Isaac Dunbar Takes Our Pop Quiz
office gave Isaac an impromptu pop quiz where there are no wrong answers... except, of course, the wrong ones.
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office gave Isaac an impromptu pop quiz where there are no wrong answers... except, of course, the wrong ones.
For Ekkstacy, being inspired by cultural touchstones as random as a morbidly-hilarious Hathaway deep-cut “happens a lot. Which is a good thing and a bad thing. It’s kind of hard for me to stick to stuff, because I think everything is cool. Sometimes I’ll be listening to rap, and I’ll be like, Oh fuck, I want to be a rapper. And then I’ll hear a metal song, and I’ll be like, Fuck, I want to do metal.”
It’s a few minutes past 8 AM on the West Coast, and the 20 year-old “indie star” — his words and ours — is yawning through contemplative spiels in a San Diego hotel, fresh off of last night’s performance at the nearby Observatory North Park. Besides the timing of our call and the events of yesterday evening, one of several things predictably making him tired right now is the do-it-all creative incentive his work hinges on. As far as rap and metal go, he seems to have threaded the balance between his restless inspirations quite well: his monochrome, face-tatted online presence echoes the SoundCloud era his ascension marked the end of, while at the same time, he prides himself on a stage act that boasts hand-picked rock instrumentalists — a full-scale tour ensemble consisting of guitarists, a bassist, a drummer, and himself on vocals.
His most popular track to date, 2021’s “i walk this earth all by myself,” cashes in on the multi-hyphenate dynamic with lush harmonies layered over light major chords, and a vocal delivery that sounds a little bit like a British Dr. Doofenshmirtz auditioning for Joy Division. But for all the various factors at play, he still sometimes has difficulty understanding what makes him an attraction.
“I asked my best friend a while ago — because I was sad that day and insecure about stuff — Dude, what makes my music unique?,” he says. “And he’s like, ‘Number 1: Your voice doesn’t sound like anyone else’s. Number 2: Just the way that you use words.’ And he said the sounds are different. But the sounds are the most easily replicable, and it’s hard to– I just feel like it’s a combination of everything.” Asked what he thinks people see in him: “I don’t know… shit. I don’t know, dude. I really don’t.”
When you’re evolving as fast as Ekkstacy is, not having the time to question what others see in you is understandable. Misery, his forthcoming full-length LP, marks a step further away from the exploratory indie-punk soundscapes of last year’s NEGATIVE, and further into a certain rock-rooted ethos he’s getting increasingly comfortable with storming head-on. All-out guitar is the star of the show on this record, and it wastes little time making its presence felt: its opening track is layered with the kinds of shredded power chords — and chirped, rebellious vocals — that populate early aughts skate video game soundtracks; lead single “wish i was dead” thrives on post-punk’s ironic duality, melding buoyant, strings-driven soundscapes with darker lyricism fittingly foregrounded by the song’s morbid title. “I really like the record; I’m stoked,” he says, seconds before cutting himself off with a brazen “What the fuck? You’ve heard it?” I’ve just told him that I love the record too, and — as much as he’s surprised that people have heard it already — come release time in September, he may be just as shocked to learn that I’m far from the only one who can’t stop playing it.
As this release gears up to mark further forward movement, the new-age rocker doesn’t exactly want to put the pain of his tumultuous past behind him. Born in Vancouver to parents that divorced on his first day of high school, his childhood was rife with rash decisions, restlessness, and lingering existential turmoil that bubbled into life-changing chaos over the course of his freshman year. He only began making music after a failed suicide attempt — the last straw in a long series of months that saw him leave school for extended periods of time, couch-surf at friends’ places while fleeing from fights at home, and make sense of the familial debris left by a household that broke just as he was coming of age. “That stuff made me who I am, dude,” he says. “It’s just a weird thing I’ve always dealt with. All my songs are sad; all the music I’ve ever released is sad. So I don’t know if I even want to get better. What if I just become terrible at music? Once I’m happy, what am I going to do?”
With the way things are going, he may just end up figuring it out firsthand. For now, if Misery is bound to tell us anything, it’s that — at least for the time being — he certainly hasn’t gotten any worse at guitar.
When I ask if he prefers to be referred to as “musician, rapper, artist, entertainer, or performer,” he replies, “all of the above.” He explains that he’s looking to be a sort of “public character,” and that making music is a vehicle for that. Some might see him as a shameless clout chaser, but he sees his self-promotion as “all part of the performance,” and that his ultimate priorities are the technical proficiency of his music, creating “hype,” and planning events that he’s actually excited to invite his friends to.
