Thomas Johnson is the shogun’s decapitator.
Somewhere near the Silk Road, in the haziest corners of the web, Chester Watson inhales. The 18-year-old is making an attempt to come to terms with being the only nu-DOOM savant in Florida that’s not an asshole. He’s the ruler of the night and the wicked, a pharaoh of the future, and barely old enough to drink in Canada.
His latest batch, Summer Mirage, features five out of six cuts that are self-produced, and six out of six in which he challenges the limits of the English language. He references both his pairs of Huarache’s, his resin caked bong that hasn’t been used in months (I call bullshit), Medusa, Caesar and Socrates. It’s his most pensive work to date; the inner workings of an introverted Einstein laid bare next to a full grinder.
Sonically, Mirage doesn’t stray too far from Chester’s typical repertoire. The beat to “4 gig nasa,” produced by Psymun, prime.cut and Art Vandelay is the most palpable cut on the project. A Yeezus-esque breakdown appears mid-track, grotesque reverbed synth and all. The remainder follows much like his previous work: blunted, slow, vaguely less than tangible. If it ain’t broke, keep rapping over it.
There’s a moment where Chester briefly considers what a Caucasian life must be like, but backtracks at the thought of his deadlock-less scalp. He got famous because he has moves like Raymond Dennis. The only thing he sees in front of him is a black hole and a castle, so he might as well make his demands nicely. Summer Mirage is average Chester being an above average rapper. Typically hazy, atypically mesmerizing. It would be hard to convince him he’s not a god. At this rate, there’s really no point.
