Narcotized, addled, and sometimes tender, Future has spent the past decade making whatever music he wants: trap ballads, twerk anthems, petty kiss-offs, trippy blues. His superpower is his ability to smear emotional states into odd collages, his protean voice ascending to the peaks of exuberance or plunging to the depths of misery. In a single moment, a Future song can pivot into the sublime, altering what came before it and everything after. Future is chaos unleashed and distilled.

Though he’s got fewer Grammys than Macklemore, less hits than Drake, and has never received the acclaim of Kendrick Lamar, Future casts a long shadow over rap at large. Through him, the 2000s swag-rap of artists like Roscoe Dash and Soulja Boy fused with the grandeur of Atlantan trap stalwarts like Gucci Mane and Young Jeezy. He bridged the robosoul of 808s & Heartbreak Kanye and the bugged out introspection of peak Lil Wayne. He mutated T-Pain’s horny stripper odes into seedy noir.

Like so many legends of Atlanta rap, Future’s origin story begins in the Dungeon, the home of the collective that birthed OutKast, Goodie Mob, and Killer Mike. “I helped create that monster,” says Organized Noize producer Rico Wade over the phone, recalling Future’s days in the early 2000s as Meathead, the youngest member of Dungeon Family group Da Connect. Wade, Future’s cousin, fostered Future’s music early in his career. Following Wade’s instructions, Meathead was structured in his approach to songcraft. In contrast to the freeform rapping and singing Future does now, Meathead was taught that songs were built first around hooks, followed by concepts and verses. Wade sees that early mentorship reflected in Future’s current output, which involves constantly recording and building songs incrementally.

When Meathead emerged as Future in 2010, he distinguished himself through his attention to melody. His first verse on that year’s “Old Hunnduds,” from his second mixtape, Kno Mercy, is dolloped with little melodies that give his flows odd kicks. Where rappers traditionally use melody to convey vulnerability or sincerity, Future uses it for richness, flavor. The song’s almost choral hook is warm and cocky and aspirational; it feels like a TED Talk sung as a church hymn and delivered in a strip club.

Future had his first hit the next year, with his feature on YC’s “Racks.” The song is a case study in his use of melody. On the hook he pronounces “racks” multiple ways: as a singsong chant (“racks-on-racks-on-racks”), as an exclamation (“RACKS!”), and as a croon (“RAAAA-ACKS”). The variations give the song momentum despite its redundancy—every rack feels distinctive. In the age of hashtag rap, which often made punchlines and lyricism feel formulaic, Future unlocked new ways to be clever and stylish.