Image via Enphamus/Instagram
Steven Louis is collecting signatures. For what, he does not know.
In his Odd Future past life, Domo’s unique sneer would evoke truancy and truculence. With a decade of expansion and mellowed-out maturation, it now functions more like a chrome/hydraulic Time Machine — maybe one with a vanity plate spelled FCK OFF. On this latest drop, the delivery is indignant but also nostalgic; a blackened gold molten at its center yet rocky on the edges. The 34-year-old veteran parks his cyan Impala at Randy’s Donuts and Gardena Cinema. Graymatter matches him from the passenger seat with a dusted loop of Melvin Van Peebles proportions. “Different day, same shit, same old extras,” Domo raps from a sand trap. He warns us not to disturb him, as if we were ever on the same plane. The duo just dropped an acrylic five-track EP on Friday called World Gone Mad.
I first heard $ilkMoney in 2016 … when, as president pro tempore of Virginia’s Divine Council, he was putting his Dick In The Dope. Laugh all you want, but it got André 3000 to pick up the pen and resume Storytelling mode. $ilkmoney’s artistic evolution since then has matched that of most late 20-somethings across our past decade of farce and cruelty. Today, his work is dense, obtuse and hilariously cynical — recent songs have titles like “A White Bitch Killed Gary Coleman,” “The Day Waffle House Broke My Heart” and “Oh No! the Nepalese Honey Split All Over My Dick” (that’s a motif). This new joint will not be for everybody, but it will very much be for some people, and that’s how it should be. Certainly recommended for those that groove with Busdriver or Shabazz Palaces, though $ilkmoney’s dark cloud hyperspeed therapy is its own thing. He rhymes “hoopla” with “shoot God” and disintegrates his wailing electric guitar. Replace the ritual with whatever looks wrong and feels right.
I’m a few months late, but this B For Better sidewalk jam is super charming and altogether hard to deny. We end up really rooting for her, even as she calls us dumb again and again. We are not dumb, we promise. Some of it is sold by her friends-turned-backup dancers, who pantomime confusion better than Steve Harvey on Family Feud. Some of it is the beat, produced by Meld, which forges a tunnel from The Ed Sullivan Show and hums with a sticky stage energy. And most of it is B, the Mississippi-based breakout with star presence and coolant flow. “I hear voices in my head, does that make me schizophrenic? I hear voices in my head, they keep me calm, I never panic.” Beaunkkia Price needs houses and rubies; coupes that are roofless. We oblige, because we are not dumb.
There’s no shortage of technically-sharp rappers right now, but broadly speaking, there are only a handful of different formats for them to sell in. Want 3+ syllables in every scheme, and want it to be listenable? You’re mostly getting a) dungeon Griselda-ism, b) earnest lo-fi revival in a Poshmarked Coogi, or c) live band splendor that passes at The Roots Picnic. Then there’s Michigan, which largely doesn’t fit any of that and instead posts up in its own extravagant brilliance. And then, within all that, is Babytron, an icy oddity who I don’t want to see taken for granted. He drops a lot of music, and it all follows a formula, yet “lifestyle hustle rap on Teena Marie beats” is still a fever dream. The latest visual is nothing new — BabyTron smokes weed, goes shopping and stunts outside an MLB ballpark. It’s also nothing light — he rhymes “Carmine 6s” with “hard drive glitches” and name-drops Jameer Nelson. Sometimes, it’s better to know just what we’re in for and exactly what to expect. Keep checking for a consistent singularity with an ear for bops. Remember, our protagonist heard the music years before Kendrick did.
I covered the first one a few weeks ago, and I’m pumped to report that the sequel delivers. Eazy’s beat twangs and bellows. It’s music to say “this town ain’t big enough for the both of us” to. Atlanta’s Enphamus raps like a battering ram, marching through his verse and making an incredible chicken squawk noise to land a punch. He commits to shoving forward with every line, unshakable if a bit lighthearted (Perry the Platypus pops out, as does Bruh Man from Martin.) Alabama’s Big Yavo says stuff we’ve heard before, but he makes it sound cool. The “No Biggie” series is big enough to get SEC tailgate play this fall.
From the Mississippi River to the River Thames, it looks like friends of rappers are having a lot of fun this week. Deptford grimer and percussive rapper Russ Millions is the lead of “Ice Tea,” with his shining jewels, custom yellow-trim Mansory and majestic pet goat. But the homies have some sick consolation prizes — they get to shoot flamethrowers, rev street bikes and participate in an amazing squad dance. Look at the sheer delight in their faces as they hit that back-and-forth. If any PoW subscribers want to try this out, go ahead and contact me as soon as possible. KatManDu’s rhythm is midsummer propane with a chopper on the downbeat. There’s space to salute the incarcerated members (Wotz, JJ, Kazz, Stackz, Givz and TanTan) but it’s mainly here to put Wales Bonner shoes on club floors. I’ve been muttering “heard the leng girls drink iced tea” all weekend now.
We’ll close with a vial of hot air from Pompano, Fla. “Dreams in My Reach” is foggy and distant. Like the phonkiest of trunk-flipped Southern cuts, it makes some 150 seconds feel unmoored from all earthliness — cards kept close and voices stay hushed, while the pastoral expands out of sight. Coop chases the piano roll, only to find himself wandering ahead of it. It’s a grounding wind-down and a light hypnosis, the roadrunner’s loosening grip.
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