[ #SkillastratorLO #PowerWrite ]
Slip into these simple sent grips branded Hip Hop:
The oppressed talk behind a sound walk.
The wild fidelity ships that swerve and capsize the canals it vibrates through.
Sound the similes, like
the way crips just dip into unloading clips,
the way her hips be just flap-flips to hold our tips,
the way days we rip into whips to ride away quips.
That life is a breathing disaster that sips us dry,
in emphatic drip by drip.
These are trips, a return to the essence.
Just moist lips these simple sexy grips…
Sonics can be a trance the way so many want it to be. Still, the trance seekers medicate to get into that caravan. These shitty songs don’t do it. But sometimes a talented musician’s expressions of loss yields art that’s filled with the aural surroundings craved. Her Absence Is My Anti-Christ earns the rotation on the gloomiest of nights.
As a producer and beat selector, Khan is joyously cryptic from his own work or the choices of work from G.S. Advance, Plague Plenty or Veto Mega. The basslines shudder, his breaks chop and his melodies menace. They are the highlight of the LP while his verses guide the mood like an escaped death metal singer singing Stax records. There is the terror droning of “Inversion” with its bassline of a landing unidentified vessel on this tiny planet, the eerie chorus like a vocalization of humanity’s hearts cowering quietly in fear. The plodding sparse drum snap of “Maybe There’s Hope After All” with its gorgeous guitar chording the lonely brooding vocal. The live rumble bass and rolling drum of “Lucifer” all in a slower than expected tempo letting the violence reap in slower motions. This is a production of subtle expertise and as MC lead, Khan is more an orchestrator of emotions that have mutated into self-aware monsters.
Too many of these white boys be crazy savage. When I say it about my man Genghis Khan, it’s a truth of his illness. Named after one of the most misunderstood and most powerful of rulers in history, Khan, the MC, has this duality embraced in the contradiction. I wonder among us men of Blackness who knows what it’s like coming from a legacy of slave master pioneers that generation after generation layers fall for the few and they become orators of pain? It’s gonna be a special pain and day to day it’s portraits might look something like Genghis paints in the extended anguish of love lost.
They ride for Hip Hop with rocked funk like “100,000 people,” chanting, “Love is just a labyrinth of chaos wrapped inside a bloody fist.” How love can manifest into countless dangerous emotions to retain it. If Drake is for beta male weaklings, these joints are for alpha wolves that bench press to failure to match the feelings inside. But this love is more than cheap whores, but the hatred for enslavement as on “Takashi Miike.” And the MCing still can achieve the simple glory of odes to originality as on “Human Nature,” a massive highlight. The tough stuff is the furious core of the LP from the battle bars of “Road Rage” to the introspective “Larva.”
HAIMA is a heavy metal LP properly placed in my bin. It’ll make them crazy white kids mosh and us brothers bop. It’s the score to cue when for every trump stump lumping us. It’s a success in the quest to create a trance into the sound of war. Both Khans may have heard these horrored sounds in their head when shit got real.