This makes me feel special, like Mr Rogers.
This makes me overcome my retrophobia for a few sweet minutes and makes me think that perhaps growing up wasn’t so bad, even with all the bullies and bigots crowding in.
This makes me think that perhaps I have always undervalued both jazz and funk exponents and that really there is nothing wrong with intricately layered sweetness
This makes me wish that I had known more grandparents than just one.
This makes me want to go racing through the streets like the ones always depicted in movies by the Coen Brothers – wide verges, no kerbsides and enough room to feel like, yeah I’ve made it bitch.
This makes me wish i smoked weed.
This is like male rap never existed.
This is beautiful melancholy, but sweeter.
This is what i imagine Christians must experience away from the mud and clumsiness of half-understood rituals, but I suspect they never do.
This is like The Simpsons on a Sunday afternoon, before series 11.
This is vintage Chicago – not that I usually associate the two worlds.
“This sounds like growing out my clothes, with stars in my pocket, dreaming about making my hood glow.”
Help me.
This is a colouring book.
This is Andre 3000, this is Missy Elliott, this is black identity, this is Noname.
This is the first album but I prefer the first album.
This is the second album and the second album is my jam, too.
This is soul magic. This is kosmik shit baby.
