So it longs for, speaks like, hearkens and tirades as the Rap past gone? Definitely worth a check up?—tough call. With all its easy-going attitude and exuberant furnace of proficiency, Cruel Therapy is neither an ultimately good nor bad Hip Hop release.

For anyone aesthetically reeling for the actual Hip Hop sound at around its peak, it’s a very good listen. Right to that part. To consider the current date—the years passed between that age and now, it might border on passable beyond its beats.

  Cruel Therapy may have the ensnaring boom-bap on full display but lyrics-wise the Mad Mane Machine is bonkers for boundary pushers. Much worse music has similar content. Additionally is a willingness to give albums with outgoing covers a chance; over anything else—and now here things are, on Cruel Therapy‘s. Paying dues at times is not enough. Half sarcastic and half entertaining are skits involving fan interaction. Excellence to you. As a collective, more energy was concentrated and channeled into Fool on the Hill—managing to jab a the contemporary society, though I still remain apolitical.—Less impressive is an urge to be trendsetting (WTF!) with (skittish is the word) red carpet acclamation; based on what the album offers. Even retaining my partiality to the upliftingness portrayed in U.R.G. To an adult it comes off an embarrassing self assurance anthem, less to a younger listener.

Such an expressive sail down, and the beats are attended to as clean-cutly as could be. The brash roughness found on Rotten Apples  strikes out the most on the album, especially after oftenly coming across corny ass choruses that denature a track by being forcefully pastiched ito A FUCKING RAP SONG! Only glad my time was not wasted.




Rap 4 heads—an ambiguous though somehow fitting description. Even as the phrase would better describe  a release like Heavy Metal Kings, this is neither bad for the same.

Mr. Morbid and Melph have struck the Rap structure with a magic wand such that whatever twinkles off is brilliance and lusciousness. For the benefit of heinous views coupled with respect for decadence—the heads administered to ought giving a closer look to the cynicisms chipping off loose like fiery splinters from heavily welded metal. this is not Horrorcore or sensitive emo bullshit in its self immersed efforts to spite and dispute the self. rather, it is a cry echoed in the cover—what they wish of their identities is the portrait the musical canvas displays—demons throbbing with pulses of unhinged feelings.

Melph appears to be the producer lending flaps to Mr. Morbid’s laid back —often sleek—flow; around a few spits by Mr. Morbid. This EP works so well it could be listened from any track as the first that mere putting down becomes an irresistible matter of choice. Fucking perfect length. E.N.D. dwells on an electric guitar that’s something leering into what an alternative Metal band may have to offer—not that it’s bad, for its somewhat tasty effort.

Unreleased Demons found an outlet upon the intersection of a duct that clicks—if not falling in place like jigsaw. Do not hesitate upon this—or fuck, it’s rap 4 heads.


  In a way, there is no longer a need for the Doctor to explain time warping by the chalk-board—time travel has relieved itself to less mass confusion. No more obfuscation for the sake. Much better, if one wakes up to a Hip Hop time capsule. When the Mad Mane Machine was not being around when some of the greats Classic resolves to sampling were dropping these releases, what wasn’t on Back To The Past was an awareness of its existence.
  More of a mixtape and a fun release, Back To The Past 2 pays homage to some of the older MCs the rapper admits to have—still studying it occurs—studied; the old school. Any definite way than a Delorean rapture? As wont are up-comers to spray and flex their verbals on staid releases’ instrus—whichever side of the rap day they lay—the traction gained and/or attracted determines how much of a spitter was in the offing.
  On an otherwise revelational lay-out, the line of sci-fi is drawn strictly on a reference to a thriving genre hey day. Featuring instrumentals—albeit a usual bangers case—overdubbed with rhymes that cover, among others: them bitches, how 100, the grind, other rappers. Well, it might as well be when a slew of cues and patterns run from Kendrick Lamar, Busta Rhymes, to Ghostface Killah. Much-a-very.
  Teflon Da Don features twice—the only guest—and does his best Busta on first appearance. How about a caution? That sci-fi sells—second if not better than oversexulization—and everybody’s buying. Optimus Rhyme went for the same jugular massively. The closest Chris Webby descended to genre-ling were game references. For this release, it works just fine. Stopping at that is a let-down to anybody else leaping in with sci-fi expectations. So much it ruined Future Rhythm for the Mad Mane Machine. Ah, shit—then where is sci-fi rap! Holding his own but fuck—not enough justice. Goddamn.


