If you read something you love on our site today, please consider becoming a monthly or annual tQ subscriber — our journalism is mostly funded this way. This is a funhouse, bulbous with danceable heaviosity and sick bass permutations but built from the molecular facts of post-techno.
Which amounts to a lurid, livid, unquantifiable mess of method, an auditory jamboree dead-set on screen-crashing hip hop, contorting its myriad influences into junk art rinsers, hook-barking rabid dogs: meaningless, shameless, soulless, fearless.
Who needs a central idea when you can do it all. A great album statement? Track-for-track the birth of a new legend? Lots of it. Every track operates in a hyperstitious state of mania without hope of reprieve; groaning under blue-note distress, and around every corner a sputtered percussion event: consolidation and the corollary of several cutting-edge regional dance scenes in currency right now.
Meaning you get a largely kick-drum free convergence of near infrasonic bass and micro-detail — unsegmented tom rolls, pitched-up vocal chirps, snare clusters, and re-sequenced brickbat. The lo-tech roseola and electro-static texture evokes an aesthetic of system failure, an industrial-indebted car crash of ballistic dysfunction; part crowd-hyping and part sunken-eyed psychological collage.
Over which presides an omnipresent blunderbuss of a voice, emanating from a Conrad-ian, death-obsessed rapper intent on a Lydia Lunch quote "getting to the roots of obsession". It must be an exorcising process for such a black-eyed psychodrama on four legs as he, but for all the deicidal chest-thumping even the king is susceptible to glitching and restitching, courtesy of a gleefully meddling production style hellbent on carving out quantum folds, unbalancing spatial shifts, thrilling whizz-pop reveals and tensile chitter from what, for the most part, is arguably an angular, beat-complex, mechanised update of paranoiac crunk.
