![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() But, as they have so skillfully and beautifully demonstrated in both logistics and craft, the challenges, both professional and deeply personal, were met with perseverance and a stunning burst of musical creativity, paving the way for Don’t Look Down. While the band’s unique circumstances – the trio’s core lineup consists of members based in both the United States and Portugal – were already challenging enough, a global pandemic put their debut album’s release on hold while the group figured out how best to proceed. Celebrated as “ sublime… an album flush with a delicate folk rock glow, a quiet caress one might find while nestled by a fire on a chilly winter’s night” ( Goldmine), the critical and commercial success of their debut has paved the way for Don’t Look Down, the brilliant second album from the polycultural, globe-spanning outfit. It’s a simple premise that’s been said many times over in rap, tv, and movies, but it seems to cut with the same pathos each time we hear it.When The Burnt Pines released their eponymous debut album in 2021, among the accolades the LP earned was spending 11 weeks on the AMA/CDX Top 50 Americana Album Chart, and also a Top 10 spot on the Roots Music Report’s Best Albums of 2021 year-end list. “In too deep, I ain’t with the peace/ Wanna end the beef? Tell them niggas, ‘Bring my homies back,’” Vince rhymes. The LeKen Taylor-produced “Free The Homies” is a balmy, synth-driven track that begins with a woman bemoaning how grief has angered her community, then takes us into the mindset of a gang member acting on vengeance. The project’s soundscape carries a similar yin-yang dynamic, with a sunny, smooth soundscape ripe for cruising through LA and taking in the surroundings, juxtaposed with grim lyrics that remind how harrowing the wrong turn can be. Transplants may visit LA to take in the lush atmosphere and expansive beaches, but for too many LA natives it’s “live by the gun, die by the sand,” like Vince rhymed on “Bang That.” The album intro, “The Beach,” starts out with the serene sounds of a calm day at the beach, but the silence is splintered by Vince rhyming about being an “everybody killer.” In other words, anybody can get it. Our communities mold us, but as Vince Staples laments, it’s not always for the best. On Ramona Park standout “East Point Prayer,” we hear the difference between Lil Baby’s Atlanta twang and Vince Staples’ hardened SoCal accent. As a New York-based writer, I can tell Brooklyn drill from Bronx drill. The internet has birthed international SoundCloud and Discord communities full of artists who transcend region, but there are still MCs who flout their native cities’ flag without even trying. ![]() The first thing most people want to know about an act is where they’re from, because, even in 2022, their upbringing is a strong indication of their accent, slang, their production choices, and their content. Rhymes like “your first rap can be a murder rap” on Ramona Park opener “The Beach” cast a cloud over his surroundings, making one ponder how our perspectives are shaped by home not feeling like a sanctuary. His catalog makes the trenches of sunny Southern California feel dreary. The sanctity of home is especially vital for Vince Staples, the Long Beach scribe whose candid lyrics depict the weariness of his hometown. His revelation could be nothing more than a character quirk, but it was a timely turn of conversation in the aftermath of his latest release, Ramona Park Broke My Heart. “Why would know where I live at?” he incredulously asked. With a laugh, he explained to Speedy Morman that only his loved ones (and court) know where he even lives. Vince Staples went viral earlier this month when he told Complex that he doesn’t invite friends, romantic interests, or anyone else to his home. ![]()
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