Last night, Drunken Canal hosted a screening of the music video for his new single “Dean Kissick” at Hair of the Dog, a sports bar in the Lower East Side. He views the song as a commentary on the relationship between the art world and internet rap; for him, Dean represents that intersection. In the video, he hangs out with Dean, drives around in a Tesla, and goes to O’Flaherty’s.
For the premiere, office sat down with Blake to talk about the release, Drake, his lyrics, and making music for the current moment in New York.
What made you want to make a song about Dean Kissick? What would you say this song is about?
I love internet rap. I've always loved SoundCloud and YouTube, and I think internet rap is such a cool style in general. And living in downtown Manhattan, the art world is omnipresent within the culture scene here. So, lately I feel like I've really been on an Internet rap kick, and I think that it's always been interesting the way rap as a whole and fine art interact. Like, there's like all the Jay-Z and Kanye stuff, where they have sculptures and shit. I also think it's funny, if you're on like Twitter, the way people will be like, “Frank Ocean is actually art,” and how people will label things as “actually art.” And then during “Drainchella” - which was when Drain Gang was here, and played two shows, and then had, like, ten afterparties - Dean posted a video of Drain Gang at Joe and the Juice. And at that moment, I was like, “Oh, my God. Dean Kissick is the intersection of Internet rap and fine art.” And then also Dean had posted a photo where he was hanging out with Kanye. So I was like, “it’d be really funny to make an Internet rap song.” Because there's a lot of rap songs that are like, “Tom Ford”, you know what I mean? I was like, “Someone's got to make a song about Dean Kissick.” And then of course, I thought “I should make a song about Dean Kissick.” Also, the way his name sounds is phonetically really satisfying and it's very rhythmic. The song felt like a fun way to fuse two aesthetics, and kind of just play with the space between those two aesthetics, and then also insert my personality in the gap between those two aesthetics, and kind of play with where I fit in. I wrote the song in, like, 20 minutes. It was really quick, and then I recorded it on my laptop, and it comes out on July 27th. It was very fast.
Had you ever met before that? How’d he react?
Before that, we were Instagram mutuals for maybe six months or so. And I actually saw him at one of the Drain Gang shows. But we never talked or hung out. Then I made the song, and just started posting about it, and it happened to be his birthday. It just lined up that way. So, I wrote the song on his birthday unknowingly, and then he was at an event that night and heard it play. I hadn’t send it to him yet, but I’d sent it to Walter Pearce and some other people. And someone was playing it on the speaker at the event, and he was like, “What the fuck?” And then I posted the song and tagged him. He DM’d me and said, “What's the song? I want to hear the lyrics.” And I was like, “Oh, I'll send it to you,” and I sent it to him. And I was like, “We should do a video,” and he was just like, “Yeah, let's do it.” And it came together real quick. We're friends now. He's had to spend a bunch of time with me.
In the song you say that after [one of your other singles] Blake 2 came out “the whole city hopped on your johnson”. Do you actually feel like things have changed since you started?
A lot more people are into it now. Even with this song, you knew about it before it was out, right? ...There are people who are like, “oh, my god, I can't wait for this to come out.” And I also think there's people who are like, “this is so stupid. I hate that this guy's doing this.” But they didn't know who I was before. And I think that having created any sort of culture where people are talking about something I'm going to do before I've done it… that's the magic. That's what's really fun about music too. Even if people don't like it, it's cool that I've created some sort of a conversation.
Why the Tesla, and why O’Flaherty’s?
I asked Dean if he knew of a gallery that would let us shoot in it, and he’s tight with Jamian [Juliano-Villani, co-founder of O’Flaherty’s]. I really wanted it to be a relic of this moment in New York - which was shot by Fiona Kane and directed by Rich Smith. The larger culture of New York more often than not is like a reflection and amplification of the internet at large. And I can see the whole world in some sort of way. “The American Internet.” I don't want it to just be like music for music sake, but rather music that's part of the culture. So, Julian [Ribeiro, who styled the video] is someone whose style I really love, and someone whose kind of to me a refclection of what I think is cool in New York right now. And so is O’Flaherty’s. And the Telsa is kind of a meme in itself. It feels like the car that is reflective of the internet right now. It was just kind of putting things that all felt reflective of a certain subscect of this moment right now - asking where do I exist within it. Every choice in the video was made to excenture the crossover of internet rap, and art world, and New York.
