by Big flowers
A look at Swamp Phonk as it transforms the landscape of great
Fluid, fiery, oozing with Pride Rock intention, Swamp Phonk travels mossy from one corner of its reticle to the next, scoped on an innovative yet endearingly homecooked hip hop. NCL-TM pushes syruped sonic singularities through the holes of milk crates stacked to the ceiling holding a record store clerk’s wet dream of a sample library. Through every loop, the dust of an uninhabited, yet still habitable lodging builds upon itself, webbing into a dreamy, oscillating, kaleidoscopic meta that alone could lull and sway an audience. The instrumentals dance when they need to, they aggress in the same, but never block the egress of the vocalization adorning. A meteor wrapped in silk, swagger-jawed and hijacked by benevolent chaos, DooF emits an oratory particle rush of social gravity, presence, awareness of aging, dignity, solace, intimacy, intimidation, much of the spectrum of human emotion and experience. Grit rubbed itself into his grin, and the bars spit different floating past it. In algae bloom yields, DooF delivers hyperdynamic flow after didactic metaphor after tongue in cheek reference until the end of his own wits, far past your own at first glance. Intertwined at a seemingly genetic level, the collaboration between DooF and NCL-TM metamorphs the entirety of ocean between the 757 and England into the Swamp, every wave a testament to the Phonk transmitting cross the coasts. With tracks like TimCroce rewinding your mortal coil, unboxing the novelty of hearing a track compelled purely by fun again, this album reconnects so much of the detached essence of being a fan of a musician. DooF isn’t a character, but directly and definitively himself, engined by a love for the sport, and he knows he is the champion in his arena. NCL-TM is never arbitrary, but conductive, reaching towards constellation with seductive, unraveled instrumentals gripping at every bit of listening. Swamp Phonk is a triumph, exhibit A of what it takes to continue being great, a contemporary interrogation at a bird’s eye, proof in the palpitations when you run it through.
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