A classic, a staple, a little bit of a letdown.

Death Grips is known for their harrowingly comedic lyricism and industrial instrumentation—this self-titled track is a proper representation of both of those things. Though context within the album can be nourishing, I think many track reviews can benefit from actually taking the song out of the record it was included in, if any. This track particularly stood out for a review to me because it seems as though Burnett (MC Ride) lost motivation in sections of the song. In fact, this is something I feel happens oddly often, especially with ambitious, experienced creators such as Death Grips. On GNX, for instance, Lamar’s self-titled track seemed to be, to many, a low-light of the album. My interpretation of the almost singing tone of Burnett’s yell, as well as the evident gasps for breath in the ending lines, is that, in this typical nihilist-thanatophilic style, the true beauty of this track was how Ride himself got sick of the message. It’s another level of frustration; whether at society for unresponsiveness, the audience for playing into a capitalist-humanist world by listening to his music, or even to himself for not changing, the epitome of this track was passionate consolidation. Everything was there—the production, the lyrics (the “favorite color” line is definitely a classic), the ideas, the blasé—but the execution dimmed down every bit of those senses, just a little. But, personally, to some extent, that’s the appeal.