Album Review: Wake Up Supa by D Smoke
Wake Up Supa is D Smoke at his most self-assured and purposeful, blending the personal and political, the hood and the heart, in a way that few albums manage.
D Smoke grew up in a family where music and faith were inseparable, and this is evident throughout his discography. His late mother, Jackie Gouché-Farris, was a gospel singer and pianist who literally taught D Smoke and his brothers music from the time they were toddlers. Jackie’s legacy as both a minister and artist shapes the tone and content of this record in profound ways. Wake Up Supa finds him delivering his most personal and unapologetically Inglewood-rooted project yet, and he does it with a blunt honesty that commands attention. The influence of his upbringing in Inglewood is woven into every bar, from the streetwise observations to the devotion to uplift his community through knowledge (D Smoke has said that “this album is designed to inspire and uplift gangsters and lovers. It’s an awakening… it’s Inglewood. It’s got a lot of heart and soul,” and that mission is loud and clear).
It’s clear that hec and his team thought through how each record functions in the album’s rollout and emotional arc. Early on, the album hits with confident West Coast bravado. The title track is essentially Smoke’s thesis statement—calling out people who won’t listen to good advice and declaring he’ll shine through genuine connections. He immediately follows with “Na Na Na,” a bouncy, slick banger featuring LaRussell (and a cameo by his niece SHERIE on the hook), where they boast that nobody can tell them anything. Over a bass-heavy beat (courtesy of Larrance Dopson and others), D Smoke makes it crystal clear that he’s moving with unshakeable self-assurance—“I told y’all I’m the one, never been the two… Run with us or get run through,” he spits, with a Westside swagger and a touch of humor. By the time we hit “No Passes,” he’s in full attack mode, dropping gas on these bitch asses, as the song’s hook bluntly states, while Mike & Keys uses “No Passes” to basically torch any haters or fake friends—it’s a short, hard track that adds ignition to the album’s first act, and “Chin Up” continues this momentum with a message about resiliency; Smoke raps about not letting anyone smaller out-hustle or outbox him.
But any slight dip is obliterated by the absolute inferno that is “Fire.” True to its name, D Smoke uses it to reflect on the forks in the road he’s faced and the choice to walk a different path than the gang life surrounding him. He pointedly contrasts how society treats a Black man’s hustle versus a white man’s: “Dope get you 20 years when the Black man sell it/Dope get you 20 M’s when the white man sell it/History sound different when the white man tell it” he raps sharply, cutting through the beat with social commentary. After that blaze, the album smartly provides some anchors—songs that groove a little more, give you time to reflect, and expand the sonic palette. “Biscuits” is the first of these, and it’s significant for a couple of reasons. Not only is it a change of pace (with a soulful, mid-tempo bounce and a gospel-tinged hook), but it’s also D Smoke’s official debut on Snoop Dogg’s Death Row Records imprint, marked by a guest verse from the Doggfather himself. Hearing Snoop on a D Smoke track is a full-circle West Coast moment—the O.G. of Inglewood’s neighboring Long Beach hopping on a track by Inglewood’s newest lyrical torchbearer. But what’s striking is that Smoke doesn’t alter his lane one bit for the cosign; instead of trying to emulate the G-funk or gangsta style of Death Row’s historic catalog, he has Snoop slide comfortably into his world.
The middle of this LP continues to blend introspection with smooth vibes. “Count Cha Blessings,” featuring Jane Handcock, is a standout in this section, operating almost like a short film within the album. The track starts with a skit of two friends arguing on the street corner, and then Smoke launches into a narrative about the perils of fast money and misplaced priorities. He introduces characters and scenarios, from dodging jackers near Darby Park to catching bullets over a flashy chain, driving home the lesson that “most things, the faster they come, the faster they go”. It’s a compelling story that feels real to anyone who’s seen or lived in a hood. Jane Handcock’s contribution here is fantastic—she delivers the hook with a ton of soul, repeatedly urging “Count your blessings… life’s precious”, and her velvety voice adds a warmth that counterbalances the gritty story (She also slides in with a standout verse of her own toward the end, driving the point home with a female perspective that broadens the song’s emotional reach—it’s the kind of moment that makes you immediately wonder “Who is Jane Handcock? She killed that!”).
