The Atlanta rapper rode his blistering hype into a night of pandemonium.
On a quiet Saturday night lit by an enormous moon, I turned into the parking lot of an indiscrete brick building on the westside of Atlanta. I almost questioned whether I was in the right place, but every sight thereafter only served to confirm that this sketchy warehouse was indeed the correct spot. The two lines of attendees that nearly wrapped around the building featured a youthful yet age-ambiguous crowd. Most were dressed in a grungy, Opium uniform: black beanies, Rick Owens DRKSHDWs, all-black stockings, hoodies, skinnies, black Air Force 1s. Even the parked cars were black. With my green monotone outfit, I felt like a poser; this ceremony was for those who were “Glokk fr,” as someone behind me clarified. Some people said they came all the way from New York and Miami. Another spent his last few dollars to see Glokk instead of getting a haircut.
Inching forward to enter the venue, I saw security patting down random concert-goers in line. As I walked through the door, I was greeted by a large skull sculpture with fiery scarlet eyes. I ignored it and went into the crowd. After an hour of moshing to Ken Carson, Osamason, and Playboi Carti, people were taut with anticipation. Glokk40Spaz came running in to the sound of the DJ yelling, “What the fuck is goin’ on Atlanta?!”
Glokk’s energy was ripe. This was his first show since being in prison for two years, and was bound to be the apex of the momentum he’d been building. While locked up, Glokk’s catalog of Soundcloud loosies had garnered more attention than ever, leading to a dramatic increase in both fanbase and influence among underground rappers.
From the glimpses we’ve seen, Glokk has a ton of potential. At his peak, he is a furious mixture of Young Nudy, Cdot Honcho, and Yung Mal. On his song “POTHEAD & STONER” off his 2024 project Da Real Oso, once F1LTHY’s heart-palpitating 808s drop, Glokk starts rapping, and he doesn’t let up. He just keeps punching. The semi-automatic snares and thumping bass paired with Glokk’s chilling lyrics jolt your senses with a rush that is akin to a jump scare in a movie. He can also get in his melodic bag, with jazzy pluggnb tunes like “Spaz & Blues” on his even groovier album Spaz&B or, my personal favorite, the ever-so wavy “Remember Me” off of the skipless Glokk Files.
Some of Glokk’s veteran fans have compared the current Glokk to Shaq on the Celtics and Derrick Rose on the Cavaliers, saying that his pre-prison years were his peak, and they might have a point. Glokk has a deep bag, but it seems that ever since he got out of prison in September, he’s zeroed in on a bland, bass-boosted sound. (Maybe it has something to do with his new deal with Columbia Records.) On his most recent project Slaughter House Recordz, his first recorded after prison, of the seven songs featured, the first six are nearly identical, bass-heavy sprints; after just a few plays through, it’s easy to become fatigued by the album’s redundancy.
Despite that dud, the hype hasn’t let up. On a phone call with me before the show, his booking agent, Jack Ellis, raved about the Glokk40Spaz phenomenon. While on tour with Osamason, Ellis saw firsthand how “kids would go crazy” when DJ Rennessy played records like “Bad Man.” His grassroots presence solidified that “his music would translate well to a live audience.” So shortly after his release, Glokk and his persistent team managed to secure a venue just nine days before the concert with no proof of concept and extensive pushback from the Atlanta Police Department (APD). Even with a short sell period, the 800-cap warehouse sold out. The scene was set for the “punk hero” to hold his homecoming show.
As he began his set, Glokk instantly sensed the vibe: “I ain’t gon’ cap, we finna go crazy bruh. I ain’t gon’ lie.” The dark organ synths and bullet snares of his song “Fuck Sum” begin to play, and the crowd went ballistic. As if the large skull staring me down wasn’t enough, I now knew that this was not a concert. I had infiltrated an evocation. Amid the mystical energy, moshers continued to ebb and flow in all directions like waves. But with each sway of the crowd, I noticed some swimmers were drowning in the “sea.” The DJ paused the music, and Glokk reprimanded his disciples: “Back up! … Chill out with that pushin’, wait until the song start.” His scolding was both disciplinary and invigorating, as he shortly proceeded to yell “YEAHHHH!!” and jump like a pogo stick, revving the audience’s energy back up to 100. Only one song in, I thought it would be a long night ahead of me. Glokk’s voice already raspy, the DJ ironically transitioned into “My Last Breath.” With a near identical organ and snare pattern to “Fuck Sum,” I didn’t realize that this song was distinct from the previous one. Everyone around me seamlessly chanted each bar as if they co-wrote the song themselves.
Then, the bass of the next thunderous record “Decoy” dropped. I had no time to brace myself—my entire chest (and heart) began to bang at an equivalent frequency to the peals of the tectonic 808s. No song had ever assumed autonomy over my body in this way. All I could do was submit myself to Glokk’s aggressive Atlanta flow and join the congregation in this ritualistic recitation. I was hypnotized until the DJ paused the music. While I was in a trance, the moshers had managed to knock down the barricades. This time there was a shift in Glokk’s penalizing tone. He threatened to leave and end the concert. The crowd and barricades were reset, and the DJ took it from the top, playing “Fuck Sum” again.
Looking back, this was textbook insanity—why play the same song that started this chaos in the first place? Finger guns and gang signs were once again thrown in the air to the sound of one of my favorite producer tags, “Wake up F1LTHY!” I was psyched. And that meant his OG fans were even more lit. Screaming with excitement, fans looked around to seek the smiles of approval from each other, and the moshing continued with a newfound vigor.
Unfortunately, the cult-like reverence of Glokk’s audience quickly became its Achilles Heel. Only seven songs in, APD shut down the concert. “There’s kids in there,” one of the officers said on my way out. Although the moshers were warned not to get too riled up, they were too astounded to comprehend language. Each time the bass syncopated with their heart rates, the moshers sent shockwaves throughout the warehouse over and over again until finally… Snap! The barricade broke altogether. Glokk started walking backstage. Pulling myself out of the haze, I woke up and headed straight for the exit without looking back. While leaving, I felt like I was in Gotham City, surrounded by people with busted lips, crash-outs wearing ski masks, and cops toting AKs. Even as I drove out of the lot, I noticed an altercation. Some belligerent kid in a devilish red shirt was nose-to-nose with a police offer, arguing. I don’t think he noticed the two other officers standing right behind him. But, I gave it no further and got the fuck out of there.
Had it lasted longer, this concert would have been a key, post-prison moment for Glokk to convert new fans to devotees. More importantly, though, it would have been an opportunity to reconnect with many of his OG fans, especially those who have been listening from the beginning. Glokk is set to perform next at Rolling Loud Miami 2025.
