Porter (in the funky first act), Dwele (in the elegiac second), and Tone (in the boom-bap third) provides narrative compression and interior monologue. In the epic, revenge-fantasy closer "Trilogy", a chorus comprised of Mr. And like Nas in his prime, Monch combines several skill sets into a seamless package: A vivid narrative imagination and the control to bring it to life, a knack for dizzying extended metaphors and haymaker punchlines, and a complex moral sense.Īny given track on Desire displays one or two of these attributes- "Let's Go" sustains a rhyme scheme built around the names of various handheld peripherals the braggadocio-driven title track is full of wild puns like "even if you were ashes you couldn't "urn"- but the best embody them all. Vocally, he's like a Yankee Ludacris, except that he peppers his durable, booming vernacular with showy clusters of tongue-twisting homophones. This sort of deft reversal characterizes Monch's lyrics ("Slave to a label, but I still own my masters," he spits on the title track), as does an existential and oblique approach to well-worn gunplay scenarios. Monch knows it, too, neatly summarizing the dichotomy on "What It Is": "They thought I was backpack/ Slept/ Didn't know that that he kept inside the knapsack." It's a best-of-both-worlds record, formulated something like this: backpack-rap's sense of social justice (minus shrill self-righteousness) and overclocked verbiage (minus rhythmic malaise) plus the trap star's outsized charisma (minus deadening conspicuous consumption) and furious delivery ( plus rampant conspiracy theories). His long-delayed sophomore album, Desire, is primed to change that.
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