RIP? The bombastic, ridiculous self-destruction of Death Grips

This isn’t an obituary. Death Grips were and still are a group that shun chapters or a marked end-point. Their closing speech - a hand-written, all caps note claiming they’ve “OFFICIALLY STOPPED” - would be a hilariously subdued finale to an obnoxious ‘career’. For the past three years Zach Hill’s multi-faceted, nigh-on apocalyptic hip-hop project has swerved and screamed in the face of instruction. If they set themselves the goal to stop, chances are they’ll spend the next few decades twiddling their thumbs, crushed by creative energy or a desire to fuck with people just one more time.

The note stated with complete fact - no debate to be had - that Death Grips were “NOW AT OUR BEST”. There’s still one more release to be heard; the second half of a double album, ‘The Powers That B’. What’s remarkable is that across their three full-lengths proper and the one half of their latest release, it’s difficult to pinpoint an actual peak, musically. Death Grips fans who’ve been there from the start have been struck head-first by an abrasive explosion of sound, but the majority have played the role of outsiders. They’re the people who give a surprise Soundcloud release a few casual plays, tut to themselves “Oh Death Grips, that’s so you”, and get on with their day. They’re the collective of dropped jaws that met the unscheduled arrival of Hill’s non-censored penis all over the internet. In a career of no-shows, shock horrors and ‘Have a Sad Cum’’s, it’s been difficult to keep up with this band. Their bull in a china shop mentality has no bounds. They’re a compromised, often contrived, hyper-explosion of mad ideas that might not actually be so daring after all, but above anything else, Death Grips don’t give a shit.