Track Review: Yung Artist - Twistin' Twizzlers (four stars)

"When he says "fuck," the f is a whistling teakettle: the 'u' is a foghorn moan, and the 'ck' is a car door slamming on your ear. When he calls you a fucking heathen, you feel like a fucking heathen."
-Tom Breihan

Yung Artist is a slippery wordplay wrangler out of Greenville with a hypnotic rasp that stomps with brutal authority. Like a steadfast barrage of exploding, knowing cackles, Yung fires off broadside salvos of charged stream-of-consciousness string theory bastinadoes that twine around your ankles, trip you to the floor and cover your mouth with both hands.

"young and tested, weapons are the best, kid
both my techs sick, lookin for the next bitch"

But here's the thing about Yung Artist: he doesn't give a fuck what you think. I picture Artist, jacked on yay, counting off beats in his head, beaten down by the crushing realities of the streets that are never as nice as they seem, full as they are with big bad men who hit hard and never think twice before they pop one at whoever think they got shit. We know that life is like that: if you want to survive, you'd better be able to gobble down they frontin and belch up husky growled battle shouts haunted by the same weary realities I see every day when I wake up in Baltimore. Check Yung's officious declaration:

"got it like me never, snitches get severed
keep it like a reverend, bitches got 'em better"

When this man says "bitch," "bit" is pronounced as in "that nigga pit bull just BIT the shit out of that nigga leg" and CH sounds exactly like a bulldog snorting for breath when it is over 100 degrees outside.

Yung Artist will be spotted rocking polka dots straight at the top, strangling out great winding anacondas of devastating sharp-tongued flows that flicker through the alleys of human individuality and incite us to do grand things. He is built to last, like hard gravel in the asphalt streets. His lordotic posturing will keep him standing tall at the top for a long time comin. And really, what else is there to life, other than getting fly as fuck?