It's like somebody captured the milliseconds right after you wrapped yourself up in tinfoil and zapped yourself with a cattle prod—and immediately before you realized you were in a world of hurt—and spun them into a six-minute remix!
Leading an entreaty with "maybe"—effectively turning a question into a sentence—is the easiest way to defend oneself against the possibility of rejection, to throw something out there without having to invest in whatever the outcome is. Likewise, "Maybe" refuses to commit itself to either coherence or abstraction, a shrug-pop funhouse fuzzbomb that's all limbo.
This hardcore plaint—think of hardcore as Reader's Digest Condensed Punk—gets in then out in less than 60 seconds, leaving a lasting impression and some confusion about what kind of life experiences inspire one to rail against being "forced to fucking live."
Re-emergent, Markus Popp's micro-electronics project is less art-installation glitch—its old M.O.—than a glass on John Wiese's Soft Punk: the radical recontextualization of rock's mores. In the case of "Grrr," that means kick-flipping post-rock conservatism into off-kilter cacophony.
I'm not sure what's more of a surprise: that Jada's game is tighter on mixtapes than on actual albums, or that the immortal slide-guitar lick from Edie Brickell & the New Bohemians' "What I Am" actually complements his rhymes.
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