A mega million dollar hit that made TK Records a small fortune. For McCrae it didn’t turn out so well, but then again maybe he didn’t know how popular a song it was going to become. The groove is simple and hits all the right chords, making it a stepper’s paradise from beginning to end. Add a dynamic verse, and an easy to follow hook and you have a monster cut hiding in plain sight.
Born from shadows and ill will, the Grim Reaper of TDE lets it rip. A dark cloud looms over the beat, swirling around like an angry cyclone. It’s macabre, but not without cause. He’s dismantling all the so called truths, and revealing the lies that exist at the heart. Wielding his lyrical ax and he’s chopping down all the age-old archetypes, a gifted troubadour looking to slay false prophets.
Blistering flows with just a dab of off-kilter r&b, an even balance of sweet and sour. Frank Ocean‘s fragrance is all over it, and surprisingly it still maintains a scent of its own. He’s taking hip-hop on his shoulders and launching an all out blitz on garbage rap. Busta Rhymes brings an arsenal of his own, but more than anything he’s there to teach the young buck how to aim straight.
Channeling his inner Prince and sounding damn comfortable in the process. He’s hitting the falsetto and embracing the silky synth work, which pushes his horizons out further into the outer reaches of the Funkmosphere. There is a touch of Funkadelic as well, and the way he’s interpreting it shows his range as an entertainer. Typical lyrical output, however, a yearning that is at times unbearable.
Greasy bodega rap that carries nothing but dusty, canned lyrics and bad mojo. The beat is dingy and menacing, full of ire and rage. An ear full of mildew. It clashes against the lyrics which are meant to rouse the spirits, the complete lack of hype only magnifying the deficiencies. Young ballers talking skill but lacking the fundamentals to even get on the court. D-league role players, at best.
A long-winded introduction that’s been heard several times before. Their reputation as explosive warheads has already been established and to hear it again doesn’t do their lyrical acumen any justice. Even the beat lacks the same luster, sauntering about in a post-Thanksgiving day funk. There are a few bright moments, but as a whole it’s an appetizer that does little to wet the appetite.
After a brief hiatus Ra returns, this time stronger than ever. With staff firmly in hand he strikes the earth with mind-bending force; verses that behave more like shock waves than raps. Premier lays out a steaming bed of hot coals and he walks over it like a fearless holy man. His flow is electric and pierces the skin. But what stands out is the nugget of info regarding his once close companion.
The eight-piece emo crew go cryptically for the Trump Nation jugular, as a searing reverb guitar fill hangs over the lobe all Godspeed You! Back Emperor menacing. Rising like an endless storm hell bent on sucking up all the good world’s air, a faceless mass of oppressors — Terracotta Warriors on the cover art — just won’t quit. Furthering the statement, all track proceeds are going to the ACLU.
Danish monsters of fuzz continue on w/ their song-a-month for 2016, laying down a womb of distortion to crawl into, as a push and pull between lust and escape attempts to claim another heart. Comparing the desire of another to the want for fast food, Sune Rose Wagner lays the it’s-okay salve on thick — come on and feel the warmth of those guitars and enveloping ocean wall of synth and incubate.
Don Johnson would be proud of this ’80s inspired jam. It’s like a pair of acid washed jeans or a Jean-Claude Van Damme mullet, a perfectly appropriate place for a corny goblin to get busy. He’s on his knees hoping for a chance to prove his worth. It makes sense that he would close the album with begging because he’s a soft cookie and all of his posturing has finally reached its breaking point.
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