Duwap Kaine Speaks

Duwap Kaine has a cold. He texts me this as I’m shepherded through a Chick-Fil-A drive thru in Lawrenceville, Georgia a few miles from his apartment. It’s the kind of message that precedes a rescheduling.

“Bad ass bitch, but I think I really need space—”

“My pleasure, sir.”

For the past 20 hours, I have mainlined his catalog, drowning out the external world with the soupy, sing-rap of his early work to the gospel-like clarity of his current sound. Duwap is a rare breed. He is, after all, a career artist who has not only pursued their craft from a young age, but whose work has developed under public perception since they were in elementary school.

At the age of nine, Duwap had his first brush with virality through the Elmo freestyle. He begins by rapping, “Elmo came with that AK-47,” on a Sesame Street instrumental (“Elmo’s song”) with comically-overblown 808s, elongating “Elmo” and speeding up “AK-47” to find the pocket of the beat.

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Next came a chopped and screwed page, where he reworked songs from the holy trinity (Lil B, Chief Keef, and Soulja Boy), and also posted a few of his own freestyles. Duwap maintains he had been chopping and screwing since he was six, but didn’t start uploading his work until a few years later.

As he entered his early teenage years, Curren$y and Cabin Fever-era Wiz Khalifa loomed over recordings made under the alias “Dolphin God.” Early influences course through this output—metronomic production that could soundtrack sleepy hour at a daycare is indebted to Soulja Boy. Vocal experimentation—from the layers of echo-y reverb to ad lib saturation—pay homage to Chief Keef and Speaker Knockerz. Hook-heavy song structures reflect what would become the modus operandi for his impending generation.

Another few years would pass before Duwap’s style began to coalesce into something recognizable beyond his influences. “Pouring Codeine” felt like a spiritual successor to the Elmo Freestyle—swag rap over nursery-ready piano chords rooted in both tangible aspiration (BMWs) and everyday locations (Citgo parking lots). Duwap now possessed a firearm, not the fuzzy, red puppet.

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Around this time, a studio engineer and aspiring producer by the name of Pi’erre Bourne was starting to percolate. Beatpacks from Bourne could alter career trajectories, but they were hard to come by. Young Nudy, Playboi Carti, Trippie Redd, and 6ix9ine were some of the only names to appear on his early production, the latter of whom reportedly stole the instrumental for what became his breakout hit.

Duwap had made a name for himself amongst a rap scene that took just as many queues from internet-native forefathers as it did from regional sounds. Steady singles built momentum for his first tape, After the Storm, earning him proximity to Atlanta’s tastemaking ecosystem. Artists like K$upreme and Lil Yachty were early cosigns. Access to Quality Control’s studio—the hottest label in rap at the time—led to run ins with Bourne before he became the most sought out producer in the genre. Duwap recalls badgering him for a beatpack:

“I’d walk in and say, ‘you sent that yet?’ and walk back out. Walk back in—‘you sent that yet?’ and walk back out,” Duwap said. “I needed beats before he blew the fuck up.”

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In-person follow ups eventually worked. Less than a week after Playboi Carti and Pi’erre Bourne released “wokeuplikethis*,” their first collaboration, a 15-year-old Duwap uploaded “Santa” to SoundCloud. This marked an early creative breakthrough, one where the teenager was largely on the road, recording any and everywhere. “Disagree,” “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse,” and “Tell On Me,” some of Duwap’s biggest songs to date, were released during this period and made while he was couchsurfing across L.A. and Atlanta.

This era peaked with Underdog, Duwap’s unofficial debut album that saw him forging what would become his signature sound with producer Nine9. Wispy registers that end with a series of falsettos, blending into synth-heavy compositions. An earnestness cuts through the ambience and is delivered with a matter of factness that belies his age and generation: “I got ADHD but I don’t take meds,” he half-sings on “Tweak,” the album’s opener. Underdog wasn’t recorded in a short, sporadic burst, either. Unlike the defining process of his contemporaries, the project took Duwap “one to two months,” and required a laser focus.“I don’t like too many people in a session,” Duwap told me. “I’ll tell someone to shut up or get out.”

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From there, he became a revered underground figure, something like the Forrest Gump of Soundcloud in how his career has intersected with every generation of internet rap over the last decade. Whether that meant embracing plugg sounds or adopting sporadic flows broken up by sing-rap interludes, Duwap, partly due to his age, had an airiness to his vocals, often reaching for high registers just out of grasp, where his melodies threatened to crack. This willingness to venture into vocal ranges he didn’t quite have has been repurposed throughout the 2020s.

