Album Review: God Does Like Ugly by JID
From the autobiographical candor of The Forever Story to the controlled aggression of “WRK” and the Preluxe’s experimental teasers, JID has mapped a careful ascent toward God Does Like Ugly.
Things have been working out for Destin “JID” Route. His last album, The Forever Story, grew out of sessions that began before the pandemic. It was initially meant to be called God Does Like Ugly, but he kept tinkering and only let it go in August 2022. The record functions like an autobiography, recounting familial strife and teenage mischief, rapping about a brawl that landed him and relatives in a New Orleans jail cell. After it came out, he admitted that he felt he didn’t get “what I think I deserved,” but he channeled the frustration into work. In his studio with producer Pluss, he remembered a coach’s mantra, “Let’s go to work,” and vowed to focus on what he can control. That outlook—building a world he commands rather than chasing trends—became the theme of his next chapter.
By stacking the command with clipped repetition, the first single, “WRK,” builds a metronome for hustle culture like the word stops feeling like advice and starts sounding like a drum. The first verse opens with a time-warp drive-by: a 1952 Dodge, I-85, 95 mph, and the year 1955. That cluster of numbers collapses decades, highways, and speed limits into one breath, flexing technical control while signaling a blues-era work ethic carried into the present. He pivots from motion to perception: “I done seen so much with two eyes, I don’t even feel a way, just neutralize ‘em.” Throughout, he maintains dialogue with himself, God, and the crew, creating a triangle of accountability—a recurring theme in his newest release, which we’ll explore further.
Early in this new era, he loosened his grip with a run of freestyles: “30” (January 2024) and “31” (October 2024) led to “32 (Freestyle)” in July 2025. Over Playboi Carti’s “HBA” beat, he quipped, “I was dumb, I know wisdom come with the age/I want some, I go get some, sick of the waitin’,” name‑checked Opium Records and Public Enemy, and even referenced Lil Tjay’s Madison Square Garden spitting incident. The visualizer ended with the reveal of a Preluxe—a teaser EP rather than a post‑release deluxe. He released Preluxe on July 4; it’s a four-track set of songs that almost made the album. The EP opens with a solo cut, “Behold,” and then invites in Lil Yachty (“Knew Better”), 6LACK (“Lisa”), and Eminem (“Animals Pt. 1”). JID described the project as four rap songs he felt he had to share, and the unusual decision to offer a pre‑deluxe collection underscores his confidence. This was to give his fans an early taste of a record, while signalling that these tracks didn’t make the cut. In other words, if the throwaways include an Eminem cameo, the album promises bigger surprises.
Westside Gunn opens with shit-talking on the chaotic “YouUgly,” leaning into self-deprecation and street-wise confidence at once. JID wastes no time blending clever puns through the bars: “black print” flips the idea of a blueprint into a celebration of Black creativity and resilience. Mentioning the Fibonacci sequence isn’t just flexing math geek cred, but it signals that even seemingly random numbers in life can align into a coherent pattern if you piece them together. Cultural shout-outs appear with agile turns: “Let it K-pop, no Blackpink” uses the famous girl-group name to thumb his nose at trends that don’t resonate in his hood, while “living like the president, all my niggas present at inauguration” hyperbolizes his crew’s rise to power in their own domain. Metaphors spin out in unexpected corners: “angel wings that have yet to flail” evokes hope stifled by circumstance, and “devil’s outside, angels in the infill” suggests corruption hides in the open while good intentions penetrate the marrow of the community.
Speaking of that, JID delivers a rapid street homily built on pop-culture shards and prophetic imagery on “Community.” References stack fast, from Fox News fearmongering, Dune’s messianic “Lisan al-Gaib,” and a threat to “Bob the Builder” that flips a cartoon into a gentrification casualty. Atlanta’s I-285 shrinks to a driveway, highlighting daily peril, and lightning strikes underline a resilient faith that refuses to flinch, while nodding to Virginia sets the stage for the veteran duo, Clipse, who continue to have a run. Pusha T spits entrepreneurial menace. “Brought white to my hood, I gentrified” carries a two-layer punch, merging cocaine import with demographic overhaul. He narrates a rise from street-light lookout to supplier through the meteor verb, and a single line about a faceless corpse captures neighborhood volatility. Malice, obviously, steals the show by offering measured gravity. “My ghetto’s not your culture” shuts down voyeurism and cements the stakes. Funeral sorrow becomes a lullaby, and “kilos turnin’ boys to men” sneaks in a sly R&B pun.
