They’re playful and detonate with enough force to make a difference, and he’s planted them like mines throughout his thirteen tracks. The lack of rhyme or reason is evident through the cherry bombs exploding in his head, one after another, each with a different effect. Just when you’ve soothed into a tinkling blend of the lightest neo-jazz, the thumping of drums bangs its way in, serving as Tyler’s proverbial cackle.Īt times it’s painstakingly maddening to grasp Tyler’s message and meaning, and that’s exactly what he wants. “Cherry Bomb” is tamely chaotic it’s the fly buzzing by your ear, not harming anyone, but so irresistibly noticeable. He’ll never lose his unwavering edge, but the method of delivery will change and has changed. Personally and musically, his maturation process has been incredulous his self exploration has evened his life and his tracks. He’s considered the effects of his lyrics, but never cared about them.
Tyler Gregory Okonma screamed his way into the light. “Wolf “ followed as the most mature and complete work of the most mature for and complete Tyler anyone has seen. Remember his declarative identity of Satan’s son over the chilling piano keys of ‘Bastard’? Tyler’s deep scoff of an intro on Goblin even one-upped that: “The devil doesn’t wear prada, I’m clearly in a f***ing white tee.” He’s always been cognizant, just rarely active. The deathly shock value is out of stock and the flowers are in store, blooming below Tyler, who flies above them.Ĭall it an awakening of a catatonic state, not a slumber. The guttural, primal bellow detailing life’s lack of meaning has been exchanged for an awkward, yearning warble.
TC is out of a job and Camp Flog Gnaw is out of session.
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