Death Grips – Jenny Death Death Grips – Jenny Death

Death Grips - Jenny Death (2015)

Death Grips – Jenny Death (2015)

You want to talk about Death Grips? Sure. Why not? Fuckit. Let’s talk about Death Grips because lord knows there’s nothing else to talk about other than these insouciant actionists and their willfully convoluted narrative of filth, riches, fashion, acclaim, assholishness, suicide, resurrection, bondage, domination, cut-up Sea Org theory, synaesthetic candy flip sessions, hermetic mages and speedballs and champagne and Susan fucking Lucci for all I know from all the pits and twists and acmes rode hard disinterest as art, entertainment, anathema since 2010 especially now that the band released Jenny Death which was purported to be their eulogy psalm and counterweight to 2014’s illustriously infuriating Niggas on the Moon which is to say that Jenny Death should have been the last word on a fucked and fucking fantastic expression of nihilistic panic made beat, scree and flesh only it isn’t and it wasn’t because, you know, Fashion Week and there’s a fucking world tour starting in June and Jenny Death has as much thematic merit alongside NotM (pronounced “note-em”) as my left nut does to your mom.

I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. Your mom’s a saint for loving you and her virtue should never be smirched by the sweat of my testis unless she has the tendency to get all PoMo SacMo Freejack wild to the outer limits of Foucault’s prison in which case I’ll keep my package in my pants and you might want to seriously start reconsidering the mental pox of your heritage.

But the fucking thing is, as the fucking thing almost invariably fucking is with Death Grips, that Jenny Death is a fucking genius work of command that owes as much to Bacon’s popes as it does to Fuller’s bullet hole or Peckinpah’s Cornish ballet with H. Rap Brown playing the dozens against the Codex Gigas while the sad, tortured warp of an ink boy learning mid-day Bowie through a Big Muff growls and hollows out the marrow of the monolith and in the absence there’s something sly, simple, melodious as a cold cock by a church fire and it’s so straight, sometimes, it seems absurd and it should because it is and so here come the rhinos.

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