Never spoiled even if the physical’s left coiled. The essence thought to be returned, I pile into remedy letters with the sharpest of tongues. Lost men in the sing songs of hell caroling in all seasons. Jingling
three marred for…
Your poor lore!
A chart’s whore,
hook, hook, Score!
Trapped liked turnstar’d tokens run in by a rap train coming to see men squalor in spilled
…guts, malnourished to a grafted glory.
And striking sentiments in these sentences are crimson pill extracts of sage builds that can counter the pimping of Black biology, your fucking fantasies of caricature extremists can’t be sold in my school.
Turn to your textbooks, the power chapter in these refined hours, a focused influence on the best of songs. From structure to simple sonics, the workings of oppressed wordsmiths that sacrifice the staunch pillars of pop promise are really equations of daring vectors, hurdled matrices and honored spaces.
Page seven, Mind makes the music, the body beats as a factory. Basslines rumble the cells into snare osmosis. Snares embed snap high hats to rhythm electrons. Protons procreate to the eq’s of horn blasts and guitar licks. Piano stabs or grooves, the thrust of the digestion is decided abruptly. Finally, the air out of speakers oxygenates ideas. From a supposed spirit that transmutes words into the auditory canal and the equilibrium of possibilities is enhanced. An equality to do more, proper positions for gunshowers of nuggets of wisdom. A Ghost is no mystery when the face is revealed by the stark reality of the foods of street knowledge. Tone’s rap, the bio-chemistry of music experience livens and a Sour Soul is freshened for fighting.
The catalog of a GOAT candidate continues with its current phase of obsessive consistency. Revolutions in lyricism haven’t been the display the last few years as opposed to brief capsules of story driven execution (Twelve Reasons To Die, 36 Seasons), the work of an emotive first person narrator. The resume extends in studio and out as his live shows become equally impressive with said live bands recreating the wax on stage.
With BadBadNotGood, the liveness is explored again to scene brief depositions on Deini’s spiritual sincerity with battle prowess and a little of the real talk wisdom body series. An LP that lets a band forum a legend with pensive backdrops that are dominated by overtly blatant melodies that groove and drum work that snares and resnares b-boy jolts, it amplifies Ghost’s gifts for loud articulation and wailed inflections. All for a too short LP, the verses of explorations long overdue are not indulged. Instead, Ghostface delivers short notes on a record of immediacy, a segue to Wally Era scrolls he is planning. These recent LPs are hustler works that keep work out there where the producers are equal billing because the MCing isn’t the complete Starks portrait that is expected. Once understood the brevity can be appreciated.
Thematically, there is a return to Ghostface’s intentions on inspiring free thinking from the battle bars on “Gunshowers,” adding on, “This a sandstorm created from original thought/I bust boundaries son, you just do what you’re taught…” or tough advice of “Make the right choice, no need for an apology” on “Food.” The Cuban Linx chronicling has clever moments (“Dangerous thoughts, mind of a militia/Bottles of the 1-50 poured over twistas/Broken bones and pillars, Staten Island the illest/The biggest land fillers, we creep like caterpillars/Love razors, dirty guns with a few bodies/Teach niggas how to walk again from the fucking shotty…” – “Six Degrees” ) while “Tone’s Rap” is really a stylist’s display as Deini starts, “Ayo, ayo, bitch, why the fuck I got lint on my robes?” The core of the LP is still the spiritual direction of treading a righteous path from the title track’s chronicling himself as a Sour Soul, this Black man hardened by the horridness of life, it’s endless conspiracies yet with a refusal to stop fighting, “Yo, cleanse me, clean me of my sour soul, I’m vicious/My mind races from the satellite dishes/No technology, this world’s corrupt/They can’t feed me food for thought, I won’t budge/I’m a twisted individual, they say critical/I say “Nigga I’m on top of my pinnacle…” This sets the stage for the battle raps, average (Tree) to horribly annoying (Danny Brown) to deservingly ill (Elzhi) to the other legendary (Doom) that leave little space for Ghost. Ultimately the depth of “Nuggets of Wisdom” (“From the righteous mind of the law, he powers my soul/Teaching me positivity in the hall/How to walk amongst the evil and smile in the face of death/To speak knowledge and wisdom til my last breath/I’m a humble brother, got love for another…” and “Food” (“I used to rob and steal, now I make food for thought/Fresh like the air you snort/I drop jewels, little nuggets of wisdom/Seeds that keep growing/Paying my debts to society, so no more owing/Now it’s showing and proving, keep the body moving/Exercising the mind is scientifically proven…”) are the heart of this LP. The driving energy and passion mixed with precise vocal timing that increases with Ghost’s verses layers a sincerity that is rare. Indeed, a small heart but a strongly beating one…
Backed by Frank Dukes’ production of the BadBadNotGood band that doesn’t reveal itself to be any more talented that The Revelations that worked Ghost’s last LP, 36 Seasons and certainly without the sonic depth of Adrian Younge’s Band for Twelve Reasons To Die. The unique pensive intricacies are present mostly in the instrumentals as “Stark’s Reality” and “Mono” yet the aforementioned heart of the LP could’ve been the sole focus of a longer LP effort. The guitar plucks dance through the understandings on “Food” to the longer more emphasized guitar licks. These excellently retrospective guitars spiral through “Sour Soul” through its very articulated basslines. “Ray Gun” plays well to Doom, especially, with a Funk Jazz organ style brightness and relentless rolling drums. A proficient and effective sound, BadBadNotGood as the other bands Ghost has worked with and like the others, have potential for growth and innovation even as they, for now, only offer structured and ill exquisite precision.
A writer can spend time uncoiling foils lost in the fires of his own enforcements. Serving justice sours the soul and often a living spirit, an MC of the highest form, can be refreshing to explore. The history of a legend actually can be written of in short paragraphs of living pages.