How are we supposed to make money off this motherfucking production if Evan Nabavian keep his face covered?
Are the Balmain jeans just a gaudy wrapper for a firearm? Mach-Hommy gets Hawks floor seats hoping an astute pair of eyes recognizes him from Pathmark in 1998. Good luck following the breadcrumbs otherwise. His details are sparse, possibly apocryphal. We can only just see his eyes under the Rutgers bucket hat. A Ralph Lauren 1992 Stadium jacket obscures his frame. A bandanna with the Haitian coat of arms hides his face. Is he Salieri taunting Mozart? Is he Vincent from Champagne Video goading Elaine? All we’re meant to see is his Olympian girlfriend when she shows up in the patent leather skirt. His references come out in non-sequitur jumbles, heedless to our understanding, though he takes care to impart his excellent taste. Also, his weapons. Alchemist’s understated ambiance suits the clipped, adroit bars.
Mach-Hommy knows threats carry so much more venom when they reach us from the pedestal of floor seats. He buries his thesis in the second verse: “Ain’t no highfalutin, we the jewelers with the Rugers spandex.”
