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Rating: I don't want to be the best, but do my best.
Music stripped of everything, of sound, of melody, of singing, of words.
In the genre that relies on words more than any other, where verbosity reigns supreme, the only thing possible is to appeal to minimalism. Less is better.
Music reduced to mere image: better to don the clothes of a rockstar, even before becoming one. Flirt with punk culture, an (unfaithful) marriage with Satanism, but only to be seen. Only to post it on Instagram, only to embody that aesthetic. Because it's cool. And because in the age of image, it works. You make millions. Food for internet meme culture.
Distorted, deafening bass, syncopated drums, and some synth, but just a sprinkle. A claustrophobic, obsessive, and alienating sound: 3 blabbering about coke, money, and women slurred and repeated continuously over all 24 tracks, for more than 60 minutes. A singing... that is, no, I meant to say, an extreme braying, brought to almost unbearable levels for the hearing. A new way of understanding pop music. Perhaps.
Gentlemen, the album of the year. The one you didn’t want, the one that will destabilize your already precarious balances: you're already dead and don't even know it.
Whole Lotta Red knows it, has always known it.
Imagine another life and post it on social media: you're already dead anyway.
Tracklist
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