In terms of your music in general, you prefer to consider yourself as “pop,” and “not hyperpop”. What’s the importance of that distinction for you?
In terms of the sound of it, I say it’s pop because I think pop is a genre that is less focused on the way that it sounds and more so the way that the ideas are delivered, and the way the personality interacts with the music. Ultimately, I think my genre is interacting with pop culture as a whole. I like all kinds of music. Sometimes I feel like making different kinds of music. To me, an album that I think is really cool is Beyonce's Lemonade - where almost every song is produced by a different producer. There’s even a rock song from Jack White. There's hip-hop songs, and dance songs. But because her voice is consistent in its lyrical content and vocal production, the whole thing feels like a cohesive album - even though every song sounds different. I've played with a lot of different genres in my music - there is some hyperpop stuff - but ultimately the consistent thing is my personality conveyed through lyrics.
You also talk about Drake a lot.
I think Drake is kind of like the thesis of music of the current moment. It's like streaming music, and that's interesting to me. And I'm not saying this because I'm like, “Oh, I'm trying to make money.” I'm saying this because we listen to music via streaming. To me, streaming represents infinite information, which I think is the definitive quality of this time in history. There is access to infinite information. It wasn't actually infinite ten years ago in the way that it really is now. Drake's music is - within its medium, within sound - the equivalent of a selfie. The way it’s mixed, the way it's produced, and the way it's written. Drake's music puts Drake's face right at the center, in the mixing and in the writing. And the face expresses different parts of his personality. And so, in that way, you can mimic the beat, you could make something that sounds similar, but it still won't be a Drake song because the most important part of a Drake song is Drake. And if Drake's not in it, it’s not a Drake song. They’re the most popular image of this era, because within a feed, it's the only distinguishable thing someone can present. Your face is the only actual thing that can't be replicated by ads, or by other accounts, or whatever. To me, Drake is one of the most popular, and Kanye does it too. Doja Cat does it. The most central thing is the personality. The reason for this is that, in an era of infinite information, the only meaningful idea is the personality. Since recording technology is getting cheaper too, there's more songs that will be made today than any day in human history. If you're just getting some guitars and recording something, it already exists. And so from a capitalist consumer perspective, the only thing that sells is “the selfie,” “the face,” right? But also, from an artistic perspective, I think that the place to be interesting in music is in the face, and in the personality. Because I just think that that's where the meaningful conversation in music is to be had right now. And it's not just hip-hop. The rock example I always give of “selfie music” is Mac DeMarco. And the reason he went to the top of his whole genre, among so many things that sound similar to his music, is that it was all about his personality. And the music was like an extension of the personality, and an expression of the personality. Practically, Drake is also all very musically minimal. And the result is you can hear a Drake song from a mile away - you know what song it is.
How do you feel like the idea of “selfie music” impacts how you make your own work?
Where I come in is I like to work within the parameters set by the creation of the style for the sake of selling music. I feel very inspired to set the Drake parameters as like, “these are the rules for making music,” and then try to be expressive with them. And I'm not the only one doing that, but that's why I am so inspired by Drake. Do you ever go to a show, and you don't know what any of the songs are about? Like, no impression was left on, “what are the ideas of this person?” I have found that the selfie music - the Drake music - is the most effective musical medium to say things to people and to play with ideas. Because the whole point of that music is to communicate personality. So, it's very lyrically focused. Putting down like a kind of minimal, vulnerable beat, you can really say distinct things, and it's as effective as texting it to someone. And that's something I'm really after, is the music is just the background that I'm in front of, and it's just a medium for my voice and personality to exist, so I can change the style whenever I want. I can make a hyperpop song, I can make a rock song, I can make a rap song. But the surroundings are unimportant. I can change that every song, and I'll still be me. People will still connect with my ideas. And that's what I've been doing.
Listening to your songs, the lyrics really stand out to me. Someone recently described them to me as “metaironic.” In “Pixies,” something that stuck out is how you're referencing yourself as “a poser” or “a loser you can trust.” What are your intentions or thoughts on the way you write? How literal do you feel like your lyrics are?
