Big Baby Scumbag seems larger than life; so comfortable in his own image as to exceed it. He raps with the urgency of a Meek Mill, RP McMurphy humor thrumming through his cocksure baritone, leavening where Meek simmers in a well-earned paranoia. Sometimes Big Baby, the golden fanged Floridian, is situated just outside of that Sunshine State rap bloc of Pump and Purpp, hewing closer to a pastiche of Black Kray and Lil B. Whereas Raider Klan trafficked in gothic hyper-reality, Big Baby raps like he asked a funhouse mirror, “who is the prettiest of them all,” and saw his own reflection as answer. Big Baby is not here for subtlety or footholds, civility be damned. Like Tampa Bay, his home, his music can be garish and cartoonish and deliriously fun, upending tables at every turn rather than standing pat. His world is rendered in animated hues, draped in Nascar regalia and reeling from too many malty, caramel-toned drinks. When Big Baby truly steps out, you won’t be able to miss him, filling the whole room and smirking through gold fronts. If rap is mostly myth-building then Scumbag is just a few more parts away.