That theme of appreciating life continues on “Energized,” which features rising singer Ogi. It rides a breezy, modern R&B beat and has Smoke refusing to let anyone steal his joy or drain his energy. It’s a chill track, maybe not as lyrically dense as others, but it adds to the album’s uplifting atmosphere (and gives listeners a lighter, melodic breather). Lucky Daye’s smooth R&B hooks are instantly recognizable, and on “Frequency,” he provides a lush, soulful chorus that elevates the song’s mood into something almost ethereal. The track’s concept finds D Smoke in a vulnerable space—he raps about needing love, support, and encouragement, wondering why he keeps getting declined or turned away when he’s searching for that silver lining. Lucky Daye essentially plays the role of a reassuring voice, crooning about maintaining a higher frequency in the face of life’s static. By this point in the album, we’ve heard hard rap, bilingual bars, gospel inflections, cautionary street tales, and smooth R&B—and none of it feels out of place. There’s a cohesive thread of consciousness and authenticity tying it all together.
That thread is pulled taut on “Jackie’s Triumph,” which, as mentioned, is arguably the album’s emotional anchor. Coming off the lush “Frequency,” Jackie’s Triumph drops us into stark reality—no heavy drums, just gentle instrumentation and Smoke’s voice, front and center, recounting his family’s crucible. This song hits different, especially if you know the real-life context: D Smoke, SiR, and Davion Farris lost their mother, Jackie, in 2024 after her long health battle. Smoke wrote and recorded “Jackie’s Triumph” during or after that period, and you can hear him processing the trauma in real time. He begins the song on Easter morning, debating going to church, when he gets the call about the accident—“that phone call surreal, not quite a light scare… Wait, not Jackie, my God, wait, not her”—the disbelief and anguish in his words are unmistakable. As the verse unfolds, he spares no detail: internal bleeding, broken vertebrae (L2 and L3), emergency surgeries, and the weeks in the hospital that followed. It’s heavy, heavy content, but the way Smoke delivers it is masterful. He switches from first-person panic (“I’m her next of kin, let me sign the paper, take her and operate… and now we wait”) to almost a narrator’s perspective, describing how the family rallied around Jackie, how she cursed out nurses who didn’t treat her like the queen she is, how even their estranged father hovered protectively by her bedside. These personal anecdotes bring you right into the Farris family’s world.
By the second half of the song, when Smoke notes “for the second time this week I saw her play the piano and sing her song, as I cried I just sing along ’cause we know where this thing is headed”, it’s hard not to get goosebumps. He’s essentially documenting a miracle in progress—they know the likely outcome, but they’re cherishing those moments of grace. When he proclaims “Jackie’s walking now, it’s a matter of time before she run” with a mix of hope and defiance, it literally gave me chills. The song doesn’t shy away from the ugly parts either: he recounts the hallucinations Jackie had on medication, the medical jargon he learned (“NG tube… you can’t eat for three weeks”), even a nurse recognizing him and praying for them because he “sits with the words” of Smoke’s music. It’s incredibly meta—D Smoke realizing that his art has touched people who are now caring for his mother—and it reinforces the album’s core theme of using your voice and art as a force of healing and strength. “Jackie’s Triumph” is a tough listen emotionally, but it’s also a beautiful one. It anchors the album in reality; after all the talk about being supa, counting blessings, and staying energized, here we see why those messages matter. Life can knock you down in an instant, and for Smoke, the test was watching the strongest person he knew fight for her life.
Fittingly, after that catharsis, the album turns toward spiritual victory and closure. “Stomp,” featuring Miles Minnick, brings the energy back up, but with a twist: it’s essentially a gospel-trap banger. Over a sampled, high-energy beat, D Smoke and Miles rap about literally stomping on the devil—it’s a triumphant, churchy concept presented in a modern hip-hop way. Miles Minnick, a Christian hip-hop artist, matches Smoke’s intensity bar for bar. This track works as a “rocket” to boost us out of the heavy mood of “Jackie’s Triumph”—it’s like saying, we’ve been through hell, now let’s stomp all over hell and keep moving. Even if you’re not religious, the metaphor lands because by this point, you’re rooting for Smoke’s victory. The album’s penultimate song, “Proud of You,” then flips the script: instead of Smoke seeking strength or triumph for himself, he’s giving roses to someone else. Over classic West Coast production from the legendary DJ Battlecat (the beat has that warm, nostalgic glow), D Smoke addresses an individual—maybe a mentee, a younger homie, or even one of his brothers—telling them he’s been watching their growth and he’s genuinely proud of them. Having R&B crooner BJ the Chicago Kid on the hook adds even more soulful affirmation.
We arrive at “So Good,” the album’s soulful outro and one of its most uplifting anchors. If “Jackie’s Triumph” was the storm, then this is the sunshine breaking through the clouds. This song is pure, unfiltered gratitude. Smoke uses the verses to reflect on perspective: any time he starts to complain about life, he checks himself by literally counting his blessings. The chorus is simple and heartwarming:
“Honestly, I’m so good
As long as I have breath in my body
I got the people that I love, and they got me
That’s all I need, I’m so good.”
