Review Summary: self reflection is hard when you cant make yourself look in the mirror
There's something about the slower cuts. The piano loops and the trap drums, coalescing into a lo-fi funeral march. As somber as they sound, it's almost as if there's some spirit in the words over the beats, some braggadocio, some remnant of confidence. It's not winning confidence, it's not happy-ending self esteem; it's acceptance. Acceptance and self assuredness in your hedonism, your conceitedness, your self hatred. It's part of you and you know it is, and you know it's not going away. There's something to be said for that stability, that notion that nothing is getting better and you might as well just wallow. It's what Peep's music is built off of. It's seeing your ex girl in the strip club. It's blood in the lambo from trying to make yourself feel something again. It's pulling up at the show with a coke nose. Its being off the ***s, high constantly, if only because you cant stand how you feel when you're not. Every declaration of having hoes, of sexual exploit, of drugs and shows and money, sounds like a lament. It's like hearing charge after charge against you listed in court, each one heavier than the last. This desolation and heaviness carries over to the production; the hype, token, speaker blowing bass is claustrophobic, each pound feeling like a blow to your stomach. The aforementioned piano plunks away, lamenting the memory of what you once were, and what you are now. The trap drums are somewhat reserved, letting Peep find his own rhythm and flow, which ends up being very stream-of-consciousness esque.
It's hard knowing you can't ever be happy, it's earth shattering. It's why every syllable, every shout, every rough bar about doing blow and hoes sounds just as heartbreaking as the ones about being worthless and alone.
