The hardest-working man in America is the DJ at a midsize Philadelphia concert venue called District N9NE. It's the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and it has been an agonizing three hours since the doors opened. This poor DJ is trying his hardest to distract hundreds of fans—none of whom appear to be over the age of 22—from the glaring absence of Juice WRLD, the year's newly minted hip-hop superstar. They've come to see their digital hero in the flesh, but excitement has curdled into restlessness, and after restlessness comes agitation. So many Juuls have died that some fans have resorted to lighting up real cigarettes inside the venue. For a moment, the DJ is able to pacify the crowd by playing “GUMMO,” the viral New York street-rap anthem from the then newly incarcerated Tekashi 6ix9ine, but the crowd's fury prevails. “Juice WRLD will be here in five minutes,” the DJ announces in a tone that's not exactly convincing. “He apologizes for the delay.” Some kids begin chucking water bottles at his booth, which puts him over the edge. He's gone from commanding hype man to irritable babysitter in moments.

“Stop fucking throwing shit!” he yells into the mic. The crowd begins to chant: “We want Juice! We want Juice!” The DJ spins OutKast's “Hey Ya!,” which falls on deaf ears. “Reeeeeefund! Reeeeeefund!” the crowd yells in unison.

One kid lets out a bloodcurdling scream: “Where the FUUUUUCK is Juice WRLD?!” He's in a backward Vineyard Vines hat, standing next to a buddy who is sporting a Thrasher T-shirt and a cartoonishly large chain. Bare midriffs are everywhere. This may be the DJ's personal hellscape, but it's a record label's or an advertiser's greatest fantasy: the place where frat boys and hypebeasts—many of them white—converge in a millennial-meets-Gen Z slush pile. In an earlier era, these kids might have been wearing puka-shell necklaces and vibing out in a field to Dave Matthews Band, but in 2018, they were rocking knockoff Supreme gear and listening to RapCaviar, where they are fed artists like Juice WRLD—a 20-year-old from the Chicago suburbs who stormed the charts last year with his melodic, angsty hybrid of rap and emo.

As curfew draws closer, and part of the crowd is close to being lost altogether, Juice WRLD finally emerges onstage, bare-chested under an oversize leather vest. During the second song, the sound cuts out and Juice performs the first part of his set a cappella. By most standards this is a disaster, but Juice is able to turn it into a winning moment. He knows that these kids have every single word of his catalog memorized, and they will do this performance on his behalf. I'm in my black Benz / Doing cocaine with my black friends / We'll be high as hell before the night ends, the crowd sings, triumphant. “A little technical difficulty ain't going to stop us from piping the fuck up,” Juice gloats.

A year ago, not too many people knew who Juice WRLD was, but today nobody in the music business can have a conversation without bringing up his name and his rocket ship of a career. It doesn't matter if he makes his audience impatient. He is proof that the SoundCloud rap movement—the wave of chaotic, DIY Internet stars who've overtaken the mainstream in unprecedented fashion over the past two years—is mutating faster than anyone can really process. He arrived in early 2018, a lightly sanitized and seemingly fully formed version of his predecessors—a Post-Post Malone, if you will. In a matter of months, he went from being just another kid posting songs on SoundCloud to a major-label obsession.