Moor Mother & Billy Woods - Brass Review

BOUND BY RUSTED CHAINS, TWO DOGS GNARL

Now this is an invigorating combination. Two inner-city poets reciting tales of dire straits and political refuse, aggravated and commanding, wading through the murk of minority peril. Sonically, Brass doesn't conceal itself behind the element of surprise. This is exactly how I'd imagine a Billy Woods / Moor Mother team-up would sound like. No frills, street-worn, embittered by decades of unsavory hardships and unforgivable injustices. Their outlet, as it has always been, lies in the arts. Poetry brandishes a bland both incisive and blunt, one that - in this instance - dispels the notion of the unintelligent braggart. Here, Billy Woods and Moor Mother trade blows on slam night, pounding their chest as a war cry for respect, while using their mind to satisfy that doggedness. Brass is neither of the duo's best works - Hiding Places and Analog Fluids of Sonic Black Holes lay unscathed - but the brutal alliance, combined with disheveled Jungle rhythms and an array of likeminded doomsayers, proves both poignant and evocative.

That being said, as someone who leans towards theatrics, Brass' gruff, trenchant behavior fails to muster continued greatness. It's a style becoming all-too familiar in Abstract Hip-Hop, with two-minute, verse-centric endeavors unaccompanied by volatility, abrasion, or narrative. Artists like Elucid, Pink Siifu, and MIKE, wallow in this skeletal direction, though all have found artistic opportunities in various side projects. Moor Mother has too, perhaps more so than any other, as 2020 showed us with the Noise Rock True Opera and the Free Jazz Circuit City. This creative wherewithal casts shadows across the backbone of Brass, like a watchman in the night. Always there, consistently felt, but never actually seen. Well, besides the shrill diversion 'Mom's Gold,' which is as terrorizing and arresting as interludes come. The rest of Brass' 14 cuts snarl behind restraints. Like a pitbull, chained wrapped tight around its throat, empowered less by the prey it's salivating over and more the shackles it's bound by. At times, Moor Mother's vicious bark comes out in force ('The Blues Remembers Everything The Country Forgot,' 'Arkeology ,' 'Gang For A Day'), as if she too is waiting to be unleashed. Typically, these are Brass' best moments, as Woods - per his usual self - rarely deviates from his trademarked tenacious aplomb. Composure ensures his price will be met.

With a few duds here and there ('Rapunzal,' 'Blak Forrest,' 'Tiberius'), the production on Brass is top notch. There's this eery foreignness carrying weight throughout. As if you aren't supposed to be here, listening to this. 'Furies' exists deep within the trenches, as unintelligible vocals and raw drums circle the two emcees. Hollow wind chimes and bleak samples define 'Arkeology,' a track that peers into the windows of a witch's hut far from society. Others, like 'Maroons,' 'Rock Tried,' and 'Scary Hours,' purposely stand on edge, with inaccessible patterns that feel both rustic and greenhorn. Incongruous with unblemished qualities of music today. As if the means of creation are bred not by conglomerations, but enervated laborers working arduously in ramshackle, industrial complexes. Brass is a dense, dreary, blighted album. One that evokes the best of both emcees, while rarely striving for liberation. For Billy Woods and Moor Mother, they relish in this austerity.