Baseball and and music fandom are not all that different. Both comfortably function on an interminable timeline. And don't forget the constant struggle that has evolved over time between defenders of the old guard and those leading the vanguard. Plus, as can be seen with stathead and miscellaneous bloggers, those who seem to enjoy it most devote a cult like obsession to following this lifelong interest. (Somewhere in the midst of all this, too, lies a joke on the machismo of swinging bats and throwing balls around a diamond). But as enjoyable as it is to watch a tested veteran perform a mastered craft the fanatics point of view differs. The real pleasure stems from projections. The future benefits the bold. Complementing an established figure is not nearly as gratifying as the long-term potential of being able to tell friends and family, "I told you so! I told you [blank] would make it big."
The trouble begins when the athletes and musicians become commodities. At what point is a minority of forced to entertainment of the majority? Nothing more than un-novel navel gazing, but it has the potential weigh on the conscious more than a multi-billion dollar purchase for a headset and music streaming service. Such has been the case with me and Drill music; just as trap music before this. Even if I did not buy in as quickly as others, the worst part is that my reasoning is self-serving. As great as the feeling may be - as ego inflating as is to have tangible evidence of knowing more about music - having a greater feel for the pulse of a scene - than your social circle - caution is a necessary muscle to exercise. The last thing a fan-savant wants is to be caught in the futility of a rundown on the basepath. The artist worries about the self preservation of his art. The fan only has a diminishing savings account full of time to be concerned about.
Then again, the degree to which something is good is not exclusive to its popularity. On a scale of "I only need to hear thirty seconds" to "I will be spinning this for years" Kev Cartier's (pronounced unlike the French jeweler, 'kar-tea-er') The Plug is comfortably average. Unlike other entries in the DJ Ben Staxx canon - the relatively msyterious presenter of this tape - this released lacks pop. More than a mere metaphysical or genre quality, the entirety of this mixtape seeps with the aroma of an assembly line. Admirably, however, their is not a single feature throughout the album's ten tracks. But where literal starpower lacks the supporting cast fails to live up to the challenge. It does not take longer than the first reggaeton air-horn on the second track to realize what follows is nothing terribly innovative. Unlike Johnny May Cash, the man with the most similar sound in this particular stable, it is difficult to argue in favor of Cartier's ingenuity. Which is to say, auto-tune is used within for the sake of using auto-tune, not to explore. In this sense The Plug is largely a product of derivation. Content aside, a standard trap flow is only occasionally interspersed with variety - mainly in the form of the buzzy 'Migos flow,' a less charismatic take on Lil Durk, and even remnants of Young Thug's trochaic flourishes on "Talk Ehat I'm Living" before culminating is Future-dom on "Dealer Music." Which is not to say I can do better; this is hardly the case. Luckily, bright spots are not difficult to find. While the Young Chop productions are lackluster (even if "Come and Go" includes the guilty pleasure of a trembling theremin), Nickbeats throws in a serviceable organ loop on "Trap Doin' Numbers." Chopping up portions of a song without slowing down the track like provides pleasant results on"My Line" and the aforementioned song produced by Swagg B. But "Foreign," a Doe6oyybeatz production, is by far the most fluorescent point. The number appears to utilize a slower variation of a rhythm Paris Bueller used in this Lil Durk song. Bell and whistles aside, Kev Cartier does not just record a song but sounds as if he is enjoying himself in the process; an oft forgotten feeling in a field that can take itself so serious to the point of a flaw.
- John Noggle
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