Rob Sonic

Now let me preface this entire smattering of flatterings by saying that I’m a fucking Rob Sonic fanboy. I don’t feel ashamed by any means when I declare him one of my favorite personalities in music. Dude could rap my resume and I’d be like “HOW DID HE DO THAT?!?!?!?!?!?! DID YOU HEAR THAT BROS?!?!?!?! HOW DID HE-? WHEN DID HE-? BRO! CROWN HIM IMMEDIATELY!!!!”.

While I’m a super balls fan of his rapping and shit, I sometimes wonder if my thinking that he’s just cool as shit and that I really want to be his best friend is why I love his music so much.

*bites bottom lip*

Ah well. Whether or not I’m stalking him has nothing to do with Alice In Thunderdome being fucking balls.

My favorable bropinion of Rob Sonic has been molded around his voice sounding extremely fucking New York. His subject matter is New Yorky. His cadences are New Yorky. His ability to make anything sound fucking cool is New Yorky.

Rob Sonic’s delivery has that “this shit is easy” feel to it, but even when I know the lyrics there is no fucking way in hell I’m rapping along with the Bob. Effortless or not, Rob Sonic is one of the few rappers I love that has his own sound from all fucking directions.

Alice In Thunderdome is yet another example of how splendidly coherent dude is. While his Hail Mary Mallon rap buddy Aesop Rock can make a shitload of random words sound whip hop as Fuck, Rob Sonic is giving me raps to my face and my brain is nodding along like he’s saying exactly what I’ve been thinking all along.

The more I try to create a succinct reason as to why I fucking love this album, the more I realize that it isn’t just this album that I love. I JUST LOVE ME SOME ROB SONIC. A VERSE. A HOOK. A DROP. shit, a mere COUGH from this muthafucker feels fucking intentional and obviously fucking cool as shit.

Alice In Thunderdome has this cheerfully evil ambiance about it that can only be sufficiently digested through repeated academic listenings of “Happyland Disco” and/or “Pep Rally”. Dude paints a depressing, yet detailed picture of a modern junkyard metropolis. The sky is grey and smog-thick. There’s a sticky oily coating of post-apocalyptic ash coating every inch of anything and everything. Everyone’s an addict. Everyone’s stained. Everyone’s broken.

Yet, despite the grim motherfucking picture pages picture pages picture pages, Rob Sonic’s choosing to roll his eyes and ignore the obvious destruction around him. Even if the shit was pristine and in order he’d be indifferent as Fuck. It isn’t that the environment made Rob this way, it’s that Rob is this way regardless.

Rob Sonic’s defense mechanisms throughout Alice In Thunderdome are to simply distract himself from feeling responsible for the trash around him. If he stopped to really think about it he might never start up again, and you can hear the focus on staying distracted that, again, makes him sound so goddamn fucking cool.

The entirety of Alice In Thunderdome is dirty, but shiny evilectro, yet half of its attractiveness is hearing Rob blow the dust off of each track with a cadence and meter so fucking crisp his voice is like the dandelion that grows out of the asphalt, except way less dainty. Bro is like the palm tree growing in downtown Minneapolis, standing tall like a giant middle finger pointed towards the heavens and farmer’s almanacs the world over.

Instead of Rob Sonic sounding out of place, it sounds like his voice is the only thing keeping everything from imploding on itself in the first place.

Rob Sonic tends to wear a bandana all Rambo-like when doing housework, but I’m pretty sure bro needs a cape, cause this whole saving the world through indifference and sass shit has gotta be exhausting, and there’s no need for the dude to have to take the turnpike to get home to wifey. Wifey ain’t deserve that shit bro.

Rob Sonic. A fine young cannibal and master at the sass.

STALK THE SONIC ROB!