“I’ve influenced a lot of people,” Duwap admitted. “If you hear a certain sound, you’ll know it's me.”

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We’re only a decade removed from Duwap’s career ascension, but it seems unreplicable now. A young tween catching attention organically and earning respect from their much older peers would immediately be put through the machine: Livestreams and short-form content made to generate social-first clips would be artificially pumped across timelines. There would be as much effort dedicated to building brand mythology as there would be to making music. Duwap’s early sessions helped set the standard for DIY rap recording—a collection of early-stage talent making music under the same roof and releasing on a whim, without much thought or attention on “the rollout” or “presentation”—but even that feels dated. Mystique might be a relic of the past.

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Fast forward to the 2020s. Duwap still boasts a dedicated fanbase and a robust monthly listening count (whatever that metric even means). His output is more prolific than it’s ever been. He experiments more than ever before too, self-producing a dedication to G-funk at the end of 2024. His most recent tape, The Godfather, is one of the strongest of his career. Over breezy beats filled with negative space, he assumes the position of the tape’s title, rapping with the perspective of someone who’s lived many lives: “Time don’t wait on nobody, so you better make a plan,” he lulls on “Workin’ N Servin’.” Shortened attention spans and a cultural velocity that prioritizes constant visibility does not reward someone like Duwap, who just wants to sharpen his craft. Around a week before we met, a screenshot of him poking fun at this microwave tendency circulated, where he embraces the idea of being washed because “this generation don’t know wat they doin.”

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And yet, not much has been documented about Duwap. The two interviews he’s done were recorded before COVID. One of them, a relic of the Soundcloud era, has a lore of its own: An unbothered, 15-year-old Duwap mumbled his way through “podcast questioning” on No Jumper, the de facto platform for a burgeoning generation of artists. Host Adam22’s playbook was well known—easing his guests into a sense of comfort through a mixture of genuine praise and salacious interrogation. At the peak of No Jumper’s cultural cachet, as it was releasing pivotal interviews with XXXTentacion, Lil Peep, and Juice WRLD, Duwap was disinterested in participation. His hoodie was scrunched around his face like Kenny from Southpark for the entire 45 minute runtime. Speaking directly into the mic was optional. All of his responses were matter of fact, if not muted, even stonewalling the host who was more than twice his age:

“I guess you’re a little more shy than Lil Yachty.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I just be coolin’.”

Commenters pointed out how the interview was “awkward,” or how Lil Candypaint—who was being interviewed with Duwap—saved things by virtue of his willingness to talk more. The response was in part because the conversation was stilted, never fully reaching a groove, but also because Duwap went against what was expected: Earning Adam22 and the audience’s approval with specific details on sexual exploits, drug preferences, and general debauchery.

“There were five or six people sitting across from us on this stadium-looking thing and they were like, ‘Are you ready?’ and I said, Ready for what? I told y'all I didn’t want to do this,’” Duwap said when I asked about the appearance.

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At the end of 2019, in the wake of the clout epidemic, Duwap was interviewed by Arshan Jawaid, founder of Kids Take Over, a more buttoned-up, hip-hop interview channel that chased aspiration over degeneracy. Questioning ultimately sought to “inspire the youth,” reflecting a shifting YouTube (and media) landscape. From unfiltered, hour-long ramblings to heavily cut, single-topic segmentation. Shock jock radio gave way to friendly, clip-focused content. The end result, despite some visible discomfort, produced just one remarkable response coming when Duwap was asked about his worst experience with a teacher:

“I forgot his name, but he threw my fucking phone in a lake. But I love you though if you see this.”

Outside of these two video interviews, Duwap has existed outside any media or industry apparatus, remaining independent and averse to press (my editor and I have tried and failed over the years to speak to him). At the end of 2024, though, he decided to give fans an update on his own terms by releasing an eight-page E-book, available on the Kindle Store.

A Kid From Savannah offers an earnest rundown of Duwap’s journey from being an eight-year-old on the toilet “praying to God [to get rich],” to his disillusionment with the current state of rap, despite how seriously he takes his artistry. It traces a retreat from his proximity to the attention economy, in favor of seclusion. “I’m taking my time and isolating from the world. I have anxiety and really have gotten used to my home.” It’s also packed with pieces of advice: save your money, anything is possible with discipline, understand that this life is fleeting.

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Immediately after updating me on his cold he texts me: “But ima try my best.”

