Holly hells, ladies and gentlemen, I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Yeah, you heard it right; the Romanian educational system with its perverted highschool leaving exams have turned your favorite part-time rock journalist into a fucking wreck. I’m actually considering asking Chester to hand back the pump-action shotgun I stashed beneath his bed in case I turn into Russel fucking Crowe. There’s a lot of coping to do, so I’ve been doing what any future mental patient would do: listening to a ton of music. More specifically, Death Grips. Of course, Death Grips being Death Grips, it didn’t help me at all.
The California based experimental hip-hop group caught my attention last year, when Chester, reffering to their Exmilitary mixtape, praised them for their harsh vocals and haunting lyrics, and frankly, I couldn’t agree more… they’re fucking mental (get it? ). I still can’t get enough two months after I, *ahem*, purchased their debut album, The Money Store.
To be clear, this is not your traditional kind of hip-hop. It’s a weird blend of rock, electronic and some sort of devilish form of dubstep (fuck off Skrillex fags, this shit is too rough for you ; go play with the other kids). Still, the only thing linking it to hip-hop is Stefan Burnett's vocal delivery. Which is not a problem at all, because I’m always up to something different.
Fortunately, not only does The Money Store follow on its predecessor’s footsteps in terms of quality and style, but it takes it to an even higher level. If I could describe it in only one word, it would definitely be ‘’dirty’’. And I’m not using this word in the same way the people who upload Lil Jon videos on YouTube use it to warn potential viewers of its ‘’obscene content’’. No, I mean fucking DIRTY. It’s lo-fi and minimalistic as fuck - from the mesmerizing beats, eerie sampling to the haunting lyrics, this thing reeks of blood, violence and shit. Every time I play this album, I can’t help myself but picture an imprisoned serial rapist who started rapping out of boredom… who also got his hands on recording equipment, which is even more scary.
In the center of this madness is, of course, MC Ride, a scary, sadistic motherfucker that would definitely make your mother shriek if she ever found out you were hanging out with him. This ill bastard is Method Man combined with Josef Fritzl - he spits his sick rhymes with the ferocity of a genocidal tiger and he’s as freaky looking as your cracked-addicted Uncle Frank, who fancied you and your cousins waaaay too much. Whether he rhymes about skinning basilisks, blackjack or bitches and whores, I always feel exhausted 2 minutes into any song, even though I’ve been obsessively pushing the stop button to catch my breath. I struggled some time to find at least a hint of logic or sense in his lyrics but, obviously, I’ve failed miserably. All I could make out of his lyrics was something about girls, murder, underground sewers and middle-aged stalkers. I’m not so sure if they’re all linked somehow, bu--- Oh for fuck’s sake, Death Grips!
I guess you got the point by now. The Money Store’s violent content doesn’t serve a purpose, nor does it try to send a half-assed message against domestic abuse, pedophilia and other whimsical past-time activities. It’s dirty because it CAN, and because, well, the members clearly have some serious issues.
I don’t want to sound clichéd, but Death Grips are with no doubt the next big thing in music. The Money Store is a merciless, dark and intense listen that will leave a deep impact in you, whether you like it or not. And be careful not to bring them up during a family diner. I'm serious, it's not a good idea.