Artist: Gucci Mane
Album: Brick Factory
Song: Pour Some More
You can almost hear the codeine slithering elatedly over gold capped teeth. A flock of one dollar bills sail effortlessly through the air, giving momentary relief from the already exceeding dimness of the room. There’s an audible shifting of ice cubes as a lobster tail is pulled from a vast seafood tower. Pour Some More captures that moment exactly.
The best places to listen to this are; riding on an ATV in a pack of other dudes also riding ATVs (en route to a strip club), a private jet with suicide doors and hovering above a city that you’ve claimed as your empire in a jetpack. In no particular order. To fully appreciate the song you should also be wearing a pair of Jordan’s, preferably 4s, a pair of excessively large Gucci aviators that only serve to obstruct vision, and a pair of designer track pants.
Album: Aquarian God Form
Aquarian God Form was produced and recorded in a Hyperbolic Time Chamber. An oasis of exhaustive solitude, where days are years and inner turmoil flourishes. The type of seclusion that causes complete banishment from reality. Providing time to cherish thoughts on existence and creation. Consider the past and future in no such order. There’s a certain reverence for this type of isolation, a longing for it. Reality is overrated.
The backwards progression from industrious torment into a subdued passivity is a fascinating evolution. Like a creature elaborating into its perfect form. The first half of the album is a consuming and destructive, the sounds mined directly from Saturn’s Red Eye. It fervently depletes every ounce of available energy. The second half of the album is subtle and reflective. Spiritual. Otherworldly. Containing the buoyant, ethereal state of the night sky as it’s examined on a, seemingly endless journey home. It recognizes the absent energy, and settles into an enjoyable, relished state of exhaustion. The lyrics and sounds forming a spiraling, elevating, dew filled cloud. A graceful vessel to sail off into the abyss. A restful sanctuary in another reality.
This is the second air tight effort from Seattle rapper Mackned and a slew of producers and artists, who may or may not be universally adorned artists on another planet, as they should be on earth.
Artist: Corner Boy P
Album: Don P
Song: Cassette Deck
Cassette Deck is pretty straight forward, if you don’t have suicide doors on absolutely everything you own you’re probably a coward or a snitch, sleep is the new broke, and the dream is free the hustle is not. All hail the eternal grind. Very few songs can concurrently make me want to tie one on and piss in a gold plated shark tank bar (with exotic fish the guy at the pet store recommended not go in the same tank) and develop a scheme to get the city under my thumb. Cassette Deck is a rare breed. Plotting, conspiring, grandiose. It’s that wad of stinkys in your pocket transforming into hundreds. It’s the Al Capone cigarillo smoke pluming from the moon roof on a ghost stretch H3 and it absolutely knocks.
The perfect circumstance for IVRY to glide seamlessly into your ears is underneath a glistening disco ball, drenched fully in lit dry ice, while emerging from a crushed velvet sofa from the back of a club. You’re likely bathed in different types of silk and or cashmere garments. Perhaps a satin turtleneck. Certainly some gator skin. An uncomfortably large rope gold chain rests steadily on your breast. Everyone else in the club was unaware of your presence, secluded in the plumes of dry ice exhaust, that linger on you momentarily as you effortlessly float to the dance floor. It’s undetermined if they are more mystified by your presence, that they are now aware of, or the existence of a crushed velvet sofa. Either way it is beyond crucial.
The smoothness of IVRY is unrivaled. It’s a glass of 25 year Macallan. A perfectly vintaged saison. Its the slow motion cascading Carmel in the twix commercials. A chinchilla that took a dust bath in cotton candy threads. The consistency of T1000 from Terminator 2 when it interacts with fire. It has notes of a house party in the mid to late 90’s where everyone has achieved a perfect buzz and has abandoned any self awareness. Lending themselves wholly to the joy of the music and the accompanying bad dance moves. Harmony.Flow.Delivery. Drop the top and enjoy.
Artist: Jimmy B
Song: Screwface ft. Mr. Muthafuckin eXquire
I didn’t think summer still existed. It may still not. Screwface is a sliver of hope that suggests otherwise. A slight nudge on the thermometer. It’s probably the spitting, hyperactive synth baptized in a sprawling baseline. The only appropriate dance is no dance at all. It might also be the unwavering optimism in the lyric delivery, I despise the word swagger…but this song is brimming with it. It’s insane that two people with such immensely different styles can exist on the same track. Something about it makes me believe there is grass under the snow.
