Lily the Kid’s performance is a little trip to heaven. Their beats have grooves for miles, and their sounds are smoother than a baby’s bottom. The couple of chanteuses layer beauty atop aural orgasms and shivers travel up and down my spine like Pong played on a high-tension wire.
Kött Grá Pje is a well-kept military secret, only occasionally let out of its razor wire fenced enclosure to wreak onslaughts of D-Day like intensity upon unsuspecting souls. You might peg their ragged appearance for representing a whole ‘nother beast—one a lot less grooving, rhyme slinging and aggressive than what they prove themselves to be.
Skrillex mainlines the zeitgeist of the attention deficit porn generation and ejaculates an aural/visual fix with the production value of a Michael Bay movie. His detractors seem to zero in on the qualities he supposedly lacks, while missing the whole value proposition of his meticulously wrought product design. He is a beatmaking wolf in tattered sheep’s clothing.
His performance is like a pinpoint precision strafing run made out of rainbows and references, and the audience follows his every command like the starry eyed sheeple that they are—myself included.
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