There's kind of like a range. Within lyrics, lyrics are a vehicle. So, the point of the lyrics is to communicate the personality. And the personality is the main expression. The personality - like Drake, or Charlie XCX - is an exaggerated version of me that is things I feel, but also interacts with the larger narrative of the world, and the internet specifically. Right? So, with the lyrics, I have a few kind of modes. I think sometimes I use lyrics to communicate aesthetic ideas. “Pixies” exists in that space. So, sometimes it's like aesthetic to communicate persona. Sometimes it's like storytelling to communicate persona. Like, Blake 2 is like a cheating fantasy to describe this character. I've never cheated on someone. That's one where it's like, you know, I'm telling a story that's a narrative one that is describing a character that is me interacting with the world in kind of an exaggerated way. Whereas “Pixies” and “Dean Kissick” are like aesthetic songs where I'm like just interacting with other icons, and culture, and relating myself to them. And I think with “Pixies” too, that one's really about like style and genre, and wanting to relate kind of the concept of like identity consumption, you know what I mean? Like the idea of you becoming you via the things you consume - the music and the clothes you consume. And kind of the root of that being a feeling of inadequacy, and overcoming the inadequacy by consuming, is kind of the idea. And so, you know, that's why I say, like, “I'm like a loser, I’m a poser.” It's kind of like, I feel inadequate and I can overcome inadequacy by acceptance by way of consumption - was kind of like the main idea that I kind of based that song around. I also like braggy shit, and I consume a lot of braggy shit, so it's fun to be that way too. So, I guess [my lyrics are] maybe less literal. But I sometimes I do write really literally. There's some songs where I say really literal, personal things from my life, and then there's some where I'm just kind of interacting with ideas. Sometimes when people ask what kind of music I'll say, “autofiction.” I think a lot of music is autofiction. But the other thing I say is, “I say two truths in a lie.” I'll say real things, and then I’ll say fake things, and put them next to each other. And then people don't know what's what.
Why do you think the people that love you and your music love it so much?
I think because, within my artistic expression, I holistically and thoroughly touch on the range of interests and emotions that people have on a personal level. My lyrics are funny, like real people, but also earnest and emotional, like real people. And my music is inspired by lots of different genres of music because I listen to all genres of music, just like most people, and I think people are attracted to it because it's postmodern in the way that it doesn't aim to be tightly in any sort of box, but it aims to express the full range of emotions, and interact with the full range of influences that are people in the information age experience. I think that's what people really like. It isn't one genre, and it isn't in one mood, it's true to the way people actually are. And the way I am, and the way you are.
As it turns out, the independently-run festival banks heavily on Rule #1 of Alvin and the Chipmunks’ lore — when I arrive about twenty minutes prior to its advertised 5 PM start time, I’m met with scattered throngs of teen-aged friend groups sprawled out across household sheets, some heads rested on the outlines of Poland Spring bottles in drawstring bags, and others nestled in the withering grass of Brooklyn’s fabled Herbert Von King Park. In front of me, one kid seated next to an ostensible girlfriend is wearing a graphic T-Shirt, the back of which reads “DELIVER ME FROM THIS MORTAL COIL (Obscure Image) FOR THERE IS NOTHING FOR ME HERE.” It’s a sentiment that must be echoed by the tightly-wound modus operandi often inherent to events of this nature: in place of strict seating arrangements, itineraries and clear-cut direction, there is, instead, free will, a wherever-you-can-find-shade seating policy, and a widely-circulated notes-app setlist that many attendees impatiently consult screenshots of between performances. Deliver rules from this mortal coil (obscure image), for there is nothing for them here.
For most of the twenty or so minutes I spend waiting for the show to start, the kind of music a cultured grandpa might cue up on aux is blasting from jumbo speakers stageward — one track is Gang Starr’s “Moment of Truth,” which features old-head-friendly maxims like “Actions have reactions, don't be quick to judge / You may not know the hardships people don't speak of” — and a lanky, beer-toting middle-aged man in a white Minnesota Vikings jersey is strangely glancing back at me with arched eyebrows. Whatever his problem with me may be, it seems to be alleviated when, after a series of hushed phone calls and photos of his surrounding area, he runs towards a woman in the portion of the park exposed to the heat, and, like something straight out of a coming-of-age film, they embrace in the golden hour sunlight. Everything here is strangely, endearingly cinematic, which — as cliche as it sounds — makes the whole function feel a little bit like a weirdly beautiful, hyper-grassroots Woodstock on a budget. This is, perhaps, part of what allows its collectivity-oriented selling point to work so well: just as much as there’s nothing besides vibe-check-passing security guards separating artist from audience, nothing’s separating the audience from itself either, and by the time the music's over, you realize that for most of the show, you and the five or so strangers in your immediate area have been taking turns fanning each other with the plastic contraptions handed out by park volunteers earlier on. (An exercise, I must stress, is incredibly necessary, at least in my case — today is my first day using an insulated water bottle my mom got me, so it pains me to see that when I open it up, all of the ice I put in it this morning is still ice. For further context: I am wearing a predominantly black rugby shirt and Champion sweatpants, with an extra pair of gym shorts underneath.)
