“Whoa, Kenny!” If you’ve been paying any attention to rap in 2018, chances are you’ve come across that producer tag, the trademark of Greenwich, Conn. native Kenneth Blume III. Under the alias “Kenny Beats” the 27-year-old has positioned himself as one of the genre’s most prolific and consistent “new” producers. In 2018 he’s produced songs and entire projects for a who’s who of established stars like Vince Staples, Freddie Gibbs, and KEY! as well as rappers on the rise like Rico Nasty, ALLBLACK, 03 Greedo, 10k Caash, and JPEGMAFIA.
Musically, Kenny is a chameleon who doesn’t lend artists his signature sound as much as help them develop and distill their own. He tailors his beats to artists’ requests, does vocal production, and often mixes and masters the final product. On Rico Nasty’s Nasty, Kenny handles much of the production duties, giving Rico Nasty two of her defining metal-inflected hits with “Rage” and “Trust Issues.” For Vince Staples’ FM!, Kenny Beats crafted beats that ranged from Bay Area-influenced slappers (“Outside”) to the springy bounce of contemporary L.A.-street rap (“Feels Like Summer”)—a sound he has contributed to with his production work on 03 Greedo’s God Level project.
The thing is Kenny Beats isn’t all that new. Before his current ubiquity put him in the running for 2018’s “producer of the year” title, he was a young beatmaker struggling to get a foothold in the crowded and competitive world of hip-hop production. He has been making beats since he was in high school and inviting local rappers to his dad’s apartment to record in a closet that doubled as a vocal booth. After high school, his passion for rap led him to New York City for an uncredited and unpaid internship for indie rap impresario Jonny Shipes and his Cinematic Music Group. Kenny parlayed the relationships he cultivated through the internship—and selling weed on the side—into placements on early music from Top Dawg Entertainment artists like Ab-Soul and ScHoolboy Q. While he was fortunate enough to produce for the rappers as their profiles were rising, his placements—too infrequent and not for enough money— weren’t paying the bills. “I made a record for Kendrick Lamar [eventually released as Smoke Dza’s ‘Ball Game’] when I was in college, but I couldn’t pay rent doing what I was doing,” Kenny explains over the phone from his studio in Los Angeles. But where rap fell short EDM and the amorphous party music dubbed “trap” provided a path for Kenny Beats.
While a student at Boston’s Berklee College of Music in 2010, Kenny met Ryan Marks, and formed the DJ duo/EDM group LOUDPVCK during their senior year. “Someone [at Berklee] started showing me what was going on with electronic music—like Flosstradamus and Baauer—I realized I made beats like this all the time and they didn’t have any rappers over them.” Intrigued by the world of EDM and its possibilities he dove into the scene head first. Kenny’s rise with LOUDPVCK would be quick and unexpected. Within a few months, his life was more like a professional musician’s than it had ever been. “I just started doing it with my friend and immediately I had a manager and an agent and flights to L.A.”
After three years of globe-trotting, climbing the EDM world’s ranks, and doing official remixes for acts like the Chainsmokers, Kenny felt unfulfilled. What began as a side project and a way to earn some quick cash became an all-consuming endeavor that sucked him of his energy. He longed to work with rappers and make hip-hop. In 2017, while LOUDPVCK was touring the globe and hitting festival stages, Kenny decided to call it quits and return to first love, hip-hop. But before reasserting himself in the rap production world, he studied. He paid close attention to innovative production styles of burgeoning scenes in Philadelphia and Detroit, he learned how to mix and master like the pros he looked up to, and in the process, became more of an in-house, top-to-bottom song factory than a typical beatmaker. On the heels of recent releases like JPEGMAFIA’s “Puff Daddy” single, Vince Staples’ FM!, and 2 Minute Drills, his collaborative EP with East Oakland’s ALLBLACK, Kenny Beats spoke to Pitchfork about the impressive year he’s having and his tailored approach to production.
Kenny Beats: I’ve always wanted to do exactly what I’m doing right now and that makes songs top to bottom—doing everything. I had to pivot [away from hip-hop] a little bit, but it was fun and I had A$AP Ferg on songs and Nipsey Hussle on songs. I was still working with rappers but I started getting into it, playing all these shows and traveling the world—things I never thought I’d be able to do. One day it hit me like, “What is the music I really wanna make?” I understood how I got there and it was great but [I had to ask myself] in ten years, what did I want to be known for? I didn’t want to be perceived as a musician in that way. Rap is the only thing that’s ever mattered to me. That’s what I wanted to make, and I had an epiphany: I need to do this right now.
I think that’s one of my biggest strengths. I learned so much about production. When I’m mixing rap, even if it’s like some super street hard shit, I’m calling EDM producers to ask about compressors and reverb. Those dudes know more than anyone I ever met. Being in the EDM world taught me that nothing’s impossible. There are so many resources that EDM producers get put onto on day one that rap producers don’t find about for five years.
I didn’t even send my manager or my best friends the entire record before it came out. The way Vince moves and the way the project was shaping up, it was all happening so perfectly and I didn’t want to jinx anything or give anyone any sort of heads up. There’s certain stuff that I love to preview and get out there. I think it’s really important to give people a push on the internet. Like, you can show the label Rico Nasty getting 40,000 retweets on a snippet of her dancing in my studio. They’ll be like, “OK, we need to drop this now.” For someone like Vince, he’s really got it ironed out and I wanted to keep it secret and when it hit it’d speak for itself.
