best westside gunn album

Yo, ever tried pickin’ your fave slice at a NYC bodega joint while your stomach’s growlin’ like it’s got its own area code? That’s *exactly* how fans feel when someone hits ’em with, “What’s the best Westside Gunn album?” Straight-up impossible. Every project’s soaked in that raw, unfiltered Buffalo grit—layered like a mink coat over a bloodstained white tee. We’ve been ridin’ shotgun through Gunn’s whole catalog since he dropped Hitler Wears Hermes like it was gospel stitched in silk and sorrow. And trust, each tape ain’t just music—it’s mood, memory, and myth rolled into one blunt. When we talk about the best Westside Gunn album, we’re really askin’, “Which chapter of his cinematic street opera punched you right in the chest?” Was it the hungry chaos of the early mixtapes or the icy paranoia of those later Griselda collabs? Truth is, the answer shifts like snow in a Buffalo blizzard—gorgeous, brutal, and never quite settled.

Before Griselda became this underground rap dynasty whispered about from Bed-Stuy to Berlin, there was just a dude named Westside Gunn spittin’ bars over dusty soul loops in some basement near Lake Erie. His early work—especially the Hitler Wears Hermes series—wasn’t so much an album as it was a time capsule dug up from a mobster’s backyard. The best Westside Gunn album didn’t just drop outta nowhere; it grew like mold on vintage vinyl—fed by crackle, cocaine dreams, and midnight scribbles. Gunn’s pen game? Sharp as a switchblade dipped in Chanel No. 5. He wasn’t just rappin’—he was curatin’ a whole damn museum of pain, fashion, and faded glory. Even his throwaway loosies sound like they belong behind velvet ropes.

Let’s keep it 100—Westside Gunn don’t just drop albums; he drops full-on moodboards. One minute he’s stuntin’ in a pink mink on the Champs-Élysées, next he’s scribblin’ rhymes about fallen soldiers over a beat that sounds like a lost ‘70s cop flick scored by Madlib himself. The best Westside Gunn album ain’t measured in Spotify streams or Billboard charts—it’s judged by how many kids started rockin’ ski masks to raves or copped vintage Dapper Dan fits off Depop. Gunn turned streetwear into scripture, and every bar he spits doubles as a strut down Fifth Avenue. You can practically hear the clack of stilettos on marble and the rustle of designer tags in every verse. That’s the magic: he made luxury feel lethal—and lethal look luxurious.

You can’t even *start* the best Westside Gunn album convo without shoutin’ out Conway the Machine, Benny the Butcher, and the whole Griselda fam. But it ain’t just blood—it’s the guests who showed up like surprise witnesses at a courtroom drama. Tyler, The Creator droppin’ surreal ad-libs? Joey Bada$ bringin’ that BK gutter poetry? Every feature felt like a handshake sealed in blood and Hennessy. And let’s not forget the beatmakers—Daringer and Beat Butcha weren’t just cookin’ tracks; they were buildin’ haunted mansions for Gunn’s ghost stories. These collabs didn’t just bump—they turned every album into a summit of underground kings.

If you ask us—and half the internet—Pray for Paris ain’t just an album; it’s the Rosetta Stone of modern boom-bap. Dropped in 2020, right when the whole world went sideways, this thing landed like a velvet-wrapped grenade. From that iconic cover (shoutout Virgil Abloh) to a guest list that reads like a hit list of lyrical assassins, everything about it screams “instant classic.” The best Westside Gunn album debate usually ends right here—not ‘cause it’s flawless, but ‘cause it’s perfectly chaotic. Jay Electronica whisperin’ prophecies, Freddie Gibbs slingin’ truth like bricks, and Gunn floatin’ through verses like a phantom in a penthouse suite? Yeah, that’s the stuff.

Gunn’s pen don’t play nice—nah, it plays to maim. One bar’ll have you snort-laughin’ at a designer joke, the next’ll gut you like a fish at the Fulton Fish Market. His wordplay? Chef’s kiss with a cyanide chaser. When you’re huntin’ for the best Westside Gunn album, you gotta listen past the drums—dig into the syllables like you’re panning for gold in a Harlem gutter. Lines like “Pink mink, think pink, I’m drinkin’ Windex” ain’t just flexes; they’re riddles wrapped in trauma and tailored by Tom Ford. He paints poverty and opulence with the same brush, and somehow, it all clicks. That tension—that duality—is what makes his writing feel alive, even when he’s spittin’ from beyond the grave.

Don’t sleep on them beats, fam. The best Westside Gunn album wouldn’t hit half as hard without those soul-sampled, drum-knocked instrumentals that sound like they were pulled from a 1973 basement and baptized in Henny. Producers like Conductor Williams and Camoflauge Monk don’t just make tracks—they build atmospheres. You can smell the incense burnin’, hear dice clatterin’ on concrete, feel that Buffalo midnight chill creepin’ up your spine. Gunn’s genius? Knowin’ when to let the beat breathe and when to drown it in his voice. It’s less music, more séance—with a side of Versace.

Here’s the real tea: critics might scribble fancy scores in Pitchfork, but real heads know the best Westside Gunn album by how it slaps in your whip at 3 a.m. or how it scores your late-night scroll through Grailed. Sure, Pray for Paris got the 8.5s and the year-end lists—but ask a day-one fan about WWCD or Hitler Wears Hermes 8, and watch their eyes light up like they’re reminiscin’ ‘bout prom night. Gunn’s art lives in that sweet spot between underground reverence and mainstream curiosity—and honestly? That’s exactly where it thrives.

Back in the day, you’d cop a CD-R from some dude outside a bodega with a toothpick hangin’ out his mouth. Now? You tap a screen and boom—Gunn’s whole catalog’s in your pocket. But here’s the twist: the best Westside Gunn album experience still feels analog. Maybe it’s how he structures projects like vinyl sides, or how he tucks bonus tracks in like secret handshakes. Streaming made it easy to access—but it didn’t kill the ritual. Real ones still press play, throw on headphones, kill the lights, and ride it front-to-back like it’s 1999 and Y2K never happened.

If you’ve spun every Gunn tape till the edges frayed and the bass blew out your speakers, welcome to the cult—we got hoodies and extra earbuds. Start by peepin’ the full Griselda catalog, then dive into the extended universe: Boldy James, Armani Caesar, even that wild Raashan deep dive on underground legends. Feelin’ spicy? Hit up the Rap section for more crate-diggin’ gems. And hey, don’t sleep on our breakdown of Choclair Rapper Lyrical Skills—another master of mood and metaphor who deserves a seat at the table.

References

• https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-album-reviews/westside-gunn-pray-for-paris-review-982341/
• https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/westside-gunn-pray-for-paris/
• https://www.complex.com/music/westside-gunn-best-albums-ranked
• https://www.xxlmag.com/westside-gunn-pray-for-paris-album-review/