The raygunn [sic] is out of vogue. Our preferred futurism doesn’t involve lethal laser pointers, but rather incinerating bombs and ecological apocalypse. The raygunn evokes nostalgia for a time that none of us ever knew. Flash Gordon rocked a raygunn, but no one reading this remembers cinematic serials, unless my grandmother finally figured out how to turn on her computer. It’s like a Colt .45 at TomorrowLand. A weapon with built-in cognitive dissonance. Milo brandishes it knowingly.
The non-botanical Rory, recently re-located to the “Good Land,” in search of a place to better work the hustle. You’re better off rapping insights into economic muscle in a place where the rent in converted beer factory lofts cost less than a life insurance payout. “Song About a Raygunn (Ode to Driver)” is one of the first singles from So the Flies Don’t Come, due out on Sept. 25 on his own Ruby Yacht imprint.
If you didn’t catch the overt reference in the title, it’s a tribute to Busdriver, who raps with the ferocity of an Allosaurus who declined to take his anxiety medication. Over the last two years, Milo has arrived at his own stylistic evolution, taking Project Blowed and cerebral whimsy into an era where those styles can get you your own Sub-Reddit. He went from guest lecturer to tenure track.
Effortlessly floating from aggressive double-time flurries to monotone crooning to melodic talking, Milo throws out koans disguised as non-sequiturs. He raps like there’s no sense to be made. He raps like the eldest sap of the everglades. He raps with the grace of an old man shining his grandson’s shoes. He raps like a master painter who only chooses to use the blues. It’s presumably a paean to the great Regan Farquhar, who will greet St. Peter with a great tangent at the pearly gates, but it’s also an ideal to strive towards.
It’s a tribute from young prodigy to the master, a tradition in philosophy since Plato first searched for a dark studio cave to rap in. Art for the sake of art despite what the corpse of a Marxist thinks. Raps about money or lack thereof, about finding the equilibrium between survival and self-respect. It’s anachronistic inasmuch as it refuses to bend to modern caprice. It’s a reminder that it never hurts to carry a clipboard to take notes on. What if your phone dies? You can’t write raps on a Raygunn.
