625978406823
Bush Meat
Artist: Infinite Livez
Format: CD
New: Not in stock
Wish

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Perhaps still sore from the spanking delivered by Dizzee Rascal and his grime bredren, right proper Brit-rap has been stepping up its game this year to stir up a post-everything gumbo of bounce, ragga, pop-hop, bhangra and unclassifiable weirdness. Oh yeah, plenty of unclassifiable weirdness. Bush Meat, the debut from Infinite Livez, has unclassifiable weirdness coming out of the ying yang. Its opening snippet sounds like something from NYC noise-prog dorks Animal Collective, and sets up a club banger about Worcestershire-sauce flavored potato chips. Okay, indie rappers love rapping about food, but that hardly explains away the scatological "Adventures of the Lactating Man." Mr. Livez, you see, just can't stop producing milk. Scared yet? Well you still haven't heard about white wee-wee, or doo-doo paintings, or... Like the films of David Cronenberg, Bush Meat finds horror and hilarity in organic systems, bodies in revolt, the digestive tract and the olfactory senses. The music sounds crepuscular, as if it's been mangled, dissolved, drowned in moss and slime. But, as with Cronenberg's work, it's also slick and strangely accessible. The current of darkness that snakes through the album (the closing track, "Last Night I Nearly Took My Life," is a flipside to Biggie's "Suicidal Thoughts") keeps it from being just an issue of Mad Magazine on wax. The lazy way out might be to say "file this between Ludacris and Devo," but Bush Meat is sui generis-and what's the last rap album you could say that about? God save the Queen.

"Perhaps still sore from the spanking delivered by Dizzee Rascal and his grime bredren, right proper Brit-rap has been stepping up its game this year to stir up a post-everything gumbo of bounce, ragga, pop-hop, bhangra and unclassifiable weirdness. Oh yeah, plenty of unclassifiable weirdness. Bush Meat, the debut from Infinite Livez, has unclassifiable weirdness coming out of the ying yang. Its opening snippet sounds like something from NYC noise-prog dorks Animal Collective, and sets up a club banger about Worcestershire-sauce flavored potato chips. Okay, indie rappers love rapping about food, but that hardly explains away the scatological ""Adventures of the Lactating Man."" Mr. Livez, you see, just can't stop producing milk. Scared yet? Well you still haven't heard about white wee-wee, or doo-doo paintings, or... Like the films of David Cronenberg, Bush Meat finds horror and hilarity in organic systems, bodies in revolt, the digestive tract and the olfactory senses. The music sounds crepuscular, as if it's been mangled, dissolved, drowned in moss and slime. But, as with Cronenberg's work, it's also slick and strangely accessible. The current of darkness that snakes through the album (the closing track, ""Last Night I Nearly Took My Life,"" is a flipside to Biggie's ""Suicidal Thoughts"") keeps it from being just an issue of Mad Magazine on wax. The lazy way out might be to say ""file this between Ludacris and Devo,"" but Bush Meat is sui generis-and what's the last rap album you could say that about? God save the Queen.

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