Where Did the Posse Cut Go?

The year was 1991 when A Tribe Called Quest and Leaders of the New School caused a cultural earthquake with the release of “Scenario.” The track sounded like a cypher crashing a house party — think boom-bap drums rattling beneath jittery horns. And each verse handed off like a baton in a relay race. Every rapper brought a distinct cadence, their voices colliding in joyful chaos that transformed the record into an unforgettable moment in rap 

From songs like “Scenario” came the term “posse cut,” one of hip-hop’s purest expressions of community and friendly lyrical competition. Multiple voices sharing one track, each bar raising the stakes for the next, all pushing the art forward together. The ultimate introduction to the posse cut came courtesy of the Juice Crew’s “Symphony” in 1988. And as the movement exploded onto the scene, hip-hop fans were treated to classics like Craig Mack’s “Flava in Ya Ear (Remix)” and a pre-problematic Kanye West’s “Monster,” to name a few. The posse cut was never just a song; it was a sonic event, a statement of unity and power.

Depending on the era you were born in, the term “posse cut” and what it actually means may differ. A non-textbook definition would be a song that contains numerous artists, primarily rappers, over one beat. However, the posse cut wasn’t just a simple song format. It served as a rite of passage and, at its best, it captured the true essence of hip-hop as an art form centered around community: the cypher, the crew and the idea that “iron sharpens iron” are all applicable because that would be how rappers leveled up on their bars. The “all-star” structure created something far beyond one a sole artist could achieve on their own.

The Juice Crew’s “Symphony” is often credited as the genesis of posse cuts, featuring lyrical craftsmanship from Marley Marl, Masta Ace, Kool G Rap, Craig G and Big Daddy Kane. This was more than a simple compilation of verses, though: the song served as a proclamation that crews mattered and there was now a template for how rap collectives can show off their talents as a unit, giving everyone a moment to shine.

In the '90s, the now-established rap format had begun to evolve. Not only did “Scenario” cement the synergy between ATCQ and Leaders of the New School, but it was also the launchpad for Busta Rhymes’ stardom. His explosive delivery was one that had not yet been up to that point, but was the makings of a rap legend, and a reminder that posse cuts can also be a catalyst for rap stardom. Craig Mack’s “Flava in Ya Ear (Remix)” in 1994 took a similar fashion, turning an already-fire single into a generational event with verses from The Notorious B.I.G., LL Cool J, Rampage and Busta.

Posse cuts also gave rise to women-centered collaborations. In 1997, Lil’ Kim enlisted Da Brat, Missy Elliott, Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes and Angie Martinez for “Not Tonight (Ladies Night Remix),” a posse cut that climbed the Billboard charts while affirming women’s place at the forefront of hip-hop’s collaborative tradition. A year earlier, Total’s “No One Else (Remix)” brought together Lil’ Kim, Foxy Brown and Da Brat, blurring the line between R&B remixes and posse cuts, and proving that women MCs could command the same cultural spotlight as their male counterparts.

Posse cuts were also utilized for moments of unity. “Self-Destruction,” released in 1989 following the death of a young fan at a Boogie Down Productions and Public Enemy concert, and 1990’s “We’re All in the Same Gang” unified rival MCs across regions to address gun violence. These songs showed that posse cuts were also vehicles for change, awareness and social commentary, also embodying hip-hop’s position as both a mirror and a microphone for its fans.

And by the time Kanye assembled Jay-Z, Rick Ross, Nicki Minaj and Bon Iver on “Monster” in 2010, posse cuts had already made a home in the rap space, but were now kicking their feet up in pop culture’s living room. Nicki’s verse in particular was a reminder that in rap, one performance can be so commanding it flips the whole conversation around a track on its head.

The 2010s also delivered their own posse-cut touchstones. A$AP Rocky’s “1Train” gathered a stacked lineup of then-rising stars (Kendrick Lamar, Joey Bada$$, Yelawolf, Danny Brown, Action Bronson and Big K.R.I.T.) in a modern-day cypher that felt like a spiritual ode to “Scenario.” A year earlier, Rocky’s “F**kin’ Problems” with Drake, 2 Chainz and Kendrick proved that collaboration could still dominate radio and streaming alike. Meanwhile, TDE’s Black Hippy collective (Kendrick Lamar, Schoolboy Q, Jay Rock and Ab-Soul) built their mystique in part around posse-style appearances. Tracks like Q’s “THat Part (Remix)” and Kendrick’s “Swimming Pools (Remix),” plus their various freestyles, gave fans a taste of what a full Black Hippy album might have delivered.

Notably, though, the 2010s lacked a high-profile, all-women posse cut equivalent to “Ladies Night.” While women MCs continued to thrive individually — Nicki Minaj being the most visible — and often shone in cypher settings like the BET Hip Hop Awards’ all-women lineups, the absence of mainstream, women-centered posse cuts in this era highlighted how gender representation in collaborative rap still had ground to cover.

