What’s up you audiophiliac motherfuckers!!!!!!!!

“What’s this?” you say to yourself, “I thought The Brightly Off-Coloured Discophile got drunk as hell and high as fuck before traversing the Andes, swallowing a sea, and eating moon cheese with Bowie in order to find the others like the prophecies fucking foretold. Can this be real?” Well it is, you beautiful bastards. No need to pinch yourself unless your kink needs a kick. And now that post apocalyptic thrillers are looking more like documentaries and we’re all stuck inside our separate submarines trying to weather out this viral storm, I threw down the moon cheese, vomited up a sea, and crossed back over the goddamned Andes to come talk about some sweet fucking tunes with you like the good ol’ days. If there was a time to strap on a nice set of ear cans, it’s right the fuck now. So buckle them shits up, motherfuckers. We’re about to launch.

First up? R.A.P. Ferreira (aka Rory Allen Philip Ferreira, Black Orpheus, Milo, Scallops Hotel, Nostrum Grocers). If you’ve never checked Rory before you better watch out, shit is deep. How deep? Think of Rabindranath Tagore, Tupac, and Emerson licking out some chicago deep dish while having a threeway with Mariana’s Trench and on a bed of a black hole and you’re starting to get the idea. Shit is poetry to a beat. You will not understand it on the first try. So listen, rinse, and repeat like fuck. This is something to chew. It ain’t sugar pop candy. It’s goddamn word protein. Fighting alongside these lyrics we’ve got Kenny Segal. A producer whose previous work with Billy Woods was one of the masterpieces of 2019. In the rap world? Getting to work with this guy is like having Miles Davis respond to your craiglist ad, “Need a trumpeter for a gig”. Dude is natural, elegant, and intimidatingly talented. Good thing Rory is a fucking word monster.

This should be enough to wet those lips, thoughts, and shorts. But here’s the thing, lots of motherfuckers have previously had a tough time understanding Rory. Dude can sometimes sound like Heidegger writing out the plot to Finnegan’s Wake while high on absinthe. Even Bertrand Russell has trouble taking the guy’s order. But on this shit Rory smoothes out the message. Is it still thick? Like winter’s molasses slicking down Nicki Minaj. She’s a thick bitch making the beast with two backs with these beats. It doesn’t take over the room. It’s chill. It’s cool. It doesn’t need to flex because it knows it’s dope. You could throw this on and think of it like jazz. Or you could listen in and find a fun challenge, the meaning to life, and possibly that porn clip you forgot the name to and that you’ve been looking for ever since. It all depends how deep you dig.