Young World was founded with these kinds of grassroots, community-centric ideas in mind. “I always thought about artists who have the ability to create their own world, and build that from scratch or from nothing,” MIKE told Rolling Stone prior to this year’s installment. “When I think about basically all the artists that are on the bill, it’s people that have created those types of worlds with music and shit, at least to me. [...] I just want people to be allowed to enjoy good shit. You shouldn’t have to pay mad bread for a good experience.” Along with MIKE, tonight’s bill features DJ-slash-producer Laron, gentle-voiced UK spitter Jadasea, avant-garde Brooklyn wordsmith Maassai, the skate-adjacent Soulja Boy-incarnate TisaKorean, the defiant Jamaica-forged MC Junglepussy, and the OG hip-hop storyteller Slick Rick. Among vendor offerings lined up near a set of benches on the park’s side, there’s live screen printing by AINT WET, clothes by RIGHTEOUSPATH2002 and LOVEGAME, and food courtesy of Sol Sips. As crowds of cultured teens and 20-somethings oscillate between the booths and the stage, it’s difficult to distinguish any one reveler, vendor, or friend group from the other. Everyone is at the same level, and MIKE & Company probably wouldn’t have it any other way.
Donning a floppy bucket hat and a gray T-shirt, Laron graces stage a little after 5 PM, at which point — with the help of tonight’s host inviting everyone closer to the stage “so you can all see how pretty I am” — a good portion of the teens laying in the grass by the vendors make a long, smoke-filled pilgrimage to the front of the platform, forming the humble makings of what will soon, over the course of the night, spill out into a massive, undulating swarm. “Young World” applies to everyone here, and this dynamic wastes little time making itself visible. Midway through Laron’s set, an elderly couple drags a pair of green lawn chairs to the front of the head-bopping teenage assemblage, and perches, unbothered, directly behind the barricade. (When they aren’t dancing for the Instagram stories of friendly schoolchildren around them, between sets, they’re pulling out their phones and playing the kinds of Candy Crush spinoffs you see ads for on Twitter.)
It’s a fitting embodiment of the family-oriented approach long prioritized by this corner of New York hip-hop’s underground. The last time I attended something of theirs in-person, it was October, and MIKE was in Nashville for an early stop on his “Small World Big Love” tour. Upon entry, the pair of elderly security guards that checked my ID asked me, with genuine curiosity, who “this group” was. The urge to ask that question was easier to understand once I got inside: in the front row alone, the mixture included smoke-puffing students from local colleges, awkward adults who had traveled solo, and an annoyed-looking father who, between glances at his watch, occasionally reminded his middle school-aged son that “you have to wake up for school tomorrow.” The list of acts (or events, generally speaking) capable of bringing that blend of people into one room, let alone one row, is a short one — and it’s a feat you only achieve when your music can turn fans into family. Both last October and today, the people responsible for this gathering seem to have mastered the formula.
The next performer is summoned via a series of yelped demands from tonight’s host for the audience to shout louder. This doesn’t end up seeming all that necessary, though, because by the time MIKE glides onto the platform alongside his longtime live DJ Taka, the loudest roar of the afternoon has already begun erupting from what is now a significantly larger sea of people on the grass. MIKE’s live act is hinged just as much — if not more so — on highlighting the talent around him, as it is on highlighting the talent he himself has to offer. It feels ritualistic when, in the spoken interludes that carry one song into the next, he breaks into spirited monologues, venturing to thank everyone around him one by one: “My name’s Mike; this is my brother Taka,” he’d start, with rhythmic swagger, pointing a shaky finger back towards the baseball cap-clad mastermind behind him. “Can you guys do me a faaaavvorrrr?” Taka would modulate MIKE’s voice to the point where, with luminous echoes and booming, layered depth, it sounds like that of a disembodied, mythic prophet. “I need y’all to make the most noise for my brother Taka.” The crowd would make the most noise for his brother Taka. “Could you guys do me another faaaavvorrrr? I need y’all to make the most noise for my family in the back.” The crowd would make the most noise for his family in the back. When MIKE raises his arms for the final time, the list of figures he’s thanked includes his manager, every artist on the bill, the vendors, the sound technicians, the lighting technicians (“Come on y’all” he says flatly, when insufficient noise is made for this group. “Can we please get some more noise for the light people.”), and — most often of all — the audience itself. You’re never just applauding MIKE. At the same time that he’s making you love him, he’s making sure you love yourself, and the people around you, too.
