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You can find Douglas Martin smoking on Broadway like he won a Tony.
If you’ve never heard of AJ Suede, it’s most certainly not for a lack of new shit. The Seattle transplant toils away at his craft at a staggering rate, having released a dozen projects in the past two years. His wave is pitch black like a haunted rain cloud or the depths of his closet, writing impressionistic bars about witchcraft, cults, depression, tattoo ink, broken rubber bands, blunt smoke, women with pentagram tattoos and black dresses, stoner cartoons, and the various streets of his adopted home. He’s only one left turn from being a rap purist musically, but the things on his mind bleeding onto the pages and pages of work he’s delivered suggests the multitude of far-reaching things on his mind.
The two-minute “Tinted” is indicative of Suede’s thoughts never stopping for gas as they race over the wailing and cooing sample and drums leisurely hopping in 6/8 time. Its title indicates you never know what he’s going to pull up in. He insists the gossip will end up growing longer than his hair, he’s not an advocate for new friends. He ascends to heaven while holding the universe in his palm and an eighth of magic mushrooms (“a little mind expander”) in his pocket. He observes the cutout smiles lighting up like jack-o-lanterns. He racks up accomplishments while working toward having three commas associated with his net worth. People ask him why he never looks happy. He obviously runs Top Boy in the background while he writes rhymes. With how quickly he dashes off tracks, man too busy to be concerned with what mandem up to, innit?