Still, I’m not sure this conversation is going to take place until I see a lanky figure emerge near the pool of his apartment complex. Duwap is fairly tall—around 6’1”—and is wearing a Supreme Smurfs beanie, a rhinestone zip-up hoodie, and skinny Ksubi jeans, which he later tells me are his only pair of pants after donating nearly all of his clothes to a nearby Goodwill:

“Whoever found those clothes came up on a lot of grails.”

I wouldn’t describe Duwap as shy. He’s soft spoken but thoughtful, often qualifying his stances or worldview by adding, “Well at the end of the day, that’s just my opinion.” He’s also talkative. Surprise gives way to relief when I show up without a camera crew. After our interview, which took place under the shade of a pool-side cabana, Duwap suggests a wing spot tucked inside a gas station in nearby Loganville. Inside, a minimal dining area—black-top tables and silver chairs with nothing on the walls but mounted TVs and a lone bottle of LeBron James Hennesy—highlights the kitchen, which takes up most of the space. As we await $40 worth of chicken, Duwap questions the cashier on inflation—“$2.50 for a water isn’t crazy to you? Maybe I’m just an old head”—and then opens up about the grim reality of surviving off art. He is mulling over the idea of selling a portion of his masters to a distribution company so that he can help his parents move into their own home. An AI chatbot breaks down his legal options. Influence doesn’t pay the bills, unfortunately.

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This interview has been lightly edited for clarity.

Will Villasan Gendron: Why have you largely avoided interviews?
Duwap Kaine: I like to be in the background, that’s just who I am. Make my money and deal with my crazy family.

I read in your book that your family lives with you. Can you talk about your relationship with them?
They understand me. That’s why I go so hard, it’s for them. We’re there for each other.

Why Lawrenceville? It’s a little removed from the city.
It keeps me away from a lot of bullshit…I’m not really into what’s going on right now.

What do you mean by that?
The general underground scene. There might be cool people but music wise I’m not feeling it. In my opinion, [the new wave] don’t lead interesting lives. I like to listen to lyrics. You can’t have good lyrics without having stories to tell.

You cosigned Xaviersobased a couple years back with your tape, DuwapSoBased.
Yeah, he’s still cool but people grow up…My mind has drifted away from [contemporary rap]. The stuff I listened to as a baby is what I listen to now. Master P, Texas shit, I can’t help it, it’s just what I grew up on.

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Are you listening to any other genres right now?
Mainly rap, but also R&B and sometimes guitar music—what genre of music would ‘Fireflies’ be?

Maybe something with ‘pop’ hyphenated in it. What was playing in your house as a kid?
Paul Wall, a lot of Texas shit—Z-Ro, UGK, Master P, Scarface, No Limit.

Were your parents into rap?
That was mainly my brothers. My parents were born in the 60s so they listened to shit from the 70s and 80s. Like Frankie Beverly.

What do they think of your music?
My mom loves my old and new shit. She knows all of it because she was there with me. Dolphin God—she was recording me off an Asus tablet.

Speaking of Dolphin God, how did you start recording?
I realized I really wanted to make music at 9 or 10. So I tried to get a microphone back when people would buy shit off eBay. I got a CAD USB which I used until I was 14 or 15. I don’t know how I made it sound somewhat good because that’s a terrible microphone.

Where did the vocal effects come in?
I was using something called Mixcraft. And I’d always record with effects on my voice…There was something called g-snap on Mixcraft that let me do a version of autotune.

Why did you start making music as a kid?
I was listening to music all the time. I’d get bored and freestyle sometimes. I’d listen to Lil B, Soulja Boy, and freestyle over some of their beats. But I always say this, someone randomly hit me up on Facebook to be part of this rap group. I said no. He still added me. From there I recorded that Elmo shit and the rest is history.

At this stage in the interview, a few people hanging out near the pool recognize Duwap and approach him to dap up.

Fans: You’re a legend from the city.

Does that happen often?
Duwap Kaine: *shrugs*

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Do you like being more removed from Atlanta and Savannah?
I’m here in Lawrenceville to do my music shit and isolate. Be on the outskirts. Also in Savannah there’s a lot of hate, it’s not even the city, more the people.

Is that why you’d take extensive trips to L.A. when you started to get some recognition?
When I used to go to L.A. I’d stay there for months, even a year at one point…It was me trying to work. I was sleeping in studios. Going house to house. That was all it was. One time I fell asleep in a studio and an employee was locking up, but I didn’t have anywhere to go. When me and Lil Candypaint arrived at another studio, the door was locked and we fell asleep on the concrete in front of it, until an employee finally showed up in the morning to open.

