This is almost a summer song slush fund. Despite hailing from Chicago, Ghost House molts more in a single song than most rappers do in a career. Spank Rock, OutKast, and codeine sippers of world all scramble on the angles of this electro-infused monument to being a “bad ass mutha fuckah”. Granted, that’s hardly new territory in the genre ego built, but the Ghost House crew have some humility in their hubris, which makes the self-inflation part of the song’s sky high energy and not just bragadacio baggage.
The opening keyboard riff, wiry and alien, sounds like a totally warped and reinvented take of the keyboard wash in Justin Timberlake’s “My Love”. I’m no Timberlake fan, but I’ll take every version of that space age stutter that I can get. The verbal flow gets skipped like a stone and shifted into frenzied knots just before drifting into the slow-mo sludge hook. “Samuel L. Jackson” unpretentiously swarms you with switched up rhythms, sexy come on’s and a sound grafted from the best of the cutting edges.
We all know how critical it is to keep independent voices alive and strong online. Please consider a donation to support our work as an independent publisher devoted to the arts and humanities. Your donation will help PopMatters stay viable through these changing and challenging times where advertising no longer covers our costs. We need your help to keep PopMatters publishing. Thank you.