#muography

The Queens artist born Chaz Hall is a hip-hop veteran who at this point is probably best known as half of the attention-grabbing, truth-thumping duo Armand Hammer alongside Billy Woods. That group is a study of marked contrasts and otherworldly balance borne of the streets: In one corner, Woods simmering until he can’t help but burn fire and brimstone running roughshod over rhythms and eating up bars with an unhinged urgency as though it were his last meal; in the other, Elucid approaching his rhymes like Rafa Nadal, patiently, relentlessly chipping away with ethereal anger every bit Woods’ equal but drawn in less direct forms, webs spun so far out you’re only sure of what he’s spoken on once he’s passed through you. There’s a reason they resonate, a reason they’ve gotten so well known in less visible hip-hop circles in recent years.

But it’s no different when you go splitting atoms: Like Woods, Elucid is a persistent purveyor of the spoken word in ways that sometimes elude immediate understanding. The dude is battle-hardened and road-tested to the tune of five Armand Hammer LPs; three further collaborations as part of Cult Favorite, Nostrum Grocers and Small Bills; and now, with Revelator, three solo albums. Though all of his records are personal even when they don’t feel that way, Revelator doesn’t come from the same place as I Told Bessie, the paean to his grandmother; rather, it feels like he’s redirecting his focus to the world as he observes it.

Predictably, it ain’t pretty. “Metropolis / Inverse overlord skyscape / Fang bite, dog breath / Short leash, pit fight / From this height, at this speed / Downhill, careening” are the first words you hear to open both “The World Is Dog” and the album. Amid a swirling, industrial-strength beat, Elucid goes in on the basic viciousness of being alive. The familiar theme of survival in an uncaring system is what he — and we, by extension — are up against: Showing you where localized perceived violence didn’t come with receipts, parades of bandages, terroristic threats over crack sales … “Even rebels gotta pause / when blood spill so casually,” he offers early on “CCTV.”

But as he counters himself on “Yottabyte,” the struggle goes on. “You just gotta hold on / all that’s doing / Not an invitation to control / Can’t nobody tell me how my blood taste / My third place / complicating noun combinations over drum breaks.” Just as readily as he scythes through verses ducking and diving and weaving among the perils of living in America in 2024, so too does he point out this isn’t over, that the fight to maintain one’s dignity and morals is a daily occurrence worth the war — you go down, but you go down swinging. Some stretches are more dense, more abstract than others, but no matter the track, no matter the verbal recombinations, you feel those muons leaving a clear picture come its conclusion. The impression is always strong.

Revelator’s production aids and abets his approach. Behind the boards, there’s Michigan producer and Small Bits collaborator The Lasso, August Fanon and Child Actor; in the studio, it’s drummer John Nellen and Irreversible Entanglements bassist Luke Stewart. The result is a swirling, dissonant soundscape following in a proud lineage of New York indie rap albums that extends from JPEGMafia back to Dälek, Def Jux and Public Enemy, ultimately — a maximalist counterweight to Ka’s quiet penmanship. And not to lean too heavily on Armand Hammer references, but it also bears mentioning that “Instant Transfer” was on the group’s BLK LBL album out in March and has now been refashioned as an Elucid song featuring Woods. Pedantry aside, it slots right into one of the most abrasive (but not in a SoundCloud way), masterfully produced albums of any genre this year.

It’s also not for everybody. Even at 15 tracks, which feels slight in a year where Cowboy Carter, Cindy Lee, Mount Eerie and others have garnered so much acclaim, Revelator is an exhausting listen in the best sense of the term. Skip at your own risk: Far from hip-hop homework, Elucid’s Revelator is a port of call in this storm, a howling document from the edge, muons in which we are all tomographers.