This is what you came for ft rihanna rehab
Colourgrade is unadorned and unpolished, its tape hiss left bare, and it leaves the listener with no choice but to sit, completely still, inside Tirzah's world. The tracks themselves are thick with bass but mostly muffled and muted, so that the indiscernible yelps on "Hive Mind" and the dissonant, wailing guitar on "Sleeping" jolt through the mix like sirens blaring down an otherwise deserted street. Instead Tirzah's voice barely rises above a whisper, as though half an inch from the listener's ear.
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But the sense of intimacy - the wordless, naked, close-up intimacy so beautifully portrayed in the three very different videos for Colourgrade's "Send Me," "Tectonic," and "Sink In" - doesn't come from these miniature revelations. At points on Colourgrade, Tirzah Mastin's second album, it's possible to pick out disjointed clauses and piece together a collage of the 34-year-old's life since releasing her debut album Devotion, falling in love, and giving birth to her first child. The personal details that someone chooses to reveal in their music might sometimes break down a barrier between artist and audience, but diaristic lyrics don't necessarily help the listener step over the rubble and into the artist's space. Oversharing is too often confused for intimacy. On “Niles Baroque,” where Dilloway’s drones rumble in perfect dissonance with Dalt’s haunted vocals and pure electronic tones, there’s a clear sense - as there is across the album - of a mind meld that even the closest collaborators would struggle to achieve. Perhaps it helps that the two are close friends. Lucy & Aaron flows constantly back and forth between Dilloway’s hellacious glitches and Dalt’s celestial synths. Where Dilloway is a battering ram, Dalt is an unlocking charm, and each opens the door to a different world. But on Lucy & Aaron, alongside the Colombian sound artist Lucrecia Dalt, he walks in lockstep with an artist whose approach to experimentation starkly contrasts his own. Often he leads from behind, playing the part of deranged producer to a formidable band - as he did on November’s Body/Dilloway/Head with Kim Gordon and Bill Nace. Son RawĪaron Dilloway has been in almost constant communion with his peers for the past two decades, burrowing deep into the experimental noise scene and collaborating with everyone from Prurient to Emeralds to Jason Lescalleet. Then, the final track, “Momma was a Dopefiend,” reveals the human cost behind the laughter, adding depth and pathos to a record otherwise reveling in the fast life.
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Far from the scowling seriousness of your average punchline rap, songs like “Use Me” lean into Wolf’s zingers, with Brigade producer Raphy providing cracked, soulful beats that could have left Dope Game Stupid feeling like an old comedy record after one too many bong hits.
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With a unique, high-pitched voice and an off-beat delivery that stands toe-to-toe with those of his younger Michigan rap peers, Wolf devotes the album to cracking wise and spitting game like a midwestern E-40 variant, couching serious drug dealing knowledge in knee-slapping punchlines and borrowed 50 Cent hooks. Alex Robert Ross, Editorial DirectorĪfter a decade in the shadows, Danny Brown’s Bruiser Brigade spent 2021 taking over their woozy, sample-heavy corner of Detroit rap with a flurry of underground releases, and none was more attention-grabbing than Bruiser Wolf’s Dope Game Stupid. But really these records, whatever their subject matter or inspiration, transcended their circumstances they’ll continue to challenge and inspire us long after this liminal era has receded into memory. Wide-eyed experiments in pan-global movement (Juls's Sounds of My World), staggering cinematic compositions fit for vast concert halls (Floating Points, Pharoah Sanders, and the LSO's Promises), furiously inventive albums from restless iconoclasts (Turnstile's GLOW ON), and beautiful projects from master soloists (Yasmin Williams's Urban Driftwood) co-exist here, as they did in our headphones as the year stumbled forward. Maybe the albums on our year-end list reflect that oddness. We’ve shut down, opened up, sat inside alone, shared sweaty venues with thousands of perfect strangers, flirted with lockdown again, and then found ourselves here - which is nowhere, exactly. If 2020 was the year when pre-plague optimism and quarantine depression formed an uncomfortable hybrid on end-of-year lists, 2021 was something stranger still.