Pulp Diction

by Terry Sawyer

13 October 2008

 

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.

 

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