At least he didn't dub himself "Sy the Photo Guy," right? Sy isn't the flashiest, most versatile, or most charismatic rapper out there, but I'm fascinated by how hard he nails down individual syllables, with extreme prejudice, battering every verb and noun to its respective verse as though repo thugs were eying his hammer.
Why can't I shake the feeling that this was written with the aim of ironically soundtracking a gruesome Quentin Tarantino movie scene? Is it the harmonicas? The carnival organs? The hangdog shuffle drumming? The faux Johnny Cash hamming on Amaker's part?
So the joke here is that this song—an anxious, sputtering firefly of a thing—struggles valiantly to outpace vocalist Reeta Vestman, who's so calm and collected that she might as well be lazing in a royal court as slaves feed her plums.
A sound-collage representation of that bloodcurdling, mouth-gone-dry moment when it suddenly dawns of you that thousands of furry vampire bats are hanging from the ceiling of the aquifer-adjacent cavern you've been exploring.
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