With “VCRs,” it opens with a skewed American-Dream snapshot over a Jay Versace production. JID’s monopoly monocle doubles as surveillance, a single glass eye that watches every purchase, so the stanza works as both wealth critique and Big-Brother warning. Vince Staples keeps the numeric motif circling and ties it to time travel. “Turn the VCRs to dinosaurs” describes obsolete tech while merging extinction imagery with tape rewinds. Money “makes the content we spend,” a pun on both consumption and creative output; cash fuels the spectacle while turning experiences into commodities. “Built the world in seven days, wrote a seven you’ll get paid” braids Genesis with convenience-store shorthand (7-Eleven) and music-business contracts, suggesting creation, commerce, and hustle share the same countdown. GDLU has no shortage of great lyricism, content, and concepts.
On “K-Word,” JID turns the abstract notion of ‘karma’ into a living figure and spins a rap narrative around her presence—wordplay powers nearly every line. Personification allows Karma to “slide about a buck eighty,” merging cosmic justice with muscle-car spectacle. “Karma Scorsese” folds a director’s last name into a promise of cinematic score-settling. “Karma caramel” stretches vowel sounds to conjure flavor, complexion, and desire in one burst. Entendre arrives when JID claims “Karma can make me king or break me,” a prophecy, a threat, and a career forecast at once. Metaphorical turns stay vivid without drifting toward abstraction, and reading “between the lines like a Rubik’s Cube” links puzzle solving to decoding spiritual balance. Tension grows “thick enough to slice a knife through,” doubling the blade image to underline danger. Karma arrives as lover, getaway driver, director, and auditor, each mask reinforcing the idea that every move invites a response.
The album’s centerpiece comes from “Of Blue,” as it unfolds as a spiritual odyssey laid over hard-hitting bars that weave personal confession with biblical imagery. Coming off the beautiful Mereba intro, the beat switches into a hard-hitting sample-based head-knocker that often hinges on double meanings and sonics that reinforce both content and form, where JID just outright snaps. The phrase “verse of ice is writing in cursive” plays on the homophonic link between “verse” and “curse,” while evoking cold isolation and the slow, deliberate craft of cursive handwriting, and playing off Pastor Troy’s “Vica Versa.” Later, “following the flames like a tail chasing a dog” reverses expected logic—pursuing a danger that can never be caught—to suggest futile quests for quick fixes or hollow thrills. His bars interlock with scripture and storied traditions, casting himself alternately as a modern-day Moses leading a flock out of inner-city bondage toward a promised land of “milk and honey.” References to the Bible Belt, to David in the lion’s den, and to daily devotions underscore a tension between external skepticism (“they didn’t believe in him”) and inner conviction. The weight of responsibility—“much is given, much required”—becomes tangible as he personifies his doubt and resilience: “battling life, he lost his before he conquered his fear.”
Outside of the great content, there are some bangers to be found like the Atlanta-bass inspired “Sk8” with Ciara and EARTHGANG, as the title suggests, it’s a summertime fun track that’s made to skate with your friends. “Glory” guarantees to make your 808s bang with the help of Beatnick Dee and Lex Luger, as the same goes for the trippy “What We On” with Don Toliver (that doesn’t stand out too much), the dark “On McAfee,” “Wholeheartedly” has 6LACK and Ty Dolla $ign hopping on pledging unswerving fidelity circling the idea that loyalty is not a mood swing but a rule of life (while nodding to Soul for Real’s 1994 R&B hit “Candy Rain”) and “No Boo” opens with a pun that sets the track’s central joke: “Why’d I take you to Nobu just to hear 'bout your old boo?” The upscale sushi spot morphs into a clever homophone for the title, instantly framing the song as a date-night scene gone sideways.
JID’s confidence grows beside a community that shows up in comment sections and venue lines. On God Does Like Ugly, he’s not rapping for the sake of rapping beyond the Preluxe he dropped a month ago, by giving the details of his life and whatever surrounds it. He turns “For Keeps” into a candid memoir that charts years of hungry persistence and crowd-fed momentum. Straightforward declarations replace lofty slogans, giving the verse a diary feel that still hits with percussive force. Details of midnight drops, comment floods, and first-day merch grabs create a living portrait of supporters sustaining his drive. The language stays conversational, yet every moment lands like a checkpoint on an upward trail. Open mics, single-digit streams, and tucked-away SoundCloud uploads form the backbone of his identity. Metaphors stay tactile. Supporter “energy” quite literally keeps the lights on, linking applause to electricity. Notebooks become reservoirs for private rehearsals, thorns cling to creative “sport” to acknowledge pain baked into ambition, and final lines cast rap as a substance flowing through veins without a prescribed cure. The closing confession of a decade-long dedication carries fresh urgency, proving the craft feels new each time ink meets page.
Great (★★★★☆)
Favorite Track(s): “Community,” “Of Blue,” “K-Word”
His flow is so captivating. I thought he was next but he’s clearly not waiting behind anyone. Excellent write up, looking forward to the album dropping.