Whatevski’s got a cult, hey. We are his acolytes. We
comprise his followers, his harem. Whatevski Whatevski says, whatevski we does.
Whatevski drops a mixtape, dedicated to his cult, and we listen to it, enraptured.
Dedicated to his cult? It’s called Cult
Classics, homie – let that be a lesson to you.
“Assembled deep within the caves of Whatevski’s
secret compound,” Cult Classics brings
together a metric ton of underground hip hop talent that’s about to blow the
doors off whatever clubs Toronto’s even got left. Hand’Solo’s headquarters just
became the number-one target for whatever government organizations are tasked
with monitoring the Venn diagram where “cult” and “dope rhymes” meet
ceremoniously in the middle. We’d regale you with the specifics of the reports,
but they’ve all been redacted.
So redact this: Cult
Classics is a nasty slab of wickedness produced to perfection by
crate-digging madmen and maestros. Each track is a master class in
head-noddery, an upraised middle finger to décor, and a time bomb of seething
wordplay. No matter what affiliations we hold coming into Cult Classics, we will leave a fully-fledged member of this
distinct association. What we choose to do with that membership is on us – I
say we flaunt the fuck out of it.
--Ryan
Posts
