eminem. Subject matter counts so does songwriting so does novelty so does audience engagement. But the formula isn’t so straightforward for rap. Singing competitions tend to portray stars as needing a combo of vocal ability and, per the title of one Idol knockoff, the charismatic X factor. If the attempt at creating “event” viewing ends up paying off, it’ll be for the same dizzying confluence-of culture, craft, politics, and performance-that makes hip-hop America’s most thriving art form right now. Though the show forgoes Idol’s public-voting component, the release schedule is still engineered to amp suspense: In a rare move for Netflix, the 10 episodes will be parceled out in three chunks over three weeks. (The main panelists, Cardi, T.I., and Chance, work together in the L.A.-set premiere, and they then canvass their respective hometowns of New York City, Atlanta, and Chicago with guest judges.) Gauzy segments spotlight the backstories of the competitors, who are chasing a $250,000 grand prize. Early episodes feature celeb judges separating amateur wannabes from could-bes in frankly judged auditions. In questions like these lie the tensions that make Rhythm + Flow irresistible, even as the rap competition recycles American Idol’s clichés. Which is it? Should the next great rap star cry in public, or not? Does the answer depend on whether they’re a man or a woman? Or does the answer depend on who’s doing the judging? Royce da 5’9” tells her, “It’s okay to cry. Chance the Rapper takes issue with her enunciation.
Twista compliments her for saying her name during her performance, something too many rappers supposedly forget to do. T.I.’s advice comes to mind three episodes later, when the aspiring Milwaukee rapper Kaylee Crossfire delivers a furious verse about destroying her competition. “Boy, you gonna hate yourself for cryin’ on TV.”
Chance the Rapper complains that his song is too “dark” and “abrasive.” Cardi B chides that it’ll be too scary for white people. In the first episode of Netflix’s Rhythm + Flow, the aspiring rapper Inglewood IV delivers a furious verse about police brutality to a packed nightclub and a panel of superstar judges.
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