Fast forward roughly 15 years later, and the posse cut seems like a thing of the past. What exactly happened? Why did a format that was once so prevalent to rap’s identity seemingly fade to black? There are a few possible reasons to point to: streaming economics, the rise of solo rap stars, and record labels and industry dynamics. Regarding streaming, it is a known fact that the landscape of the industry shifted. Consumption largely shifted from physical to digital, from cassette tapes and CDs to MP3s, which labels initially resisted against before ultimately waving their white flag and acquiescing. In this new era, shorter songs crept to the forefront, dominating playlists and maximizing repeat plays. In contrast, posse cuts often ran between five or six minutes long, with multiple verses. Due to labels changing how they prioritized music and the importance of streams increasing, posse cuts inevitably fell by the wayside.

In this era of solo rap stars, the “crew” concept began to part ways. Throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, cliques defined hip-hop: the Native Tongues, Wu-Tang Clan, Roc-A-Fella, Ruff Ryders, Dipset, No Limit Records, the Cash Money Millionaires, and G-Unit helped shape the cultural identity of rap. Fans became engulfed in the worlds these crews created. But as the focus shifted to singular stardom, so did the emphasis on rap collectives. From this shift came artists like Kendrick Lamar, Drake and Nicki Minaj, and Travis Scott; talents who emerged from Black Hippy, Young Money, and GOOD Music/Grand Hustle, respectively. And while rap collectives still existed, the gravitational pull of the lone star began to outshine them.

For record labels and music industry dynamics, this was more about business. There have been a myriad of factors that contributed to the decline of posse cuts: royalties splits, managing crew egos, and navigating label contracts. When posse cuts first burst onto the scene it usually meant a new beat was produced, new verses were added, and a new marketing rollout. However, today’s remix is merely one more feature added to the same track, in an attempt to “enhance” it in some capacity, but also to ramp up streaming numbers. It requires less orchestration and coordination, and — thanks to technology — it’s faster and cheaper to procure and can be done via email. As a result, the posse cut became less practical for labels and less rewarding for artists. While the cultural significance remained, the infrastructure around hip-hop no longer supported posse cuts as a format.

However, the posse cut ideal isn’t extinct. Instead, it’s more of a deep cut, living in smaller, more nuanced corners of hip-hop. Dreamville’s 2019 album, Revenge of the Dreamers III, might be the closest modern-day equivalent to the posse cut era. To create it, Cole and his team invited over 100 artists and producers to Atlanta for a 10-day recording session. From this musical marathon came a compilation album that encompassed joy, talent and reignited community on wax. Dreamers III would nab a pair of Grammy nominations (Best Rap Album and Best Rap Performance for “Down Bad”), and reminded rap fans that a collective project can obtain success when executed properly. ROTDIII is proof of that because it cut directly through the noise and knocked down barriers that many thought might have been unbreakable.

Another recent example is Griselda, the Buffalo, N.Y. rap collective of real-life family members Westside Gunn, Conway the Machine and Benny the Butcher. The trio has carried that ethos throughout their entire careers, and has grown into a larger crew of both rappers (Boldy James, Armani Caesar, and Rome Streetz) and producers (Daringer, Camoflauge Monk, Conductor Williams). Reminiscent of New York’s early '90s rap sound, their grimy, ominous, detail-heavy raps often feature multiple crew members trading verses, and while they might not have the mainstream notoriety or pop-chart dominance, they are proof that the format still resonates deeply with dedicated fans.

Meanwhile, Odd Future and Brockhampton once represented new-school rap troops that frequently incorporated the posse ethos. Their songs take you back to college dorm room rap sessions: experimental, but full of life. Before Black Hippy (Kendrick Lamar, Schoolboy Q, Jay Rock and Ab-Soul), who disbanded in 2022 following K-Dot’s departure from Top Dawg Entertainment, they kept fans on their toes for a full-length project.

Even DJ Khaled does his own nuanced take, often releasing superstar-stacked albums with multiple guests on each track. They may not always be organically done and are at times constructed Frankenstein’s monster-style, but they maintain the ethos of a multi-MC track. This proves that while the format isn’t extinct, it is exceedingly rare.

The question now is if posse cuts can evolve into something sustainable amid rap’s current climate. The answer is: yes. Producer-driven albums seem to be one of the options. Metro Boomin’s Heroes & Villains series is an example of that revamped model where a beatmaker assembles artists around a specific vision. The producer is now the glue, allowing the posse cuts to live among their orchestrated singles.

Online cyphers, like XXL’s Cypher Lab and On the Radar’s All-Star Cypher or BET’s Hip-Hop Awards rap cyphers, also paint a picture similar to the posse cut, albeit with slightly different brush strokes. The same spontaneous energy exists in these moments, sans the label politics.

The posse cut may never dominate radio the way it once did, but its spirit still lingers. From the chaotic brilliance of “Scenario” to the boldness of “Ladies Night,” from Rocky’s “1Train” to Dreamville’s ROTDIII, the format has always thrived on the same simple formula: many voices, one beat and endless possibilities. Even in today’s streaming-driven landscape, when posse cuts do surface they feel like events or reminders of an era when hip-hop’s essence was community, competition and collaboration.

If anything, the absence of posse cuts at the mainstream level makes their rare appearances more appreciated and valued. They remind us that rap is just as electrifying when a crew is involved, when the cypher spills onto wax, when artists sharpen each other in real time, when the song becomes bigger than any single voice. And perhaps that’s the challenge the genre faces today: not whether the posse cut will return, but whether hip-hop can recapture the communal spark that made it indispensable in the first place.