Each moment feels like a moving tapestry, the album’s strange colors (of blown-up punk rock, heavy electro, whatever else) contributing to some enigmatic whole. It sounds purposeful, and/or big for bigness’ sake: snares splash and create showers, rhythms resolve slowly, synths shoot from the atmosphere to the dirt (see: “The Powers That B”). A series of monoliths that are still hard to fathom. 

Ride’s never been more intoxicating and beckoning. On “Turned Off” (altogether a propulsive masterpiece) his flow roils and twists, then is shattered into place by the chorus into an underground anthem machine. It’s jagged bliss and larger than life. His voice has a narrative progression on “On GP,” in which he seems to open up; atmospheric guitars bath him and his implied surrounding. This constructed stage allows him to shine like the gross star he is. 

I’m Remembering Las Vegas, where Death Grips eventually migrated from California and which some of the sounds on this album vaguely remind me of: specifically lights pointed at a programmed fountain show against one of its gaudy buildings on The Strip at night. But then there’s images of the flea markets: a crucified Chucky doll over the doorway of a wooden guerrilla structure, unrelated to the shop’s product; the wireframe t-shirt box, exclusively selling ones printed with cartoon characters mean-mugging and dripping with heavy jewelry (currently trying to reconcile all of these things).