As far as busdrivers go, Busdriver is more Otto than Skinner, the L.A. MC
taking you to school with manic-mouth'd rhymes and free-associative
freakdom, hitting the hip-hop road at a dangerous double-time, cutting
in and out of lyrical lanes with little regard for passenger safety.
How's his driving? Dangerous! So get envious; Go turn Green as he
refuses to Stop, running through Red as the needle bumps into it, pedal
put to metal and clock thrown out the window. Busdriver wants to see
time fly and to fly through time; "Map Your Psyche" finds Bus bursting
out the blocks, the clock only ticking 11 times on its way to the ground
as he tears up the tarmac with this double-(double(?)-)time
double-clutch diarrhea — something like: "I did a record for you/ A
shorter course/ It was a tour de force/ I can't afford a horse/ Put in the
Source awards/ B'cause I'm tour support/ To all sorts of worse things/ With
a smorgasbord/ With a horde of whores/ Sort some more/ I'll leave a horde
of corpses/ Don't open the doors/ When I record the chorus" — in just 11
seconds, his lawnmower mouth sounding more like a pneumatic drill as he
drills the phonetic rhythm in a jittery pitter-patter. And, whilst
saying such may run against warnings the world over, I'm gonna invert
that advert, and exhort: Kids, Try This (Verse) At Home! Good luck
matching the Bus on the clock, and better luck having the throat to
match Driver's delightful delivery; his guffawing voice makes him sound
like every rhyme he delivers is a punchline, a thought that sometimes
— as on the stoopid-silly freestyle of the intro "Yawning Zeitgeist"
("Oprah nods my novel/ As you can see/ It sells very prominently/ In
Boulder, Colorado") — isn't entirely off the mark. Marking off much
more than the less-than-a-handful grab he groped on his previous Cosmic
Cleavage disc (which, in almost emo-hip-hop-esque style, was filled with
far too many fuck-yous to ex-love-interests), Fear of a Black Tangent is
a full cup, one that runneth over as he runs all over the road, running
late for the morning bell, his defying of time, and his time-flying, not
making things run on it. But, even arriving belated, Busdriver still
careens into the required stops, stopping for the beatmaking made by the
likely likes of Daedelus, Danger Mouse, and Prefuse 73 (the latter now a
brand new Angeleno), letting lyrical ideas get on and off and rarely
bothering to check their tickets. This is a free ride where wide-eyed
wild-eyed wildness rides wild and free.
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