How NOT to write about music – 95. Little Simz

little simz

There’s a storm a-comin’. Can you taste it in the air? All the warning signs are there, have been here for months – years now. You can’t step out in the street without noticing the weeds still growing in the gutter, the graffiti dripping from the back walls. Nights are spent restless, sleepless, aching for the moment day starts and life can start again. Days are spent restless, aimless, wandering around in a daze at the abundance of ill-will and mendacity, taken for granted. Say something straight, you’ll be derided, mocked. Scorned. Push your way in, hold onto your precious inch of turf. Pull your kin in around you if you want, group solidarity. You’ll be turned against each other fast enough, group on group, faction on faction, culture on culture. Far easier not to understand. Far easier to whine. Look at that chunky clown speak! So bumbling, so lovable, so cuddly, so harmless.



Rage. Where’s the rage? Hard to rage in the midst of this heat. Far easier to seek escape, let someone else do the worrying. Rage. Life’s fucked but it’s all we’ve got. You feel entitled? You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t.


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