Disdazie arrives with the kind of confidence that can sound like a dare, “Yo, I’m from Washington D.C., and I sound like nobody you’ve met before.” The wild part is he’s not wrong. He’s carving out a lane where melodic rap sits next to R&B warmth, and a little rock grit slips through like a shadow under neon. You can catch familiar fingerprints, Kendrick Lamar’s emotional precision, J. Cole’s inward gaze, Mac Miller’s hazy melancholy, SZA’s floating sadness, Brent Faiyaz’s toxic velvet, even Bryson Tiller’s late-night hush. None of it feels copied. It feels taken in, turned over, and shaped into something personal, like a voice leaning close and talking straight into your chest.
The craft is real, but the bigger pull is the diary energy. Disdazie writes like someone who got cut up by love, patched himself with sound, then decided to let strangers hear the bandages rustle. That level of honesty changes the temperature of everything around it. It’s the secret seasoning, and he doesn’t ration it.
Enter “Memories.” This single doesn’t rush you. It seeps. The track moves like low-light music, like rain on a window when the room is quiet and your phone is doing too much. It’s easy to loop by accident, then realize an hour later that your heart has been replaying while your brain keeps insisting it’s already packed.
The first line, “Feeling so animalistic,” sets the tone with a kind of restless, primal heat. He sounds less polished than exposed, like he’s unraveling in real time and letting you stand there and watch it happen. That slightly tripping-over-his-own-thoughts feel matters. It captures the exact spiral of reading old messages at 2 a.m., fully aware it’s a bad idea, still doing it anyway.
He keeps returning to the relationship like he’s pacing a room he can’t leave.
“Feeling like our vibe died, feeling like this is our time to say adieu… Let’s call a truce.”
That’s the limbo moment, when both people know the thing is on life support, yet nobody wants to be the one to pull the plug and carry the blame.
Then he lands the bluntest confession on the record:
“Sex was so incredible but our time is up.”
He nails it. Most people edit that thought out before it ever reaches daylight, because it’s too real and too grown. The line admits what worked, refuses to romanticize it into a reason to stay, and accepts the ending anyway. The physical connection can be electric, and the relationship can still be finished. Expired. Dust.
A big part of why “Memories” sticks is how his voice lives inside the production. It curls around the track like smoke, with airy reverb, ambient textures, and echoes that feel like a bedroom still holding the scent of someone who left too soon. When he sings “Hmm… time is up…” it doesn’t sound like a dramatic flourish. It sounds like a soft self-stab, the tired shrug of somebody exhausted by their own feelings.
The bridge is where the song opens all the way up:
“God please help me find my way again.”
Suddenly it’s confession-booth territory. He isn’t performing heartbreak for effect, he’s asking for direction. You hear him trying to claw out of the fog, not with grand statements, but with the worn-down simplicity of someone who has been carrying this for too long. The vulnerability hits because it feels spent, not theatrical. More quiet breakdown than big scene.
And then the hook circles back, simple and relentless:
“Memories, memories, oh no…”
He repeats it like a mantra he resents, like he’s trying to talk himself out of the loop and failing. It’s the sonic version of checking an ex’s Instagram and already knowing how you’ll feel afterward. The “oh no” lands as a real-life groan, face in pillow, the sound that slips out when reality catches you in the throat.
“Memories” is heartbreak stripped down to the bones. No forced coolness. No fake bravado. Just someone wrestling with the ghosts he helped create, and admitting how hard it is to stop feeding them.
That’s why the track works. It feels intimate without dumping everything in your lap. The sadness stays present, but it never tips into melodrama. It’s catchy in a way that feels earned, like the hook is there because the thought genuinely won’t leave him alone.
Days later, when your mind finally gets quiet, the song has a way of drifting back in, whispering that refrain like a reminder you didn’t ask for.
If you’ve ever tried to move on while your heart kept pressing replay, “Memories” deserves a spot at the front of the playlist. Pull up and stream “Memories!”
