The Definitive Guide to Living in the Capital , Cairo , Egypt

As we edge
closer to impending doom, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to come across
something truly original. The lawlessness of post-modernism rules and all that’s
really left is the tatters of the irrational, the illogical and the absurd –
something that the members of California threesome, Death Grips, seem to have
engrained in their spirits.

An
attempted explanation of Death Grips’ second album, The Money Store, might feature an arrangement of the terms hip-hop,
experimental, hardcore, industrial and, most significantly, chemical imbalance in the brain.

This is a
project that owes all of its originality to the collaboration of three quite
different musical practitioners whose shared anarchical values have brought
them together to create something truly unholy.

Attacking
their instruments as you would an enemy, drummer Zach Hill and versatile utility
man Andy Morin are responsible for the aesthetics, but it’s the
bearded, flail-limbed vocalist that gives The Money Store its soul. Stefan Burnett, affectionately known in
some circles as MC Ride, is nothing short of a whirlwind. There’s not one song
on The Money Store that doesn’t leave
you feeling bowled over and, quite frankly, a little nauseous. But like so many
comforting pills, you keep going back for more.

The first
twenty seconds of opening track ‘Get Got’ tells you all you need to know;
aggressive bongo beats are bridged to a distorted guitar loop and sharp drum-line by a monotone rap: “Get get get get, got got got got/Blood
rush to my head, they hot like/Poppin’ off the f*ckin’ block knot/Clockin’
wrist slit now watch me top off” – the nonsense ramblings of a mad man, maybe,
but the brilliance is in the fact that it could mean anything or nothing.

Songs like ‘Lost
Boys’ and ‘Bitch Please’ have layers that are influenced by early
Wu Tang Clan, while others such as ‘I’ve Seen Footage’ and ‘Hacker’ seem more
suited to an edgy, effeminate, electronic indie-pop act but for Burnett’s charmingly
unrefined raps.

Words like raw
and primal don’t even begin to do The
Money Store justice. Like the stages of grief, initial shock and denial
quickly make way for guilt. It’s a dirty, grimy, angry album that becomes a
guilty pleasure – guilty because at times it just doesn’t make sense. But
continuing with the stages of grief, don’t be surprised to go through periods
of reflection and maybe eventually hope.

Whichever
way you look at it, The Money Store
seems to have been conceived and executed in such a bizarre and ludicrous
context that you feel like you’re on the outside looking in. Looking in on a
loony bin, that is; one that’s disturbing, creepy and addictive in equal
measures.