![]() ![]() He’s largely abandoned his trademark lack of percussion, with the majority of the songs featuring drums of some sort. ![]() Songs like “Wheat 40s” and “Steel Vagina” are vintage Marci, driven by pristine, barely embellished loops that glimmer with chandelier luster.Īs tight as he is within his comfort zone, Marciano experiments to great results. Per usual, Marciano handles the bulk of the album’s production, crafting all but one-and-a-half of the album’s 16 songs (“Downtown 81” was made by Seattle polymath Jake One and the first half of “Baby Powder” was made by Pro Era stalwart Chuck Strangers). Marci, the beats help steady his directorial lens. ![]() Whatever mood Marciano is trying to convey across Mt. “Two diamond crucifixes I wore for all the times that I’ve been double-crossed,” he remembers over the elegant piano keys of the absurdly titled “Steel Vagina.” Moments like these illuminate the person underneath the white fur and cream-colored suede Yeezys. The close calls and brief flashes of life that dot his songs-images of an addict smoking out of a Country Time lemonade can, glimpses of a father who was “a wino but he was fly tho”-balance his cartoonish eye for detail with pathos. Because he never alters the grain of his voice, his jokes slide by without losing the feel of the ceramic bowl or the glow of a computer screen in the dark.Īs funny as Marciano can be, his world is still largely a grim one. He claims his haters play his music in secret like they’re watching porn. ![]() He doesn’t just cook cocaine well, he came up “scraping the bowl like an eight-year-old.” His sex is so wild it’s only comparable to the GS Boyz’ Stanky Legg dance. His deadpan delivery makes his metaphors even funnier, like a mob boss stumbling into an open mic night at a comedy club. Rap thrives on hyperbole, and while many rappers sell their otherworldly tales with their chests puffed out, Marciano moves in the exact opposite direction. “Where I’m from, hammers ring/Can’t be mishandling things/I’m not a square but yeah, my hands is clean,” he says on “Baby Powder.” On “Pimps Don’t Wear Rabbits,” he manages to take something as simple as putting on jewelry and make it sound superhuman: “My diamond chain’s a climate changer/I’m playin’ with weather.” The worlds he creates are rich with mise en scene. Many of the album’s beats sound as though they've been ripped from the deleted scenes of a Melvin Van Peebles film, with Marciano as its slant rhyme-spitting antihero. Marci is him celebrating the fruits of his labor the best way he knows how: by putting his head down and continuing to churn out colorful wordplay over finely chopped loops. If Marcielago was the Thanos snap on his decade of underground hip-hop innovation, then Mt. Marci, his tenth studio album, is no exception. He’s been selling his albums at premium prices through his website since 2017’s Rosebudd’s Revenge, circumventing streaming services for at least two weeks at a time to reap what he sees fit. Marciano’s own faith in the value of his art is well-documented. ![]()
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