J’Moris Stares Love in the Face on ‘Toxic Lovespell’
Some records demand your attention. Others simply ask for your trust. Toxic Lovespell, the latest offering from Hillsboro rapper J’Moris, falls firmly into the latter category. It doesn’t kick the door in. It sits you down, looks you in the eye, and begins a story you didn’t realize you needed to hear.
At its heart, Toxic Lovespell is a document of survival—of relationships, of trauma, of navigating the muddy waters between love and destruction. It’s messy, soulful, defiant, and surprisingly tender. And it’s easily J’Moris’s most emotionally vulnerable work to date.
The album opens like a therapy session. Literally. A calm voice invites you to “have a seat,” and you get the sense that J’Moris is doing exactly that himself—settling in, letting the mask slip. “Therapeutic Release” feels more like a confession than an intro, weaving delicate strings around his steady cadence. He doesn’t scream for attention. He doesn’t have to. The weight of his words—about public perception, personal loss, and internal reckoning—speaks loud enough.
J’Moris has always walked a tightrope between the street and the soul. Here, he lets himself teeter more than usual. Tracks like “She Knows” and “Ice Cream” lean into R&B textures without losing their lyrical edge. There’s seduction, yes, but also clarity in his vulnerability. Even on a track as radio-ready as “Loaded,” the swagger feels earned, not forced. You can hear the miles on his voice.
What gives Toxic Lovespell its weight isn’t just the production or the hooks—it’s the emotional math J’Moris is doing in real time. “Good Guys Finish Last” doesn’t just rehash the cliché; it reexamines it under harsh fluorescent light. The loss here is palpable, and there’s no Instagram filter to soften the blow. Same goes for “Outkast,” a slow-burning lament that plays like a diary entry set to jazz-laced keys and low-end rumble.
J’Moris’s backstory is crucial to the resonance of this album. Raised amid the long shadow of the crack epidemic in central Texas, he’s no stranger to chaos. But what’s most compelling is how little he leans on that pain for pity. His lyrics don’t beg for understanding—they demand reflection. He knows what it means to grow up fast, to carry other people’s mistakes, and to choose music over mayhem. The ghost of his brother Crunch—who taught him the rules of engagement without glorifying the game—looms large throughout the album.
That’s not to say the project is all heavy. “90s Sitcom” is pure nostalgia, with a beat that could soundtrack an after-school block on UPN. There’s warmth and humor in the way J’Moris recalls the pop culture that shaped him, reminding us that even in the darkest times, joy had its cameos.
Production across the album—helmed by Supamario Beatz—is lean and intentional. The beats never overshadow J’Moris’s voice, instead giving it room to breathe and flex. Whether he’s spitting with grit or leaning into melody, his delivery remains one of his sharpest tools. There’s restraint in how he constructs a song, resisting the temptation to over-produce or over-perform. It’s the mark of someone who understands that less can often say more.