Divine's gully rap gangster persona wears thin on new album

Deep in the rainforests of Central and South America lives the common basilisk, a largely unremarkable little lizard that has one fantastical ability—when threatened, it can run on water. Large fringed feet and a peculiar running style allow juvenile basilisks to run across 60 feet of water, earning the species the “Jesus lizard” nickname. But as they grow older, larger, slower, this miracle becomes harder and harder to perform. Adults can only keep going for a handful of metres before they sink into the water, once again subject to the laws of physics and vulnerable to the predators that lurk under the surface—no longer the indomitable super-lizards of their youth, now just another little critter trying to stay alive.

That’s quite an apt metaphor for Mumbai rap veteran Divine, who has just released his fifth studio album Walking On Water. For a decade now, he’s been the indisputable top dog of Indian hip-hop, a genre he helped push into the cultural mainstream. He’s put out a steady stream of commercially and critically successful singles and albums, collaborated with global rap icons including Nas, Pusha T and Vince Staples, and his story has inspired a Bollywood feature film (Zoya Akhtar’s Gully Boy).

In recent years though, Divine’s dominance has no longer seemed inevitable, his claim to the throne increasingly challenged by his gully rap peers as well as by a new generation of up-and-coming artists. His recent singles—a passable remix of Karan Aujla’s Wavy, the cringe-y Aag—have been short on inspiration, carried more by his legacy than on their own artistic merit. This album was supposed to be a triumphant return to form. Instead we get Divine trying far too hard to recapture old glories, to sprint miraculously on top of the water, only to be pulled under by gravity and the weight of his own hubris.

The eponymous opener is promising, Divine rapping about his truly generational run over Stunnah Beatz’s skittering percussion and cinematic synths. He name-checks his many achievements, reiterating his status as “rap ka asli Messiah” in a swaggering, low-slung flow. It would be a great launching point for an album that then looks towards the present and the future, that delves into what it means to be a 35-year-old rapper who has succeeded beyond his wildest dreams, exploring the joys and challenges of Divine’s new reality.

Instead, barring a handful of exceptions, we get the same flexes and self-mythologising, just endlessly repackaged. Divine has called the album a “declaration of evolution”. While that holds true when it comes to the sound and production, the lyrics rarely offer any hint of personal growth or a new, different perspective. On Jungle Juice, a fantastic Lorna sample and a marching beat set the scene for a fun tropical workout, but is let down by a hackneyed chorus that plods along like a domesticated beast of burden, rather than anything truly feral. Zoravar Hanjrah’s delightful flute-led beat for Doordarshan is wasted on tired, instantly forgettable braggadocio.

Sometimes, the old formula still works. Homicide’s shlocky horror-film beat has Divine rapping like he was still a hungry 24-year-old with overdue rent, while Triple OG shows that he can still wring some fresh juice out of his rags-to-riches story (and has some great bars to boot, like “Mujhe dekh ke bhagta aur naam tera Milkha nahin”). But they come towards the latter half of the album, and by then you’re too tired of less successful variations on the same theme (looking at you, Boom) to be truly impressed.

When he’s not trying to overwhelm the listener with a litany of his many triumphs, Divine experiments with more melodic and commercial sounds, to varying effect. Late Knights features a slinky, instant ear-worm hook sung by Divine himself, and a stellar Punjabi verse by Gurinder Gill, making for a song that will doubtless soundtrack many a late-night drive. The romance-focused Saucy and You & I are much less convincing though, despite the producers’ best efforts. Divine obviously wants to show that he can be the cool, charming playa too, but rhymes like “vo jab chalti toh lagti hai cheetah” are just too undercooked to make it work.

Tequila Dance is another highlight, a fun, catchy, club-ready track with a propulsive beat. Hanumankind delivers a great Southern-rap verse, while Divine is also on form as long as you don’t look too hard at some of the bars (“life is a bitch, par Nagina dance”, umm okay?) But then there’s Rain, an attempt at a slow-paced rap ballad that’s undercut by Divine’s inability to be vulnerable without tooting his own horn in every other bar. Even when he’s trying something new, Divine’s writing is weighed down by the baggage of his own legacy.

There’s still plenty to like on the album—the production is top notch, many of the features really shine, and there are still some glimpses of Divine at his best. But Walking On Water is the work of an artist trapped by his own success. As a 35-year-old millionaire, he can’t consistently conjure up the hunger and drive of his early years, but he’s too married to the gully gangster persona to properly reinvent himself. When he does occasionally try to break out of the mould, the results are half-baked, as if he’s unwilling to go all-in.

Divine’s lack of evolution—in terms of both flow and lyrical content—is even more evident when you look at the broader Indian hip-hop scene. From Dhanji and Shikriwal to Chaar Diwaari and Farhan Khan, a new generation of artists across the country are re-imagining what Indian hip-hop could sound like. They’re pushing boundaries and experimenting with new sounds and styles, creating music that sounds as new, fresh and vital as gully rap did in 2015.

Plenty of veteran rappers have re-invented themselves for a new decade, keeping up with upstart challengers and maybe even teaching them some old tricks. Divine certainly has the skill and resources—money, access to producers—to make that transition. But on this album, he’s so busy reiterating his status as a foundational figure in Indian rap history—maybe spurred on by the threats he can see in his rearview mirror—that he misses the opportunity to look forward and help chart a path for the scene’s future.

Bhanuj Kappal is a Mumbai-based writer.