Manchi Ya Mama's Favorite Mixtape
(Self Released)
Nobody can be expected to traverse the thorny, redundant and cyclical realm of obsessive pop appreciation untarnished by hype. We need the blogs, the word of mouth, the sites, the zines if we are to make our way through with any efficiency. It all creates a spiders web of preconceptions, where we at least subliminally know how we want to feel about something before we hear it.
Local acts that haven't broken through are tricky. We can get carried over by sentiment. We met this guy, we had a great time at his show when we were so drunk. But when we try to blast it to our internet realm, our friends who haven't had the pleasure of his company are too eager to voice how nonplussed they are, and what known acts your new favourite bandemceegenius is a pale imitation of it.
Enough of these disappointments, and the pendulum swings. You're peeping 'round corners, becoming an apologist for your local talent. Encouraging internet friends to listen but drowning them in qualifiers so they know that you know that they might think this new local thing is just a poor facsimile of an old international thing.
Witness as the pendulum swings back. I've spent long enough meekly blasting MySpace and trying to master the limitations of my fascination. Its time to step up to the international UK website to announce my favourite rapper and producer. Time crept on, and I only arrived at the conclusion that this music is actually good. Not Virginia good. Good good. Intoxicating, in fact.
Manchi may not be the next big thing, and in this cursed world he may never be a big thing. Such is the anti-meritocracy of the industry that this is the sad truth. I've been waiting to blast Manchi for his proper album debut, Invisible Man, as he chases the impossible dream of getting a label that is not his own to release it. I'm too high on Manchi, I'm too tired of waiting, and his internet-available Ya Mama's Favorite Mixtape is too powerful for me to hold back.
The production recalls the immersion of MF Doom's special herbs and the golden rainbow syrup of J Dilla. Still, it hits you over the head raw and hollow like the career best performance of fellow Virginia Beachers the Neptunes, Clipse's Hell Hath No Fury. In true mixtape fashion, the effort is exhausting, pummelling the listener with a new narcotic idea, 23 in all within an hour, every few minutes.
Lyrically, Manchi earns comparisons to Doom. He has the same ability to fill each measure with a story, allegory, or metaphor that makes the whole overwhelmingly dense. Its crammed with microsecond exclamations and segues, as well as musical interludes, but hits the level of lyrical abundance of a Lil' Wayne release. One way Manchi differs from Doom is a young exuberance, a willingness to be emotive, smooth, and energetic.
With all this density and intelligence, Manchi remains gutter to an invigorating degree. The intro evokes nothing more than fellow grimy hypergenius Kool Keith's Sex Styles, before revealing the object of pornography to be your mother. Occasionally, his unhinged intellectual/filthy lyrics transgress into socially offensive areas for the listener. I'm cool with murder but not homophobia in hip hop. Still, Ya Mama's Favorite Mixtape crosses bar where its not just that it threatens the social assumptions you despise as well, but the very taboos you hold dear, and it feels good. Ya Mama's Favorite Mixtape makes you feel a little bit dirty, but more alive. It violates you a bit, but you like it.
Manchi's Ya Mama's Favorite Mixtape is available online here.