From Filthy Tongue of Gods and Griots
If hip-hop needs a shot in the arm (and it really does), here’s that vial of acid to throw it into paroxysms of agonizing renewal. It will shrivel and shriek, writhe and rave with the chaos that is Dälek. Spawned from the wasteland left behind by Rubberroom, Dälek ravages the post-apocalyptic urbanscape with dark, brooding rhymes and hyperbolic, post-industrial beats that shatter the teeth in your splintered skull. Weak hearts wither in his heat. The intensity blinds. Nelly strips out of his clothes — and his skin, trembling at Dälek’s altar. Missy can’t even freak to this. There are stratospheres where most rappers’ lungs collapse in sheer terror. Dälek stands above them all with hard cores of incomprehensible skill, laughing derisively. It’s a mind-blowing trip to reach his John Cage hip-hop, and I discourage anyone without a muscular cranium to sustain the megablast beats broken over your head from ever venturing towards the man’s sound.