Out here with a perpetual headache, drinking tea and recovering from no trauma at all, nothing but existential teeth-gnashing, living in the age of loneliness shouting out “yo, fuck with these beat-makers” to all y’all. Dig the flow of Didaflo like I dig it, washing the top and bottom of my Crocs in the noonday sun with this on, listening to these samples like I’m still at E. 205th street, right above the D train, living rent-free in this no-free Illuminati city. Cool mixture of time-splicing on this: go grab the vinyl too. Soul, funk, bits of jazz, mixed, blended, hiccuped, bounced correctly, with a little grit and dirt, shades of Dilla and DOOM (and Vince Guaraldi if he played an SP instead of a piano) here and there and all the metabolic pathways accessed throughout the history of recorded sound. The subsonic emotive agenda might be to get high or to look at your surroundings differently or to try and be more courageous or try and, maybe, like, make love or something. Scratch that. Don’t make love, just try and hang with friends, unless said friends have become office-mice and work nine-to-five jobs where they make too much money, and as a result commute back home feeling crunchy and never text you. It’s cool: beats will always be there for me even in my hardest times. Fuck humans: my new roommates/friends will strictly be non-human. [Editor’s Note: Hyrdroyoga and I discussed last night about moving in together, with our sig-nifs, closer toward the Upper East side, so….]
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