Lit Rater moves like someone who’s had to wrestle with the world before the world ever knew his name. Born in a weathered little shack on Ann Street in Lafayette, Louisiana, he came up as the oldest kid in a house stacked with five siblings, the one who never had the luxury of being fragile. When most kids were still figuring out cartoons and bicycles, he was already learning that life hits without warning. No father in sight, losses stacking up, friends gone too early, family missing seats at the table—he grew up surrounded by reminders that tomorrow isn’t promised, and nobody is coming to hand you a smoother path.
That kind of upbringing doesn’t build artists; it forges them. And Lit Rater didn’t grow into music the way some people do—slowly, gently, with encouragement. He clawed his way into it. Every bar he writes sounds like it’s cut from old memories that never softened, and every beat he slides on feels like another step forward from the dirt he started in. His voice carries that street-quiet truth: the kind you don’t learn from movies, only from surviving.
Louisiana Chronicles 3 is the latest stamp in his personal archive, but it’s more than an album—it’s a map of scars he refuses to hide. Twelve tracks, zero features, no filters, no borrowed shine. It’s Lit Rater standing in the center of his own storm, telling it exactly how it unfolded. Key records like “Fuk Haters,” “Rain On Em,” “Die Young,” and “Home Grown” aren’t just songs; they’re confessions delivered with a kind of grit that makes it impossible to question whether he means a single word.
“Fuk Haters” hits like a refusal to shrink for anyone. “Rain On Em” feels like the moment he stopped running from his past and started using it as gasoline. “Die Young” lies somewhere between prayer and warning, heavy with the ghosts he carries. And “Home Grown” is a salute to Lafayette itself—raw, unpolished, real as the soil he climbed out of.
Through the losses, the setbacks, and the weight of being the oldest child who had to grow up too fast, Lit Rater never folded. Instead, he built something. Three kids of his own now, a legacy shaping itself in front of his eyes, and a voice that doesn’t just rap—it remembers, it resists, it rises.