There’s a line on ‘Tweak,’ where you say: ‘I got ADHD but I don’t take meds.’ Did you have focus issues as a kid?
I [was prescribed Adderall] at a super young age. I would take them sometimes. I’d also flush them down the toilet. I don’t like the effect of that pill.

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Was school a challenge because of that?
I left school at 13. I don’t know what made me leave, but I knew I had something to start with at least. I had some views. My page was a little popping. I felt like I could do something with it.

Did you have any other hobbies growing up besides music?
I love the longboard. I hillbombed once and busted my ass…I stayed on my board for a minute though until I flipped on my back.

What are your recording preferences like?
There’s no routine. Just when I’m feeling it.

What constitutes ‘feeling it?’
Either I’m bored. Or I got an idea. See something on IG or in real life? I take it and make a song out of it…Just like ‘Eric Dane’ [on The Godfather]. I didn’t even know too much about him but I saw him on Bad Boys…I don’t know, I thought he was a cool person.

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In your book you offer advice to aspiring artists. You tell people to absorb a lot of music in order to find their own sound. How did you follow this?
I think it starts out with Sosa…I used to listen to him a lot, a lot of Lil B, and Soulja Boy. Over time I’ve been influenced by older rappers who make me want to be more mature and talk about real life.

What about those three inspired you?
For Soulja Boy and Lil B, they just used to do whatever the fuck they wanted. Sosa too but he came in with the melodic shit. He’d rap about whatever but in a melodic way. I get on the track and get to singing shit.

How did you find your own sound?
You need to find something that fits you…For me I had to figure out my vocal strengths. I’m melodic, so I had to find the perfect beats for my voice. My flows just come naturally. It’s all in the beats. I need real ambient shit.

Duwap starts playing ‘Rock Bottom’ off his phone.

This is ambient and dark. It’s my favorite song off The Godfather...I don’t even know where the sample comes from. I fuck with Memphis shit though.

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What about Memphis rap are you drawn to?
I’m starting to learn more about it now…I used to just be familiar with Three Six Mafia and Baby CEO. Now I’m starting to dig deeper. Tommy Wright is hard…I hopped on a Memphis beat when I was 13 or 14…I’m still trying to learn music to this day.

How did you start singing?
I gravitate towards melodies. Finding them and letting them come naturally. I love autotune and I can sing a little bit in real life.

What’s your karaoke song?
Hell, I think I’d pick a Soulja Boy song. ‘Zan With That Lean,’ probably.

How did you get your hands on those early Pi’erre Bourne beats?
Pierre was beginning to produce for Carti and right before he really started going up I was in the QC studio with K$upreme. I just kept asking him, ‘send me a beat pack,’ and kept asking him. I’d walk into a room and be like ‘you sent that yet?’ I needed beats before he blew the fuck up. He eventually sent me a pack of five to six beats and I made ‘Santa’ right after that.

Can you walk me through the recording process for ‘Santa’?
I was recording it in QC… the singer Jacquees walked in and I’m just using the studio for free time. So I had to get out, but ended up going all the way back to Savannah. I went into the laundry room of my parents’ house, and picked the beat. Before it was, ‘strapped up with Instagram hoes’ it was some other shit. I scratched what I was doing originally and just started saying [what became the hook] over and over. The rest just came after that.

The laundry room?
I’ll record anywhere, anytime.

What other unusual places have your recorded music?
Man, I've recorded in my partner’s hallway, outside his door. ‘under the sun’ was recorded in three different locations: I began at Candypaint’s house, stopped, recorded in the car on the way over to his friend’s house. And then finished the whole thing [at the new destination].

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How often do you record?
Whenever inspiration strikes or whenever I can make something make sense. No bullshit. Even when I do record, it’s based on how good I think the song is…I’m not trying to go in there and just say shit anymore…I did that but I was in a panic.

How has your subject matter changed over the years?
You’re [not going to talk about the same things that you did as a kid]…I’m a father now. I’m trying to rap about some real shit. Something motivating. Hustling.

How has becoming a father impacted you?
Definitely makes you want to do more. I got to go harder.

What’s your daughter like?
She loves me. All she listens to is me. And that’s because of my baby mama. If she sees me she calls me by my rap name.

You released a ton of music last year. Why was it such a high-volume year?
That’s because I got some music deleted…I feel like it fucked me up in a way. I released a lot of ‘aight’ shit, but it was me releasing to make money. I got my distro deleted that I had since I was 16, so I had to make another distro and flood it.

