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Turns out that when they fall, they fall hard. Renato PagnaniĪrtists on the synth-disco label Italians Do It Better tend to present themselves as chilly, look-don’t-touch types too far removed from the tawdry realms of human concern to form basic connections with. "Numbers on the Boards" is one of the most efficient 50-point games in recent years.
SONG FOR ZULA CHORDS FREE
"'88 Jordan leaping from the free throw," he boasts.
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Pusha's greatest strength has always been his ability to flash his fangs with the kind of effortlessness that could be mistaken for disinterest-his menace is the kind that's scarier because you know he's not even breaking a sweat. The production is Kanye (with the help of Don Cannon and 88-Keys) at his most RZA-esque, all droning bass and clattering percussion, and Pusha's scrunched-nose sneer hasn't sounded this locked in since Malice was rapping at his side. Distilling the considerable charms of Pusha's first solo album into a svelte two minutes and 44 seconds, each element is pared back to its absolute minimum. But "Numbers on the Boards" is a lesson in exactitude. The rest of My Name Is My Name is more ambitious, more ornate, and more willing to bend radio rap sounds in Pusha T's own image instead of the other way around. By transforming the humdrum into the sublime, her song roundaboutly lives up to its title. Before Barnett has finished tending her personal garden, she zooms out to cover all human frailty - "I'm not that good at breathing in" is, sooner or later, a universal complaint. Crucially, Barnett also knows which particulars to leave out: A mention of "Uma Thurman post-overdosing kickstart" resonates without needing to name the movie, and for American ears, the use of Celsius rather than Fahrenheit, "triple 0" instead of 9-1-1, or "pseudo ephedrine" instead of "pseudoeph edrine" just make it all feel truer to an individual voice and perspective. Barnett's recitation of specifics, at once matter-of-fact and punning, cleverly cultivates the similarity between a medical emergency's altered state of consciousness and the drug-induced kind-and that's even before she compares an inhaler to a bong. Maybe that's what makes it such a natural backdrop for her deadpan, spoken-sung tale.Ī first-person account of guilt-driven Monday yardwork leading to anaphylactic shock would be unusual in any style. "Avant Gardener", she has said, was different-the music, an archetypal slacker-rock rumble that tops bone-simple bass with psych-scraping twang-squall, came first. That's where her songwriting process generally starts. The 25-year-old Australian's most immediately remarkable gift is in her lyrics, razor-detailed narratives that can be wittily rambling and self-deprecating. Courtney Barnett might want to try working backward more often.