After two lyric-heavy masterclasses by Jadasea and Maassai — “I don’t like talking too much, so let’s just get into it,” Maassai fittingly announces, before her sacred, Nas-evocative set begins — TisaKorean greets his raucous crowd with a series of brazen declarations about how “silly” he is, which all serve to operate as both a warning and a trademark. He’s flanked by a dread-headed skateboarder who does kickflips back and forth across stage throughout his performance, a young rapper named Mighty Bay, and an older, cell phone-toting manager-type, who — speaking of “deprecating”— Tisa jokingly instructs to “get the fuck off the stage, man!” The reason for his ousting is an obstruction to the show of some sort, an infraction that seems to be part of a well-oiled skit. “He always do this shit,” Tisa comically groans. “On the count of three, Imma need y’all to yell Fuck you! One. Two. Three.”
“Fuck you!,” Herbert Von King Park collectively shouts, and the man trudges his way off the stage with his head bowed.
TisaKorean’s stage act looks a lot like someone gave a wild-minded fourth grader, midway through about seven different phases, fifteen minutes to answer a narrative writing prompt — If you could have your very own concert, what would it look like? — for extra credit in an English class taught by a progressive old woman who lives in Forest Hills. And, much like that wild-minded fourth grader would imagine, it’s glorious: all between plagued shouts of “Why am I so silly??,” he’s either moonwalking, jumping clean off the stage and within inches of the front row’s bulging eyes, dousing himself with the entire water bottle the aforementioned managerial-type gave him to drink, or demanding that the audience join him in yelling himself hoarse. “Why y’all looking at me like I’m crazy?,” he asks, genuinely perplexed, when he showers himself in Poland Spring. “I just wanted to pour some water on my head.” It’s an endearing microcosm of Tisa’s all-out impetus writ-large: the same way showering himself in water is a natural response to extreme heat, being “silly” is another itch it’s simply in his blood to scratch. If the raucous quasi-moshpit that has formed around me indicates anything, it’s that the “silly” itch is highly contagious… but compared to other contagious things making headlines today, everyone seems beyond content to allow this into their collective bloodstream.
Following a lengthy changeover DJ session by London’s RedLee — it’s necessary to state that, between transitional DJ gigs before and after every act, and the occasional verse during Jadasea’s set, he’s been working overtime today — the next performer to grace the stage is Junglepussy, the Brooklyn MC whose liberating songs of sexual autonomy have fostered a vibrant, militant community of listeners who flock to the music to find empowered versions of themselves. This is perhaps most visibly true when, upon her emergence from backstage, a group of it-girls huddled together in the front let out a shout so crazy that the rapper’s voice, microphone and all, is indiscernible in my already-hazy tape recording. A similar dynamic winds up being the case for most of Jungelpussy’s set, and as the me of the future writes what you are currently reading, he is frantically fast-forwarding and rewinding his audio file from several nights ago, in desperate search of any wise words — of which there were many — spoken by the defiant spitter that he can salvage for inclusion in this overdue article. Below is a list of the perceptible ones he’s able to swipe off of his SD card:
[Spoken to a lame hypothetical ex-boyfriend] “Yo’ big-ass head… Yo’ ashy butt-crack… Who else gon’ twist ya dreads?? I oughta (indiscernible)! You got a nasty attitude… I don’t like the way you treat me. I don’t get horny when you look at me. You wanna know what turns me on? I met this one (indiscernible) motherfucker… (...) his ass took me to the zoo. The zoo? The zoo. Last dude bought me (indiscernible) lingerie, I’m like eewww! I got n***as taking me to see live animals!!”
“You are now in the presence of an empress.”
