Grace Jones is an ageless, unshakable muse. Lauryn Hill is a confusion of prestige, soul, pride, disdain and ego. Adia Victoria should be the one to rewrite the notion of blues as deep, dark and transparent beauty. Lion Babe are awful short in the tooth but they overcrowd their infancy with fantastic hair and production aces. I can’t remember if I saw SZA or Kelis but whoever it was had some crazy fun tom-tom convulsions. Dust Rays make the bar band sweat solo stack sound mean and grossly underappreciated. This is the fourth or fifth time I’ve missed Danny Brown. RAAA are many and too young to drink legally and just the kind of innocent, buckwild bandcamp freakout that Afropunk needs to keep their moniker honest and movement vital. OSHUN pave their way in muslin, beats and prayer. letlive. are fucking maniacs. Candiria are the missing link between Bowery thugs, panic art and the new noise of hip hop. Mike Muir is less a psychopathic (he prefers we spell it “cyco” but I won’t be doing that) cholo than he is a motivational speaker. Lenny Kravitz is a long scarf in a cockring. Palaceburn are heavy like your buddy’s college try. HXLT has Kanye’s “Good Music” blessing but couldn’t find a melody if it came in white pants. Curtis Harding’s Burger groove should only unfurl by evening. I missed Young Paris’ Afrofuturist account but I have read Dhalgren. Death Grips are not a band so much as they are an endurance test proctored by a drum solo, a Macbook Pro and a hobo frothing Cantos.
But what do I know?
I spent my weekend in the pit.