Tuesday, September 24th, 2019

Danny Brown – Dirty Laundry

Airing it out…


[Video]
[5.71]

Alfred Soto: With three of the decade’s most enduring albums to feel proud about, Danny Brown releases a song characterized by — by what exactly? Atrocity Exhibition was hip-hop J.G. Ballard, with several songs as equivalents of the opening scene in High Rise in which a character munches on a dog. “Dirty Laundry,” though, revels in tentativeness.
[5]

Kylo Nocom: I guess I’m alone in liking “Frankie Sinatra”, but “Dirty Laundry” is basically the same wacky cartoon rapper stuff with oddball sex bars (“fuck a bitch two times, call it déjà vu,” very clever) and more Stones Throw appropriate production. Am I impressed? Not really, but doesn’t it sound kinda cool for a minute?
[5]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: XXX dropped 8 years ago and everything Danny Brown has released since then has made me question whether that album was a fluke.
[4]

Katherine St Asaph: A track that can’t decide whether to be wacky (the first few bars or so) or strait-laced, given to a rapper who’d prefer the former.
[4]

Tobi Tella: Fun and irreverent; one of the only people who could rap about humping in a Burger King bathroom and have me still totally onboard.
[7]

Ryo Miyauchi: It’s hard to tell from “Dirty Laundry” who’s getting the better end from this collaboration. Q-Tip adapts his boom-bap chops to fit Danny’s Warped aesthetic, and yet there’s not much that separates this wheezing beat from the harder bong rips of, like, The Alchemist. His lethargic production also pins down Danny Brown, who sounds sober and stiff despite his best efforts to pull out some interesting flows. A few reference-crossing wordplay — “papa was a rolling stone, so I sold rocks to ’em” — makes the song pop a little, but he ultimately doesn’t sound too enthusiastic recalling his freaky tales.
[5]

Nortey Dowuona: Danny Brown has always been a vivid, goofy writer, but here, he is freed to etch sharp vignettes in his nasally squeal, usually on previous records used to brag and exaggerate, but here simply to cut through the massive roar of the tumbling, forest-fire bass and thundering drums. Wheezing, chipper synths threaten to devour him in their filth, but he still comes out clean, a Cyclops choir hailing him in his undershirt, underwear and sensible shoes. The Hybrid has returned.
[10]

Reader average: [7] (1 vote)

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