![]() ![]() That brazenness is sometimes a double-edged sword-the opening of “S.F.C.S.S.S.$ (P.a.a.M.F.)” dwells a little too long on his rationale for “call bitches bitches” before deflecting altogether-but his ability to make you laugh, think, and stew in cathartic rage through the chaos is consistently entertaining. In “Jodi Don’t Love Me No Mo :-(,” he invokes Jimmy Kimmel’s infamous blackface impersonation of basketball player Karl Malone, while “Emmm, Nigga You Is Tasty >:)” descends into frenzied slam poetry, casting rhythm to the wind as he laments how racism and capitalism are figuratively boiling him alive, howling, “How can I be so delicious to a nation that claims to hate my skin and existence?” Even the song titles-“A White Bitch Killed Gary Coleman,” “Colonized Ectoplasmic Jar-O-Niggafish,” “Eddie Murphy Golden Child Hat”-give $ilk space to flesh out these demented little worlds. Punchlines aren’t always his focus, but much of what he says is funny or shocking in some way. In keeping with his staccato technique, $ilk favors nonsequiturs over storytelling: He jumps from rap grievances to boasts that he’s never had sex with a white woman to drug-fueled conversations with serpent gods that could’ve easily come from an episode of The Midnight Gospel. Anyone can rap fast or chortle into the mic, but $ilk’s words impact with precision, dozens of calculated blows drumming away at the chest. Just listening to him rattle off thoughts can leave you feeling winded, and that’s clearly by design-on “One Glazed and One With the Jelly Filled Nucleus,” he admits he’s not here to offer hooks or melodies. “Fuck Black Lives Matter, let’s go/Back to the days of Black power when our struggle was ours/And wasn’t monetized for the outsiders outside us,” he barks on “Cuummoney Amiliani,” in one massive gulp of breath. The best analogues might be Extinction Level Event- era Busta Rhymes or Brooklyn rapper Elucid on pep pills $ilk’s speed and careening rhythmic patterns never dilute his diction or razor-sharp focus. $ilkMoney crams syllables together in his verses, but he never succumbs to the robotic verbal fireworks of battle rap or the hokey faux-traditionalism of a Logic. ![]()
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