There’s something proper about hearing a Scouse accent over blown-out 808s. Not the sanitised, media-trained version of regional dialect, but the full-throated Merseyside sound where every “k” hits like a docker’s handshake.
That’s what EsDeeKid delivers on Phantom, and it’s exactly why the track’s racked up over 120 million streams since dropping in March 2025.
The song opens with a statement: “Blacked out like a phantom / Me phone keeps having a tantrum.”
Simple bars, but delivered with that Liverpool twang that transforms standard trap boasting into something that sounds simultaneously harder and more lived-in.
When EsDeeKid says his phone won’t stop ringing, you believe it because you can hear the streets in his voice.
Produced by Wraith9, the beat sits somewhere between drill’s cold minimalism and cloud rap’s hazy textures.
It’s 140 BPM but never feels rushed, giving EsDeeKid and Rico Ace room to let their flows breathe.
The production’s lo-fi distortion isn’t budget limitation, it’s an aesthetic choice that works.
Those stuttering drums and haunting synth lines create the perfect backdrop for two MCs who clearly understand that vibe matters as much as bars.
The track’s brevity is its strength. At 1:49, Phantom delivers everything it needs to say and gets out.
No bloated verses trying to prove technical ability, no unnecessary bridge stretching runtime for streaming payouts.
This is TikTok-era efficiency that actually serves the song rather than compromising it.
You can listen to the whole thing three times in the time it takes most rappers to clear their throat on an intro.
Rico Ace comes in halfway through with his own perspective on the lifestyle: “She jealous of the fiends like, ‘Why you always on the phone for?’”
The relationship drama sits alongside drug references without contradiction because that’s just how life works when you’re moving differently.
His girl’s upset he’s always on his mobile, meanwhile she’s the one doing lines in the bathroom.
The hypocrisy lands because it’s observed plainly, not dressed up for effect.
That line about the “hypocrite” turned “coke whore” hits harder than it should. It’s not clever wordplay or complex metaphor, just street observation delivered with conviction.
Rico Ace isn’t moralising or celebrating, he’s documenting. The “Kate Moss fame” reference adds texture without overexplaining itself. If you know, you know. If you don’t, the vibe still carries you through.
EsDeeKid’s vocal delivery transforms basic bars into something memorable. When he says “I’m young, lit and I’m handsome,” that Scouse accent makes “handsome” sound like a threat rather than a boast.
The consonants hit different when they’re coming from someone who sounds like they grew up within earshot of Anfield. Every word carries regional weight that London MCs can’t replicate no matter how hard they try.
The chorus structure is designed for virality but doesn’t sacrifice substance for it.
“This song your national anthem” is the kind of audacious claim that should feel ridiculous but somehow doesn’t.
Maybe it’s the delivery, maybe it’s the confidence, maybe it’s just that the beat slaps hard enough to make you believe it. The repetition of “phantom” and “tantrum” creates an earworm effect without feeling juvenile.
What separates Phantom from generic trap flexing is the self-awareness buried in the bars.
“Drugs and girls come later / In the end, it’s all a distraction / Bitch, I’m all about me passion / Music, money, and fashion.”
That’s not hedonism, that’s career focus dressed up in street language. The acknowledgment that substances and relationships are distractions shows more maturity than most rappers twice his age manage to convey.
The video aesthetic matches the sound perfectly. Rooftop shots with the city as backdrop, faces obscured, the whole thing shot in that slightly grainy quality that makes it feel more authentic than overproduced.
EsDeeKid maintains the balaclava across all appearances, feeding into drill’s anonymity tradition while creating distinction through consistency.
Whether that’s brilliant marketing or genuine paranoia about staying anonymous doesn’t really matter. Either way, it works.
UK rap has long been shaped by London infrastructure. Drill emerged from South London estates, grime from East End tower blocks, and the industry followed the postcodes that already had studios, media access, and A&R attention attached.
Outside the M25, talent historically had to shout louder just to be heard. What Phantom proves is that those dynamics don’t disappear, they just get overridden once the numbers become impossible to ignore.
And the numbers did their job. Phantom debuted at 81 on the Hot 100, marking EsDeeKid’s second appearance and Rico Ace’s first.
By January 2026, it had climbed to number 15 on the UK charts after 112 days, peaking at eight.
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That kind of chart run isn’t fluke virality. It’s the result of a track that found its audience, held it, and kept pulling new listeners in after the fifteen-second clips stopped circulating.
Rico Ace deserves credit for his contribution. His verse provides tonal variation without disrupting the track’s mood.
The chemistry between the two rappers is evident, suggesting this collaboration came from genuine connection rather than A&R matchmaking.
When he raps about being “the biggest green man since Incredible Hulk / Purple Runtz, man’s get it in bulk,” the Marvel reference lands without feeling forced. It’s just another day, another dollar, another strain.
The production choices matter as much as the vocals. Wraith9 understood the assignment: create space for these accents to breathe while maintaining enough energy to keep heads nodding.
The beat never overwhelms the vocals but never disappears into background noise either.
That balance is harder to achieve than it sounds, especially with lo-fi aesthetics that can easily tip into muddy or thin territory.
Critics might argue the lyrical content stays surface-level. Designer gear, drugs, women, phones ringing constantly. Fair enough.
But demanding that every rapper operate on Kendrick Lamar’s thematic depth ignores the value of documenting specific experiences with specificity and conviction.
Not every track needs to unpack generational trauma or political systems. Sometimes capturing a mood, a moment, a mentality is enough.
EsDeeKid’s refusal to soften his accent for wider appeal isn’t nostalgia or stubbornness. It’s clarity.
The Scouse accent reshapes how familiar bars land, turning ordinary phrasing into something textural and unmistakable.
In a genre where distinctiveness matters as much as skill, that identity becomes an asset rather than a limitation.
Looking back from 2026, Phantom stands less as a moment of innovation than as proof. Proof that regional artists don’t need permission to sound regional. Proof that numbers can force attention without compromise.
And proof that sometimes the most effective move isn’t chasing the centre, but doubling down on where you’re from and letting everyone else catch up to your frequency.