There are times when the old meathook takes on, to use the convulsing critic’s phrase, a life of its own. Peep the way your blubbery mitt moves (gracefully, unquestioningly) in all kinds of rotations while brushing your tusks. Habit births a centripetal force of its own, lending a hushed art to the most mundane of gestures. Tapping away rhythms on a sampler is no small thing, but it too starts to follow and screw with its own history. The most inventive producers (and there are many in stock at this here TRASH//SUPPLY) can switch things up so expertly that their decisions seem less like the deliberations of a chin-fondling theorist and more the intuitive steps of a seasoned salsa dancer. All of this is obvious, but my hands type these words because they can’t help but think them while listening to Sumthin Gunny (or Akeedro, or RITCHRD, or VIK). Like Jefferson Harris’ cover (commission the freelancelot, will you?), these disparate yet intertwinkling shapes always seem to cohere. The real question, my palm-clapper, is: Can you catch these hands?
Crawl on and stream/cop the tape (physical complete with a handy latex life-saver/extinguisher) below.
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