Review Summary: Aethiopes by Billy Woods
I don’t know how to talk about
Aethiopes. Dense. That is the thing that it is. Billy does too much. I want him to do more. Spitting sepia, verses vast, twisted, tangled, taut: his terrific tales tear through the
swill. An anachronistic
swill, intangible, wet dirty bass, a beat, vague (un)pleasant sounds that are sharp-slurred, unreal-organic, rarely catchy, captivating
always. It has some features from people who are not billy woods. They are
good features. The vibe, though: that is the thing that it is. Dense.
Aethiopes is
dense, and drenched and dripping and dark and dusty and deep and drunk and
fucked. Dreary?
Nah. Authentic?
Yes! Like drinking a polaroid, cobweb-coated, faded, still (frame) fucked. It’s for real, though,
for real. It happened. It
is. Rhymes with rhythm and soul and blues. Stories with rhythm and soul and blues. Music with rhythm and soul and blues. Lyrics that deserve to be quoted and dissected and praised
endlessly, but also never (find meaning yourself,
idiot). Tight as heck, gorgeously thematic, lovingly orchestrated, produced within an inch of its life (i.e. well), seamless, vital, other compliments, all of them.
An album with a pulse. My piano is out of tune and so is billy’s. I don’t know how to talk about
Aethiopes.
