Tough/Love

Like I said in my last post, if I was in Labour I wouldn’t be feeling too hopeful about their chances of talking the Scottish electorate round any time soon, but even from my position outside of the party it’s hard not to feel a little bit soft and gooey any time I hear the Artist Taxi Driver get all worked up about Jeremy Corbyn:

I love the way that the Artist is driven to tell you that Corbyn’s bulletproof, he’s also weirdly protective of him – “the SNP turned up like a firm… Jeremy Corbyn, he’s there like on his own”. It reminds me of Ghostface Killah bigging up Sun God while also making him seem so small as to need his father’s shadow for protection: “This is my son… nigga came out my dick!”

Jeremy Corbyn didn’t come out The Artist Taxi Driver’s dick, but would that rant be any more boastful and tender if there was such a non-metaphorical relationship between them? Could his videos make Corbyn seem any more like an extension of the Taxi Driver’s routines than they already do?  I doubt it.

I’m not built for optimism, so I spend more time at the bottom of this wave than at the top, but sometimes it’s good to see someone else riding out the highs, even if none of us can ever quite ignore the possibility of another dip back through the earth, down towards what lies underneath…

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YOUR OLD DROOG – KINISON EP/MORE COMICS REVIEWS

Here’s something I wrote in the middle of my latest review post for Mindless Ones, in which I talked about a couple of comics I didn’t like and one that I did:

Is this really what I want to aspire to though?  Something that reminds me of something I liked before and might therefore conceivably enjoy again, if I put the work in? Apparently I can’t pretend that I’m immune to the appeal of this stuff, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting more than either Multiversity: Guidebook or Earth 2 have to offer.

If you swapped the names in that paragraph out for “Your Old Droog” and “Action Bronson”, and replaced the idea of putting work in with “trying not to think about race” then you’d have a fairly accurate record of how their works hit me.

bronson

Droog and Bronson don’t have much in common beyond their home town and a love of shit-talk. Bronson blends baroque culinary references with absurd descriptions of his physical prowess. Don’t get me wrong, the big guy’s got some moves, but songs like ‘Rare Chandeliers’ see him pulling off spectacular combos that would make Jackie Chan feel like captain inadequate:

Backflips off the ledge, hang-glide off the roof
Land on one leg, see me all up on the front page
Holding a pump gauge, ready to dump, aim
At your nuts, like the mouth of a whore
Somersault Cadillac on the door

Bronson’s voice is high pitched, needling, and his flow is punctuated by moments where his voice drops, breathless at the end of a sentence as he comes crashing through safe wall or some other shit. There’s no getting around it: he sounds like Ghostface Killah.

droog

Your Old Droog, meanwhile, raps in a low growl, snapping hard on the internal rhymes, referencing ’90s rock bands, only pausing to dare you to call him out for it:

Back in the line of fire
Sayin’ my style’s dated is like checkin’ to see if wine expired
Salut, thought of that bar in the car
Cheffin’ up in the truck like halal food
Got them raps for you, I ain’t talkin’ gyros
Get on the mic and spit that porno for pyros

There’s no getting around it: he sounds like Nas.

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King of the Wasteland

‘Six Degrees’ (music by BadBadNotGood, guest verse by Danny Brown):

I hope Ghostface keeps making music with live bands, because this collaboration with hip-hop/punk/jazz trio BadBadNotGood is like a signpost pointing to a better record yet to come, one where he’s allowed to follow his cracked muse down whatever back alleys it might take him, with a band fit to follow in hot pursuit.

Last year’s Twelve Reasons to Die album was lush as hell itself, and it had an unshakeable fatalistic logic with which to lead you there – when the album finishes and rolls straight into its instrumental mix, it feels like the natural conclusion to this story of ridiculous bloodshed, like a walk around the movie set except that it’s empty and you suspect someone’s had to bury a lot of bodies to get it that way.

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