How 67 Took Over the World
(And Got Its Own Album)

Late 2024. Southwest Philly. A drill rapper called Skrilla (real name Jemille Edwards) records a track called Doot Doot (67). Partway through, he shouts out "67", his block, 67th Street. That's it. No deeper meaning, no master plan. Just a guy repping where he's from.

The song lands on TikTok and people immediately start putting it over basketball highlights. Turns out LaMelo Ball is 6'7", which is honestly just perfect timing. Within weeks it's on every dunk compilation, every crossover edit, every hype reel you can think of. Nobody asked permission, nobody coordinated it. People just heard it and thought "yeah, this goes hard" and ran with it.

Most kids who use the 67 meme today have never heard the song. The number traveled so far beyond its origin that for most people, Skrilla is already a footnote, a trivia answer, something you learn after you've already been doing the hand sign for months.

Here's where it gets really fun. Taylen "TK" Kinney is a 17-year-old basketball player with Overtime Elite. Someone asks him to rate his coffee. He looks at it, pauses, does this little hand wave, and goes "six... seven." Completely straight-faced. And that was it. Suddenly 67 wasn't just a song, it was a rating system. Your haircut? 6-7. That sunset? 6-7. Your mom's cooking? Probably a 6-7 (sorry Mom). It became this beautiful universal scale that worked for absolutely everything.

And then Maverick Trevillian happened. This kid is at an AAU basketball game in March 2025. A camera points at him. And he just absolutely goes off. Arms everywhere, screaming "67!" like his life depends on it. The video does millions of views overnight and suddenly every kid on the planet is doing their own version. Teachers started banning it in class, which obviously only made it bigger. Maverick went from a regular kid at a basketball game to a genuine internet legend in about 12 hours. The whole thing was so pure. He was just genuinely that excited, and it was contagious.

There was no marketing team behind this. No brand deal. The TikTok algorithm just did its thing and suddenly 67 was everywhere. The #67Meme hashtag crossed a billion views. People were making edits in every language: Portuguese, Japanese, Arabic, you name it. It showed up in group chats, on T-shirts, scribbled on school desks. By mid-2025 it was genuinely one of those things where you could flash the hand sign at a stranger in another country and they'd know exactly what you meant.

Schools tried to ban it, which is honestly the most reliable way to make something even more popular with teenagers. Brands started sneaking it into ads. Rappers referenced it in tracks. What started as one guy shouting out his street became this weird, wonderful, completely organic global thing. Philly drill went worldwide and nobody saw it coming, least of all Skrilla.

Around the start of 2026 something rare happened. Internet things almost never get a second life. They trend, they peak, they fade. 67 didn't fade. It came back, and the third wave has been bigger than the first two combined.

Russian artist Gazan dropped 67 (Six Seven) in February 2026. The track writes English phonetics in Russian script so the hook works in any language. Tens of millions of plays on TikTok and YouTube Shorts later, it became one of the most viral Eastern European tracks of the year and pushed 67 into entire markets the first two waves had barely touched.

Brazil developed its own variant: the "20+20+20+7" meme, popularized by TikTok creator Laurinha. The bit is pure math-class theater: counting out twenty plus twenty plus twenty plus seven, with the punchline landing on "six seven." The audio has been reused in thousands of contexts and made 67 a Brazilian phenomenon all over again.

On April 26, 2026, we released our K-pop single 67 (The Sign). Our own contribution to the wave. Hooks built around the hand sign, palms up palms down written into the chorus.

Then on May 3, 2026, the third wave hit its biggest moment yet. J-Hope from BTS posted a 15-second clip on TikTok performing the Brazilian "20 plus 20 plus 20 plus 7" trend. White shirt, jeans, casual lip-sync, hand gestures, smiles, direct-to-camera. It went immediately viral. When K-pop's biggest names start running with a meme that began as a Philly drill ad-lib, you know the wave isn't slowing down. If anything, it's reaching brand new audiences.

Here's what gets us about 67. Nobody planned it. Nobody was in charge. There was no committee, no focus group, no brand strategy. A rapper shouted out his block, a basketball player rated his coffee, a kid at a game went absolutely nuts, and somehow all of that turned into something that connected people across the entire world. That doesn't happen very often.

We wanted to capture that feeling: the randomness, the joy, the fact that it's kind of meaningless and kind of the most meaningful thing at the same time. So we wrote eight tracks about it. Different genres, different moods, but all of it comes back to that same energy. The album is called 67 because what else would we call it.

And the wave keeps moving. Gazan's track lives on YouTube Shorts in dozens of countries. Brazilian TikTok keeps minting fresh "20+20+20+7" jokes by the day. J-Hope just put it in front of a hundred million BTS fans. We released our K-pop single "67 (The Sign)" right into the middle of all of it. Whatever happens next, the movement clearly isn't done writing itself.

67 belongs to everyone who made it what it is. We just gave it a beat. Keep throwing it up.