On the sinister 2022 single, "Close Friends," his murmurs froth as they're sent through sludgy Auto-Tune. Sometimes he'll bring his voice a hair's breadth from your ears like he's doing ASMR. He practically fanboys talking about a random studio session with one of his favorite artists, Playboi Carti, who praised his music and played him the scrapped deluxe edition of Whole Lotta Red. He cracks jokes constantly - about his idol-turned-mentor Future, about struggling to censor himself in a Pistons halftime performance, about his vision for his own Jimmy Fallon-esque late-night show, about rappers in the Far East biting the Michigan sound. (He hates doing interviews.) Right here, facing a rack of screens and speakers, is the mode in which the Detroit rapper seems most comfortable - a studio rat through-and-through studious, skilled and focused.īut when Veeze refocuses his attention toward me, his ridiculous personality immediately jumps out. Swiveling in an office chair, Veeze seems exhausted, maybe slightly annoyed by the presence of another journalist deep in a rare press run.
Tye deftly stitches the neck-breaking drums that have become the trademark of Michigan rap to the pattern.
When I enter the Manhattan studio where I'm scheduled to meet Veeze, he's working, looking over his producer Tye Beats' shoulder as he chops up a sample of "EARFQUAKE" by Tyler, The Creator. Rapping in a deceptively versatile mutter-croak, Veeze ekes out dense, snake-like verses that are as captionable and clever as they are transparent about his vices.
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