He sings (yes, raps and sings) with a genuine sense of peace. After all the trials and tribulations the album traversed, hearing D Smoke say I am so, so good—and mean it—is powerful. Tiffany Gouché and PJ Morton harmonize and ad-lib around him, their soulful voices reinforcing the feeling that being alive and together is victory enough. Smoke even references his own journey in subtle ways (“On Centinela and La Brea in the studio, I would wake up/My degree couldn’t keep me from Inglewood times… them was Suge times” he notes in one verse, acknowledging that even as a UCLA grad, his heart was always in Inglewood’s music scene, and amusingly nodding to Death Row’s Suge Knight era that was happening around him). Little self-reflective touches like that make “So Good” feel like a personal journal entry.
Stepping back, Wake Up Supa succeeds in its manifesto of inspiring and uplifting “gangsters and lovers.” D Smoke has always been a bit of a rarity: a bilingual Black man from the hood with a schoolteacher’s spirit and a poet’s pen. Here, he embraces all sides of his identity. For the “gangsters,” he offers understanding and solidarity—he doesn’t sanitize the realities of street life (songs like “Fire,” “No Passes,” “Count Cha Blessings” speak directly to those experiences with unflinching honesty). He laces the album with the kind of hard beats, confident flow, and West Coast pride that any hip-hop head from the streets can appreciate. At the same time, he challenges that audience to grow. He’s essentially saying: I see you, I come from where you come from, and I want you to wake up to your higher self. He drops gems about economic disparities, urges self-education, and leads by example—showing that fluency in language, knowledge of history, and spiritual faith aren’t “uncool” but are weapons of empowerment. For the “lovers,” in the broad sense—those who approach life with heart, whether that’s romantic, familial, or communal love—D Smoke pours in empathy and soul.
In terms of the overarching concept, Wake Up Supa feels cohesive and purposeful. It’s not a “concept album” in the sense of following a single storyline or character, but it absolutely has a unifying theme: awakening. D Smoke wants to wake up anyone sleeping on him, sleeping on themselves, or sleeping on the truth. He aims to awaken minds in the community (hence the emphasis on literacy, education, and introspection) and uplift spirits (thus the gospel influence and uplifting tone). The album art and skits play with the idea of dream vs. reality, and the official album description even says it “takes fans on an introspective journey blending dreamstate and reality” while capturing themes of awakening. You notice recurring motifs of morning and light: the album literally starts with “Wake Up…”, has a song called “Good Morning” near the end, where Smoke admits if this album doesn’t get your attention, nothing will, and then ends with the sunny “So Good.” Even the presence of his mother’s story—facing death and then recovering—ties into the resurrection/awakening theme. It’s artfully done. If Black Habits (his 2020 debut) was about showcasing his foundation and War & Wonders (2021) explored internal and external battles, Wake Up Supa is about enlightenment and renewed purpose.
Now, we’re being brutally honest, Wake Up Supa isn’t a flawless album. At 14 tracks, there are a couple of moments (“Chin Up” or the well-meaning but slightly on-the-nose “Good Morning”) that might not hit as hard as the rest, and listeners who prefer more hedonistic or club-oriented rap might find the album’s earnestness and drumless sections a bit outside their usual rotation. Also, the very qualities that make D Smoke special—his thoughtfulness, his penchant for slipping into Spanish, his strong messages—could be misconstrued by some as him being too preachy or too similar in tone to other conscious rappers (he’s often been compared to Kendrick Lamar due to a somewhat similar vocal register and cadence). But to me, those are minor quibbles, because Smoke has truly come into his own voice here. He’s aware of those comparisons and sidesteps them by being unabashedly Daniel Farris—a proud Inglewood native who reps his section (shout out to WoodWorks Records) while pushing himself creatively.
The album’s mix of styles might seem risky (not many records seamlessly juggle street rap, spoken word poetry, and neo-soul jams), but D Smoke makes it cohesive through sheer authenticity and narrative through-line. Smoke’s evolving identity, from a local Spanish teacher to a Netflix rap champion, to a Grammy-nominated independent artist, and now a flagship act on a reborn Death Row, shows a man who’s growing into an elder statesman in the making. He’s using his platform not just to stunt (though he can drop a flex or two), but to educate and heal. In hip hop, that’s the kind of thing that builds a legacy. The production is consistently high quality, the features all bring something valuable to the table, and above all, Smoke’s lyricism is top-tier—you catch new lines with each listen, whether it’s a witty punchline or a profound bit of wordplay. He’s effectively opened “a window to his self-awareness” on this album, inviting us all to look, learn, and vibe out.
Standout (★★★★½)
Favorite Track(s): “Fire,” “Frequency,” “Jackie’s Triumph,” “So Good”