Album Review: Kryptonyte - S/T
The first thing that you hear is a tape hiss.
Kryptonyte, the
debut album from a moderately mysterious
rap collective of the same name, released via the eclectic Dallas, Texas label
Dolfin Records, seems like the kind of thing that is not of this time, or of
this world.
The album is, more or less, the kind of homage that wears
its inspiration proudly on its sleeve—the inspiration in question for Kryptonynte comes from another part of
Texas—Houston, and specifically, the iconic ‘chopped and screwed’ sound that
came out of the Houston underground rap scene in the early 1990s, putting the
area’s innovative sound into the national consciousness thanks to mixes by DJ
Screw and the early, unsettling efforts from Three 6 Mafia.
In less capable hands, Kryptonyte
could come off as sounding uninspired and insincere in its emulation of this
distinct sound and style—however, that is, thankfully, not the case. Unfolding
over 11 tracks—two of which have come pre-drenched in a codeine drawl—the
Kryptonyte collectives brings a youthful exuberance to a classic sonic
landscape, firing off hypnotic phrasing, clever non sequiturs, and often
violent and sexually graphic imagery, making for an unnerving, yet surprisingly
alluring listening experience.
Kryptonyte, as a collective of three performers and one
producer, seem like a somewhat unlikely group of collaborators. Both Lord Byron
and Jade Fox (also known as Liv.e) are both, as solo artists, signees to
Dolfin; Byron—born Byron Neal, has been putting out work for roughly six years,
beginning with a more pensive, independent sound on his debut mixtape Dark Arts Vol. 2, before expanding with
subsequent releases—his most recent, Sora,
embraces a very synth heavy trap sound.
Live.e, or Jade Fox—born Olivia Williams, is, as a recent
Bandcamp profile calls her, an ‘R&B Nomad,’ taking the blunted, soulful
sounds of artists like Erykah Badu or D’Angelo and pushing them out to
experimental places.
The third member of Kryptonyte is Livingston Matthews—the
Los Angeles by way of Birmingham, Alabama singer and rapper who puts out a
staggering amount of esoteric releases (from neo-soul to blistering, aggressive
punk) as both iiye and Pink Siifu; the latter is how he is billed for his
contributions to Kryptonyte.
Dolfin label head Ben Hixon is responsible for the album’s
detail oriented production; at times, the atmosphere is so convincing and on
point with that of the earliest mixtape material from Three 6 Mafia, it sounds
like Kryptonyte was recorded onto a
cassette tape 25 years ago using rudimentary equipment, and left to sit and
slowly decay someplace, before being unearthed today.
Perhaps the most fascinating element of all—outside of how
authentic of a sound this collective is able to assemble—is the affect the trio
allows themselves to effortlessly embody. Outside of this context, I get the
impression that Byron Neal, Olivia Williams, and Livingston Matthews would not normally
write and produce music that depicts such explicit scenes of violence and
sex—but here, as Kryptonyte, they’re free to explore these caricatures in order
to stay true to the original tonality of the underground, mixtape rap circuit
of Houston.
The first thing you hear is a tape hiss—then, an array of
warbled and otherworldly synths come creeping in, along with a skittering
hi-hat and snare, as the album’s infectious, slithering, and at times, ominous
opening track, “Emmys,” begins.
Structurally, the tracks begin and end without little, if
any, advance notice—with the end of one song colliding head first into the
beginning of the next. Some of the material on Kryptonyte is a little less ominous than others—the two, short tracks
that feature Williams as the only artist, “Ride With Jade,” and “All For My
Wifey,” are some of the more lighthearted, musically speaking. The former is
jaunty, as it bounces along to a hard-hitting bass drum and almost playful
sounding keyboard samples; the latter is more soulful in a classic, 1970s sense
of the word, powered by a deep rumbling bass line and electric guitar noodling.
These, of course, set the backdrop for Williams’ raunchy,
sensualized lyrics—“Rubbin’ on her
booty—man, her ass lookin’ hella fat,” is just one example, pulled out of
“All For My Wifey.”
Elsewhere, at least on the album’s first nine tracks, a
long, unsettling shadow is cast through the beats that Hixon has assembled.
“Knock Knock” is structured around a repeated sequence of piano key tinkling
that sounds like it was pulled directly from a 1980s horror movie; and one of
the album’s finest songs, “Swang Lo,” is built with what sounds like a slowed
down funk or R&B sample—a disembodied voice provides some muddled wordless
singing, and the instrumentation of bass and guitar is stretched out enough so
that it becomes cumbersome and clunky, while a frenetic hi-hat and snare from a
drum machine pound out a rhythm for Matthews and Williams
Lyrically—Kryptonyte
is dark. It harkens back to that spirit of the early 1990s where it does not so
much glorify violence or degradation of women, but it finds itself steeped within
that territory; that is, if you can even totally understand the lyrics at all.
The album’s aesthetic is so warbled and distorted that, at times, it becomes
very difficult to make out all of what is going on, though there are few things
that are very clear like, I guess, what is more or less the conceit behind this
whole thing, uttered by Neal on “L.I.A.B.”: “I can’t go to hell—I’m already in hell. And if I go to hell,
reincarnation is real.”
Right before this, though he laments that he has ‘pussy juice’ under his nails, and later
in the song, proclaims he’s going to fuck a woman in the mouth, following that
with, what I think is, “Mud on her tits
from when we did it in the south.”
Later, on the eerie, especially distorted and warbled “Jag,”
pairing both Neal and Matthews, one of them, in an exaggerated, kind of creepy
voice, lets a line fly about fucking a ‘bitch
to death like a rag doll.”
But then, there are the blink and you miss them references
to “Will and Grace” and “Saved by The Bell” that are thrown in—to lighten the
mood ever so slightly. Much like the aesthetic that Kryptonyte has rooted
itself in, this album is such a convincing impersonation of rap music from the
early 1990s, that even age 35, this still gives me the feeling I used to get at
age, like, 11 or 12, listening to Snoop Dogg or Dr. Dre cassettes with my
Walkman so that my parents wouldn’t find out the extent of what I brought into
the house. Kryptonyte makes for a
nervous listening experience, no matter what age you may be.
The album concludes with perhaps its strangest, most
discomforting moments—“Too Good,” and “Take Votes,” both of which are already
slowed down to imitate the codeine drenched fog of DJ Screw’s 3 ‘N The Mornin’ mixes. Musically, they
are among the most fascinating of the bunch—especially the clunky bass line and
time stretched synths of “Too Good”—and both find Matthews and Neal,
respectively, sounding both urgent, and extraordinarily terrifying.
Right down to its ‘pen and pixel’ inspired cover art, Kryptonyte is a blast from the past, but
it still has a foot in the present and is edging it into the future. It’s a bizarre,
yet ultimately compelling listen—and that kind of sharp juxtaposition is the
point. You can enjoy it, but it will more than likely make you uneasy the
entire time.
Kryptonyte is out now, as a digital download, from Dolfin Records; occasionally, the group offers limited runs of t-shirts with the album's amazing cover art printed on the front.
Kryptonyte is out now, as a digital download, from Dolfin Records; occasionally, the group offers limited runs of t-shirts with the album's amazing cover art printed on the front.
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