The verses are thoughtful, boastful and insightful. A narrative that examines the complexity of success. The fickleness of fans. Success somehow simultaneously causing love and hate. Distance and proximity. The old fans that once cherished the music now despise it for the same reason new fans love it. Something remains consistent however, the growing hate is an accomplishment unlike any other.
Artist: Nacho Picasso
Album: Trances With Wolves
Song: Nacho Man
Just like Macho Man Randy Savage, Nacho Man is a nervous, spastic and completely unpredictable time bomb. It should score a highlight reel of the beloved wrestler. Fueling the friskiest most hyper violent elbow drops coming from an overly tan veiny hulking monster is where this song belongs.
It could have been the reason he chose black and red over black and white. Those bulging and eager eyes, consuming his face, all but popping out of his over sized sunglasses. The flamboyance, the pageantry that gravely strained voice resurrected once more.
Artist: Pusha T
Album: My Name is My Name
Pusha T contains a maniacal confidence. It is ruthless. Equal parts infectious and poignant. Every word delivered is teeming with excitement, regret…anger and remorse. The who album propels forward with an immense velocity, an enduring climb. Always building. Aforementioned confidence isn’t a generic and unwarranted arrogance either. Sure, there’s expressed certainty in his superiority for both rapping and selling coke but there is also conviction in his weaknesses. A deep and reoccurring repentance.
This contradiction lends itself to an engaging narrative style of rapping, the intimacy of stories told around a camp fire, on a dark and wintry night. Hearing charming, time old tales of coke stashes bigger than mountains and more burner phones than pebbles of sand on a beach. I’ve listened to My Name is My Name 12 times all the way through and feel like I still haven’t come close to scratching the surface, each listen unearths new intricacies. An immediate candidate for album of the year. Favorite two songs below:
Artist: Ray Lewis and Pharrell
Album: Natural Born Hitters
Download: Fuck No, I will not provide the link
Natural Born Hitters makes me incredibly uncomfortable. Though it pales in comparison to watching a grown man uncontrollably weep after every football game regardless of outcome or watching an inspirational/cryptic speech to confused team members that demands they; give it their all, have no fear, fear God, don’t fear God, love God, take one shot, climb the mountain of truth, climb down from the mountain and enter God, stab, be thirsty (but drink from the fountain of truth and effort), be hungry (while consuming the lamb of God). Easy enough to distinguish and digest through hysterical crying bouts. I didn’t realize watching someone cry could actually suppress pity. Natural Born Hitters is still uniquely and incredibly awful though. It actually doesn’t qualify as music at all.
It will leave your boxers skidded worse than a Long John Silver’s run made in the first 10 minutes of a three hour road trip in mid-August. You don’t own that food, you only borrow it for a brief time. The ravings of a complete wimpering lunatic being pile-drived into your ears creates an identical feeling of both panic, urgency, squirminess and disgust.
Under no circumstance should you download this mixtape.
Artist: Vado featuring French Montana, Pusha T and Chinx Drugz
Album: Slime Flu 4
“I be whipping hard…till my wrist hurt”
Listening to Kopy effectively transforms your head into blustery snow globe. A whirlwind of yayo magnificently gusted from the nostrils of some of the most vicious rappers in the game. The diversity in sound/delivery from Vado, French Montana, Pusha T and Chinx Drugz makes for a fascinating collaboration. Each creates a uniquely menacing, immersive and oddly educational portrait of the life of a coke dealer. The dependence of clientele. The distorted symbiotic relationship of dealer and fiend. The urgency, precision and inexorable hustle.
Artist: Chief Keef
Album: Bang Pt. 2
All good things must come to an end. And in Chief Keef’s case it was never really that good. It was a novelty item that you would shoplift from Spencer’s gifts in junior high. Fart pills, lava lamp, F.B.I. (Federal Booby Inspector T-shirt) and most unforgettably the pen where when you tilt it the top comes off a busty woman. It also reflects the immense gullibility experienced in those transitional years. Eagerness to commit to just about any brand of music, so long as it was being widely listening to. Petey Pablo. Ying Yang Twins. Ja Rule.
Bang Pt. 2 is beyond dull. Consisting of tired beats and rhymes that rival the book Hop on Pop in complexity. At its best it seems like someone who recently splurged on Rosetta Stone and is becoming discouraged with their mediocre scores. Bang Pt. 2 is completely void of any innovation. It is something that was made for the sake of being made…like American Idol Seasons 2-12, Two Broke Girls, Constantine starring Keanu Reeves, the Miller Lite vortex bottle and Flo from Progressive Auto Insurance. We would all be a lot happier without these things and Bang Pt.2.