  Word was that BadBadNotGood got the goat of Jazz purists. Not fucking smooth Jazz listeners. The Mad Mane Machine is yet to find out how their collaboration with Ghostface Killah relates to Guru‘s Razzmatazz efforts. Ghostface was a choice, solidified by veteran status, appeal, and content.
  Striking a chord of patriotism with the trendy new school Long. Live. A$ap—not something I would really care about—as Starks poses with his country’s flag. Could have done better than this. The situation is similar to that of rapper; and producer in the shadows but name. Accessible is the name and mainly a Rap overlay. It may have been released at the golden age of Hip Hop and still fall in line—especially Gunshowers which is a classical case of New York boom-bap. Featuring Etching consistently swordsmithing along his elder. They street along glorifying bath salts that Lefteris rasping about these drugs, alongside their effects on the track Tormenting the Innocent comes close once the “I’m a damn vocalist/my throat so heavy” line drops. Powerful instrumental.
  Danny Brown‘s egregiously hurtling flow simmers Six Degrees. A cat who has landed features on substantial releases like Cancer for Cure. The Gunshowers Starks profiles the Yapp City Killah. This is the Tony Starks that blew me away—his greatest feature effort. Along saxes, Mind Playing Tricks
reaches for the melodic perfervid percussion—alhough not to the levels of Ghostdini—providing the album’s second name-drop for Supreme Clientele.
  Followed by another boom bap slammer—laid back this time—that has Tree sounding like Like Father Like Son Weezy. Syrup. Street knowledge is for fools in the name of Triple 9‘s Chris Allen. Now rises the need to put the Fallujah kid to rest. Polar a moment as two supers provide a destructuring super-hero but lyrically fair track on Ray Gun. MF Doom‘s verse is better.

  Nobody would expect sub-par work from Ironman. He is a man one would anticipate with high hopes and fail to bedisappointed. Soul Sour is a short excursion which I would count on the super-hero broke little to no adding to hisrepertoire. Bump this shit everywhere.


  So much music, so little time! 1994 and music have always been on a measured breath, once uttered together. For Hip Hop it’s the inescapable indispensable Big Apple boom bap—Illmatic. Out of countless imitators is an equal of listless (direct) influences.  This is a by no means exhaustive list.
  Some fun has been had.  And then some. . . .

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  With a disappointed recollection of never completing 1984, a similarly named post-apocalyptic rap duo with sci-fi themes can only dig on that. This is a Gorgon of sci-fi that needs a book armoured slayer! Titled Atrophie, less couldn’t be agreed upon on the teetering mass wasting of everything society.
  Currently with the label Rap and Revenge, their second release opens with Le Pavé De L’enfer whose beats and delivery an appetite for what’s to unfold in the ensuing fourteen tracks. The chorus’ final stanza is massively melodic, spiking a craving for Sonata Arctica‘s Fullmoon; a track they actually sampled. The album cover paints the music’s visual the same way an off-radar society disregarding (post-apocalyptic) Thrash Metal band would want it conveyed. If that could be any bleaker than a space captain trying to calm the nerves of a shipless crew on re-entry. Even with a sneaky rebel. Does (future) Earth have a captain, or it’s all illustrated by man? Can’t decide which. Hardcore dancing or going away.
  The beatsmith’s piano preferences and polkas dot Coppélia laying the foundation for a loop of a coalescing cold touch to the other artist—with scratches peppering every track. If this is taking Hip Hop back to its roots, then that is cemented by J-Merk‘s collabo—a professation of  studying under the game’s great MCs. Heck, the auto-drenched female chords on Le Pavé De L’enfer and Archétypes are one of the classical things about Rap that haven’t been overdone or misused. But then again, it is hard to do badly, once gotten right.

  Catchy THX 1138 shines with some string touches—a contrarian explanation to the indifferent, surgical white coldness and monochromatic realizations of the film. Samples are in French, I suppose, adding dimension by virtue of opening and closing the track.
If Archétypes are the Jungian revelations which I won’t pretend to have explored beyond casual interest, then this might have more to fucking bite into, excusing the French. And as it is said, this is not music for someone and their girlfriend to listen to. It requires full regards. Enter post-society.