Dance Genre Fluent in British Dialect Produces Paranoid Pleasures

I'm sitting in my rockhead trailer, looking at a CD cover that's as gray as me. Grime, it sez. Four (U.K.) tracks each by MarkOne, Plasticman (not Plastikman!), and Slaughter Mob. MarkOne's first two are just bad jungle, bouncing dead syllables. But on "Interference," a manly vocal sample (brief yet persistent) is shadowed by a girl-child band saw, (sweetly whiny, so lovingly blended and EQ'd), in a melancholy call-and-response. Latchkey mutant children, at work and play, while Mama Blues is away.

Past "Interference," instruments and other voices find Grime to be more of a mandatory melting pot than the customized rap per se of grime prince Dizzee Rascal's Boy on Da Corner. Yet Grime's dread is also royally fed. Especially by 18 wheels of Plasticman's "Industrial Graft," where my spatial phobias get too stuffed to jump (too far).

In the final four-set, Slaughter Mob's deep-sea bass notes pucker, kiss, and talk at hooky schools of higher sounds. "Yeh fired," old Trumplips-bass tries to tell an uppity voice. Which pays him no mind, has no mind to pay. And I second that unemotion, floating in my trailer.

 
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