For me, it’s about custom tailoring. With Vince, he came and took a bunch of beats I’d made for random stuff, but we didn’t start getting the best records on the project until I started specifically making things that he was explaining to me. The descriptors he gave me weren’t vague at all, so I had an idea of where to go with it. My favorite songs that we made were all cooked up on spec, and that, to me, is why the project feels the way that it feels. People will go through 50 beats from a producer and pick the best ones, go make a song on that beat. That’s cool, but someone coming to me and hearing what I’ve been working on, picking out pieces of all of that, and then adding some of their own ideas is way more exciting. Now, they’re getting the exact canvas they want. They’re not trying to fit what they’re hearing into what the producer has already made. It’s now about working together and creating this new thing that we’re both imagining but doesn’t yet exist. If you’re just sifting through somebody’s 50 beats you won’t ever get a record like that.
At first, I had no idea that he was working on a project. I had never met him before. As soon as we met up, I wasn’t really asking questions, I was more gauging where he was at right then in terms of music. I played him some stuff I’d been working on, instrumentals I hoped would get him excited. We started going through specific kinds of vibes and it slowly started taking this shape. It wasn’t really me specifically saying, “Oh, I wanna give him this kind of beat,” it was more Vince dictating the tempo and feel and me reacting. There was an arc to everything he asked me to do when I went to his studio. He always hears the finished version of his work and I’m just trying to fit in with that. I just wanted to give him the best versions of all the different stuff he was looking for.
Short of a Kanye situation where their schedule is impossible, or if I need to start working with a kid right now and I can’t make it to where they’re living—those are the only two exceptions. I get hit up all the time from every verified rapper with 1,000,000 followers like, “Yo bro! You got the sauce right now. Send me beats!” Naw, that takes everything away from what I do. As soon as I can’t be in that room and have an opinion, I can’t change the reverb on your vocals … I’m not forfeiting that. Even if my favorite rapper calls and asks for a pack, I’d rather take that hit right now—even if that would have been a check or a big opportunity, because I know in six months I’ve got a full project with someone like Vince Staples coming out and you’re gonna see the difference. You’re gonna know my worth. Gaining a couple of followers or a couple of bucks doesn’t do shit. Me showing that I have different pieces with a Rico, a KEY!, a Freddie [Gibbs], you can feel the difference with me and their favorite artists. That’s my goal as a producer. I think that should be every producer’s role. I’m not a beatmaker.
The plan wasn’t to try to go for big placements and the biggest rappers. My plan was to work with people I could truly grow with and people whose music I truly loved. Every time I’m working on something, I’m extremely excited about it. Opportunities come up and things happen, and you’re in a room and you’re like, “This is gonna be dope for me,” but you’re in there and you’re not excited. You’re just going through the motions. It’s just another placement, another check. But when I’m in the studio with Rico, or KEY!, or JPEG, or 03 Greedo or Vince—any of them—I couldn’t be more excited because I’m making my favorite song for the rest of the week. Before I ever met Rico Nasty, I would listen to “Hey Arnold” in the car with every girl I knew and be like, “Have you heard this song?” It just feels like such a female anthem to me. That was my favorite song and now I’m making my favorite songs with her. That’s what I’m trying to do. Especially with me coming back to rap music after not having done it for a long time, I don’t think it’s gonna have any long-lasting impact if I’m just trying to get beats to Migos, Travis Scott, and Drake. [I ask myself] “Who are the people I really like but aren’t getting a fair shake? Who can I take and show people that it’s the best thing out?” I’m just trying to make my favorite songs, my best friends are my barometer. I keep hitting on these little things happening in rap, and I wanna be part of these little niche movements and do it as authentically as possible. It’s never about the check. I just like making some shit.
I feel like if you really love the music you’re making and if you’re so confident in it to the point that every time you play it you get that feeling in your gut, you’re one in a million.
I have no chains, no cool clothes, I’m not trying to be cool. Just let me press play. I’ll let it speak for itself. That’s why I just wanna give people bigger audiences. Just let me show people good stuff one time. When we made 777, I would just play two or three songs from it and people would want me to play it again. It was so overwhelming having people feel what we felt. It was so genuine.
I think I have signature sounds within different styles. I have a hard thing, I have a lot of real gospel, melodic beats, but I also do 8-bit, weird video game shit. Even that right there is three different styles. It’s hard for me to say. I just really try to get people excited however I can. I refuse to fight somebody or re-do a beat that’s [based on] a classic sample. I refuse to style jock. But besides that, if we need to do polka today for you to get those bars off, we’re gonna do it. I’ll YouTube some shit [played] on the accordion and we’ll figure it out. That’s how we run it.
Rico Nasty says, “I wanna do heavy metal” and most of the producers she was working with at the time were like, “naw.” I said “yes” and then she made “Smack a Bitch.” That’s why I don’t say no. It’s all about what they wanna do. I listen carefully and then we do it. I just take people so literally. That’s how we get these songs. JPEG asked for the most fucked up thing on my computer. I played him some hard beats, but he was like, “Naw, play me something you wouldn’t play for anybody.” I played it, I was so hesitant and embarrassed, but he was like, “That’s it. Put an 808 on it.” You gotta be open.
