Art via Evan Solano
Steven Louis regrets making those reference tracks for Olivia Nuzzi.
As a rapper, tg.blk is a warm tide pull from the Indian Ocean to the Chesapeake Bay. As a director, sheās āTG.TARANTINO,ā stitching between marshy greens and creams and carousel cowboy shots. As a lover, sheās just fed up. āComplicatedā is an egg-shell stroll through seesawing affections. Sheās loved, then neglected; impatient, then uninspired. Born in Mombasa, Kenya, tg went to school in Maryland, where she filled up a hard drive with Garage Band and Logic demos. Now back in coastal Kenya, her output sounds sharper and more purposeful. The flow is butterscotch here. Lu glides across chemical imbalance with his verse. āToxicā and āexhaustedā come together as downbeat rhymes like tangled reconcilers. Fraught connection shouldnāt sound this lush.
Oceansideās most certified revs the Impala lowrider to clear a barricaded road ā by capital and capitol, badged kidnappers and state-sanctioned turf wars. The familiar G-funk is tailored to goldenrod afternoon barbecue, but the earnest coalition building cannot get overlooked right now. Dezzy, Lil Rob and Jayo Felony link behind a āNO ICEā banner. They crush cans of Olde English, then wave Mexican flags atop hot pavement. The OGs groove in approval, while the children shake their curls and bounce out of their Nike Cortezes.
This is but a small corrective to the unshakable cruelties broadcast across our screens this year, but it lifts its viewer nonetheless. Dezzy throws up the O and summons the visages on rest in peace hoodies. Jayo hits the bounce, rock, skate, then delivers a plainspoken gem ā āBlack and Brown, we appreciate yāall holding us down / if these mothafuckers come hating, we donāt let āem come around.ā Lil Rob is young, brown and gifted, evoking mariachi and Soul Train in the same breath. Bass thickens. Vocoder expands. Everything is in unison, temporary but unbreakable.
MC Tree is rapās Randy Newman. His charcoal growl is magnetic, and his arrangements are symphonic. Few Chicago artists from the Jugrnaut era can hit such transportive highs. His signature āsoul trapā continues to get slept on. Hereās a quick, accessible refresher. On āHang Out, Treeās love interest is in need of several stewardships. For one, she canāt drive, and Uber surge pricing takes its toll. Her man is controlling and the onlookers are dedicated haters. Our protagonist swoops in for a Vegas sojourn, inspired by JƤgermeister and paid for by beat placements. Parallel Thought traces the encounter with a flute suite and tip-tap percussion. Dread and wonder both lurk from the edges. Do Tree and Lady Tree want to get caught by the jealous parties? Can a mink coat become a tuxedos with the right dedication? Thereās perfume in the cigar smoke and a line of caviar by the Venetian room key.
What an ideal pairing. Chuck Strangers sounds perpetually unenthused, his husking delivery sourced from Grenada and compressed in Flatbush. Evidence makes beats from a dungeon enclave, the kind that finds a metronome from slow, ominous condensation drips. Tethered together, these two glide atop rust water and then descend into greyness. Chuck is āup late with the working girls,ā which is why heās late on getting us that feature we paid for. Right when weāre adjusting to the oysterās interior, the production shift cracks the shell open. āI was only 13 when I enlisted,ā he says to 4 a.m. nothingness. The Holland Tunnel ends in Venice now. Evidence is a blind cartographer, carving the path through inherited memories. āBlack Mother of Pearlā dims, then lowers, then disappears.
YouTube says that āDUN DI DUNā is 162 seconds. It should just have the upside-down smile emoji on each side. Mysieās latest is a most energetic trance, brisk but unending. The skittering drums belong to some Aronofsky amphetamine time lapse. The vocals belong to the ethereal realm. Mysie outruns the analog boundary, then regenerates back to its center. The English shapeshifter leaves no trace but covers all planes.
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