A record like a fucking scrapyard tornado. Raps like retching mutts, like kicking bucks, beats like pelted bitumen, scratch like spitting engine revs, rubble riffs stuffing the mids.
Tracks smear and stick like poured molasses, thick with dirty colour. Its tight 48 mins seem to melt on for days. Psych-rap I guess it must be, but none of that diaphanous cloud-iness here. It’s hardcore hiphop ‘on the road’ but no escape, no country for lost dawgs. The great outdoors cramped and sweaty with fear, the confining ghetto shot through with fever dreams. The inside and out of America like a horned lizard, mesmerising and ugly.
It’s also most surely a party record, sozzled with sleepy swing and brass. ‘Wild things are’ stomping monster fun. But the dread, glare and dust is there too for sure, a coppery under-layer, whilst the psych pill transmogrifies everything into a fire eater’s trick, a crowded phantasmagoria.
Big here and there on release (MM liked it if memory serves) but who ever talks about it now?