“I am so honored to be here… shout out to MIKE, shout out to Young World, shout out to my family here in the b- I was boutta say in the building, but we on the lawn like…”
“You think you up next, but bitch, I’m adjacent.”
Junglepussy’s set is one-third PSA, one-third militant ritual, and another third oral essay. Due in part to her performance’s stream-of-consciousness nature, the audience is stirred into a frenzy every time she utters a mantra they can latch onto — an occasion, as you could likely tell from the above transcriptions, that repeats itself often — but, as valiantly as she’s feeding into the crowd’s fanaticism, it’s also somewhat plausible that she’s doing it just as much for herself. When she lurches into her deep, guttural act, it seems like somewhere behind her dark inconspicuous shades and seductive croon, a switch is flipped, and everything inside comes out in an endless deluge, solely interrupted by applause. By the time she’s through, the spell, much like Tisa’s, looks to be infectious.
It’s dark out when Slick Rick swag-walks his way out onto the platform, and in the time that spans between this moment and the end of the festival — which is not very long — he exhibits what is, very likely, the most industrial use of about ten or so minutes any of us in the audience has seen from a live act in quite some time. In the minutes immediately following the festival’s closing, Pitchfork’s Alphonse Pierre tweets: “Lmao saw slick Rick get on stage perform 2.5 songs flash his chains and dip exactly what I expected fire.” And he’s right — at this stage in the game, if anyone’s legacy speaks so loudly for them that they don’t have to do much more than have their name printed on a showbill to invigorate thousands, it’s Slick Rick. In the one shaky video I have of his set on my phone, he’s leading a sea of frontward-facing cameras in a spirited “Go Slick Rick, Go Slick Rick, Go!” The thing about it is, aside from these fifteen seconds, I don’t remember anything from when he was on stage. Executed like a true legend: much like the brand of lyrical storytelling he spearheaded in New York’s hip-hop genesis, the only way to experience it is, and was, to be in the moment.
The community-first crux of Young World is personified when, as the legions of cultured teenagers and twenty-somethings file out from the matted grass, some of the acts on the bill are among them. (On my way out, I make eye contact with a perplexed-looking man with an afro in a red T-shirt, only to realize a second later that it’s Jadasea.) After hastily purchasing what I think is a blueberry “Fruit Barrel” drink — four hours later, all of the ice in my water bottle is still ice, and I’ve just spent a majority of the show desperately licking away at the few liquid droplets the insulation let slip — I take a seat on a bench, where I realize that the drink is, in fact, an alcoholic spinoff version of what I initially guessed it was.
Of the voices belonging to various pairs of feet shuffling in front of me, some include a pair of old-heads (maybe the Candy Crush players?) that groan complaints about the brevity of Slick Rick’s set, a stroller-pushing mom flanked by two pesky kids, a group of teenagers who screech through a smoke-infused debrief, and straggling pedestrians on late-night phone calls. It’s another testament to the family-first mission of MIKE & Co: there is no one-size-fits-all demographic valued over the other, and with the door for communal enjoyment open wider than ever, any — and every — one is both allowed, and encouraged, to take part in the moment. Somewhere in the middle of performing “Aww (Zaza),” the earworm smoker’s anthem six tracks deep on his latest LP Disco!, MIKE leads the audience in a spirited call-and-response: “Stuck in the midst of it all… Struggling? Nah.” One of youth’s most effective selling points is the ability to outright reject any implication of the struggle — too young to think about college, too young to think about rent, too young to think about dying — and in this moment, as everyone in Herbert Von King Park turns a collective back towards their problems, the world represented on this fabled patch of grass certainly isn’t old.
Midway through putting off a dreaded 20 minute walk back to the Inwood-207 St Subway station, I am joined on the bench by a group of snazzily-dressed teenagers who, it soon becomes clear, are longtime Instagram friends meeting in person for the first time. Through shy laughter and polite outfit compliments, they awkwardly arrange themselves in the little sitting room they’re afforded — until I leave for the subway so they can have the whole thing — and work through a haphazard plan to tackle their first night as a unit together. From TisaKorean’s silliness to Junglepussy’s spell, every contagious thing besides monkeypox tonight has been carried through autonomy — the same brand of it represented by a newfangled friend group for whom, an hour or so to midnight, the fun is just beginning. Five hours after Young World's sweat-soaked start, the words of the bald record industry figurehead from Alvin and the Chipmunks continue to ring true: the only rule is that there are no rules.