All of a sudden I'm seized by the uncontrollable urge to invest in a Banana Jr 6000.
So do you think Feist and Norah Jones commiserate for hours on dark, rainy fall afternoons? Via their smart phones? Over cheesecake? Sprawled out on quilts? Choose Your Own Adventure paperbacks dog-eared and put aside?
Listening to "Igotagun" is kind of like watching an 11-year-old skateboard prodigy pulling unbelievably dangerous tricks, over and over again, off of cop cars occupied by actual steroid-crazed cops. It's easy to get gone off of the rapper's self-perceived immortality, the bristling horror-core beats, the mad-lib-checkered nihilism of it all. (More cracked-out bangers that casually flip stupid rap names into punch lines, please.) But all hypes abate eventually; when this demented adrenaline rush isn't enough anymore, where will the hordes/herds turn then?
There's no shortage of intricate, feedback-soaked hard techno out there, but this sounds like a samurai swinging and clashing miniature swords while performing an idiosyncratic exercise routine to intricate, feedback-soaked hard techno, which makes things decidedly more interesting.
Wherein Baltimore's promising Nicky Smith lets loose with a snaggletooth, chainsaw riff that can go wherever it pleases, order whatever it wants, start or end a revolution, steamroll a Guitar Center, carpet bomb a number of paradigms simultaneously. It's like a "Sonic Youth condensed song," only way better than whatever that would actually sound like at this point.