Tesseractic rapper Odynophagia takes aim at your alien wormhole
failed teleportation with a microwave is painful
at least my small intestine reemerges during rainfall
watch where u put those feet —
I have a fetish for on-the-crotch antihistamine — Odynophagia
I first caught 23-year-old native transdimensional rapper Odynophagia (www.myspace.com/odynophagia) at a freestyle night at El Rincon. He materialized onstage with his hyperactively dazed hype man King Eljen, flamboyantly brandishing a koi in a little plastic baggie. The atmosphere was immediately tweaked off-center, the inverted rhymes delivered with supersonic giddiness, and the fate of the poor fish in doubt from the get-go. (It survived.)
Earlier, I'd been transfixed by the boob-blackening video for "The Container is Pervasive" from Odynophagia's mind-twisting first album Social Masque, put out this year by his music-film-art distribution and production company Millipede Handjob (www.millipedehandjob.com). MF Doom on shrooms meets meta-fractured art star Ryan Trecartin? Sure, but Odyn, whose name means "painful swallowing" and whose rickets-rocked flow opens a quaking quark-hole in indie hip-hop's current unholy oatmeal, has limned the freakin' tesseract, man.
Social Masque was made "half in channel with unconscious, half coping with altered chemistry from bad acid," he told me. "I call it 'chemical jaw.' I do the art of living Sudarshan Kriya every day, and consider myself a mystic surrealist (the 100-year-old French kind), letting anything come through from the nether regions." Right now he's getting ready to direct his first film, Struggled Reagans, a semi-pornographic deconstruction of Power Rangers, featuring aborted quintuplets and a traumatically dripping sink nozzle. "One of the characters is Evie from the sitcom Out of This World," he says. "It's about nine percent sex. I'm still casting."
He's also recording his second album, Collage Fossil, due out in December, which he promises will marry U.K. grime style to "slower, more accessible U.S. commercial rap structures, with a more overtly sexual plotline than Social Masque mixed with apocalyptic urgency. Scared about 2012, so making a collage fossil time capsule with an "only certain are invited in" substory. Also, more of an subcultural satire."
SFBG Sitcoms, sci fi, crotch fungus, sex sweat — what, exactly, are you?
Odynophagia I'm Odynophagia, the rapping plasticization of the pathogenic presence, looming in the host body of Gregg Golding. He's a pretty choice mulatto specimen with nice genitals. The nigga just has too many rest-stop asphyxiation rashes. Blame the pressure of hip-hop fame and the Japanese corporation, Tanaka Inc., hot on his trail. (Let's just say he has eels from Spanish sitcoms lodged in a glass vial in his stomach)
Here I float, in the chemical jaw of scarred spirituality. I move my abacus as a disease routing agent. The powerful Mr. Tanaka drags blue-braid weave from his Segway i2. Upon observing me route cholera to a Wale mixtape listening party, he suggests syndication. Next thing you know, I'm in human form on this toxic plane of samsara, exuding pathogenic spores through my verbal flows in warehouse performances. A big booty white girl with a split-tongue body modification tells me she vibes to my constructivist cumshot rap. Can I fuck her mouth and asshole before Lou Gehrig disease sets in???
I tell her and her crew of needle exchange anarchists to buy my album Social Masque at Amoeba or Rasputin (or online if she handicaps and loses friends). But not Aquarius, cuz I was caught vaginally invading the owner's housemate with a Jon Moritsugu DVD.
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