What made those projects ‘aight’?
Because I’m going in there and just saying shit, just recording, not taking my time.

Talk to me about the cover of Underdog. What made you gravitate towards this dog character?
My whole thing is the dog. Everybody got their thing but the dog is mine. I have a dog chain. I’ve always been into dogs because I lost my dog when I was a kid in the process of moving. And we didn’t even need to give him away. My brother let him go because the new home claimed we couldn’t have dogs, but when we got there they had dogs. I named myself ‘Kaine’ because that was my dog’s name, in memory of him.

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You’ve been making music for over a decade and seen eras come and go—how do you think the landscape you came up in is different to today?
I guess it felt like it made more sense back then. I don’t know. Had a little more substance to it. Nowadays it feels like a mf just wants to grab a mic and make money and that’s it. Do it for the image. We had mfers like that back then but a lot of stuff is forced onto us.

Talk to me about Family Guy.
I’ve seen every episode, even the new ones.

It comes up in a significant portion in your music. Why is that?
I’m literally a Family Guy.

Who do you relate to most?
I guess I relate most to Peter.

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You amassed a number of million-play hits on Soundcloud in the deadball era. What was that early notoriety like?
I used to inspect element on Chrome to make my shit say a million plays…I want to say ‘Pouring Codeine’ was my first one million…’Geeked Out My Body’ is my favorite song from that era. It was something quick but good. Made the beat by accident. I was in a weird setting. I’m just gonna say I was in a garage and had my computer in there. My brother was in there too trying to make a beat and [it sounded bad]. So I showed him my basic skills and cooked a beat on his laptop. That shit became ‘Geeked Out My Body.’

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What about ‘Playing With The Autotune’?
I kinda did that accidentally too. I was literally playing with the autotune. I was in my parent’s closet, which was my studio space, just fucking around. I don’t even know how to do that today.

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What kind of rap sticks out to you?
I like street shit and I like punchlines. I like Veeze because he got punchlines out the ass and he’s a Pisces. I’m a Pisces.

‘Shopping Spree’ felt like a dedication to punchline rap and the whole Detroit/Flint wave from the early 2020s—how’d that one come about?
My partner who was always listening to Detroit [music] passed away…I just felt he wasn’t really fucking with my music at the time, and I wanted everyone to fuck with everything I was making, but you can’t make someone like it...I had a mic hanging over a light, you know how back in the day they’d have the microphone upside down? I recorded it like that on a kitchen counter.

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Can you talk to me about ‘being washed?’
The ones who call me ass are little kids. I used to listen to Master P as a kid. I used to love that. If I don’t like something I’m not gonna listen or comment on it. It’s cool though because of free will. I hated on one person, though. I used to be trolling and I did that to Rico Nasty. I love Rico though…I was being so deadass and [tweeted ‘don’t remix one of my friend’s songs ever again’]. I don’t think she said anything, but I was with someone from Atlantic and Rico called. She was like, ‘aren’t you the little boy saying shit on Twitter,’ and I couldn’t even double down, I just had to apologize.

In your book you talk about identifying as an old soul. Why is that?
A lot of people my age are very immature…I got older parents so they teach you everything that you need to be taught. They passed down a lot of knowledge.

Can you describe your connection to God?
I’ve always had a connection with God since I was a kid. Been praying since I was a kid. My faith is the only thing I got…God is real. You look around and don’t think it’s God or something greater? My faith kept me balanced when I was younger and trying to make a name for myself.

What’s something you’ve learned over the years since beginning your music career?
Listening. That’s the number one thing I’ve learned over the years. Don’t wait too late to listen. Don’t wait to fuck up. Just listen…It can save you a lot of pain.

You dropped #ForeverKaine during an early career peak. The intro song (‘#FreeTayK’) felt intentional, not just because he had a landmark summer but because it was unexpected. Someone in a similar position might’ve opened up their tape with tone-setting swag rap.
It was a dedication to someone whose life was thrown away before it even started. I was around people who knew him. I never met him but we had a connection. We have a relationship. Last time I spoke to him was a couple months ago. He seemed like he was doing well.

Why’d you write your book?
Just to do something different…Give people an insight into my life, since I don’t do interviews.

What made you agree to this interview?
I don’t really have a record of things.

How do you feel about being the godfather of internet rap?
I mean, a lot of this shit don’t really matter. After you pass nothing matters. But while I’m here it’s a cool title. It lets me know I did something. Changing sounds or the way people rap…But like Mike Tyson said—his belts don’t mean anything to him. My family means something to me. That’s it.

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