200 words about Hus Kingpin
I had forgotten Hus Kingpin existed. The Long Island emcee exists in that liminal space between "having two pages on Discogs.com" and "not having a Wikipedia." I fucked with The Cognac Tape mightily in 2013, when Hus emerged as one of several new stars in the post-Roc Marciano constellation of New York boom-bap. The anxiety of the '90s had worn off, and a fleet of bleary-eyed poets swept crackling film-noir samples and rough-hewn shit-talk into a purposeful new wave. There's been so much of this stuff in the decade since, and I like it so much, that I tend to come to it slowly; I still don't have the Ka records figured out. And so Hus's release earlier this year of Portishus, a 20-track suite inspired by the seminal British trip-hop trio Portishead, has served triple duty for me: A long-overdue reframing of that band's work as hip-hop; an hour-long stretch of moody, hard-knock rap in its own right; and an in-road back to Hus's flinty, cinematic vision. Two weeks ago, he released the second EP in his Threesome series, which flips quiet storm production into lithe grown-man sex rap. Point being: Hip-hop is infinite. You're never done. Thank god.