Land of a Thousand Rappers
Straight outta collapsed time slinging discontinuities, Future Rapper & Co. cough up $.99 cent store syrup with more rhymes per square inch than Rakim’s motherboard. Wrong-footed family men chronicle time-heroics and mythological mash-ups over dubby electro-squiggle. These receding anglo-hairline manifestations stutter in perfectly quantized measure, slowly rotating fantasies in hi-brow, low cost digital gloss. Megalomaniacal and nepotistic, the planned 5 album odyssey by Asthmatic Kitty’s own Michael Kaufmann delivers kick drum pro-pulse, monksynth winks and xtra snares to make the Reggaeton girls wild.
If the true measure of an artist is how much water they displace (water displacement) then the weight of reference sags the 20 track vessel. The new computer virus of choice is Electronic Amusia. Encyclopedic and punchy, its creators (the triune Future Rapper, Holy Fool, and Papa Alabaster on the boards and beats) are determined to mind carnival with paradox-eating sand worms.
Without question the whiskey-soured Warhol Buck$ is the world’s best known post-minimalist art rappographer. His jump-up jams, spoken in a puerile Scatman Crothers flange-rasp, have done more for modern capitalism than the GNP of overseas and cross-dimensional out-sourcing. While reincarnated Holy Fool bleats the linguistic, infusing a hardened sense of Moore’s Law into every synaptic couplet.
All vocals recorded live from the trunk of an abandoned El Camino in a wooded swamp. Galaxies, newly discovered contained within Rothko/Mantronix axis: “Beats must be miraculous” are coaxed out of history to platter by the Papa Alabaster from his H. Partchian Black and Blue Franken-kraft-Ark. Always wack, never wack. This Future Rapperverse, where Martika and Lou Harrison debate the the twelve days of twelve tone baccalaureate graffiti in pantomime. A lone M.C. shouts: “We Are Music!” while the Holy Fool trades four with the Wizard of Wor.