The old order of Underground Rap went rudderless for a variety of reasons. Illegal downloading ruptured the already weak tendons of small independent labels. Fans favored 1990s nostalgia over out-there artistry. Top producers got tired of dealing with rap-biz bullshit and opted for MC-free experimentations with jazz, soul, and electronic. But my favorite theory is that most people got tired of rappers rapping about rapping.
Due to its nature as a reactionary sect, for the underground to evolve, it had to do something more than stand athwart history and yell, "chill!!" (In this re-enactment, William F. Buckley is played by KRS-One). And there is no more elliptical act this side of a Steve Reich riff than writing lyrics about your lyrics. Yeah, it might have been a building block in the on-and-on-to-the-break-of-dawn days, but as George Harrison and Fatlip pointed out: All things pass. Swag will be ill before we know it.
Over the last 24 months, an ideology-free counter-culture rebuilt itself, waving different banners and maintaining few borders. It's an underground in lowercase letters, a constellation encircling everyone from Detroit amphetamine enthusiast Danny Brown to sardonic arsonists Das Racist and Open Mike Eagle, to anesthetized Oakland cloud rappers, to the Prosciutto-plumped adenoidal New Yorker Action Bronson, and the cold-hearted Hempstead Rambo, Roc Marciano. It includes older gods like Ishmael Butler (Shabazz Palaces/Digable Planets), Aesop Rock, Brooklyn Bomb Squad scion El-P, and the Dungeon Family's Killer Mike. So fluid are its boundaries that the latter two did a record together funded by Adult Swim money.
Enter Sandman. So anachronistic as to appropriate the slang, "Homeboy." Born name: Angel Del Villar. An ex-teacher, Ivy League undergraduate, and Hofstra Law student psychologically aligned to the older underground of 1995, when the term meant Beatnuts and Do You Want More?!!!??!, not Jurassic 5 and flip-flops. Sandman is the type of rapper beloved by hip-hop traditionalists: proudly old school, technically savage, and lyrically sharp. In the all-star game of the new subterranean, he is the guy with flawless fundamentals, wearing his socks high and his cleats sharp and polished. So it was little surprise when the surviving infrastructure of the 1990s immediately supported Sandman: underground hip hop radio, the Nuyorican Poets Café, the XXL Chairman's Choice column, and rap's Daily Worker, Okayplayer. The straw poll was sealed when Sandman signed with Stones Throw, one of the last garrisons of the late 90s, an imprint blessed with the resources to shower him with proper promo, branding, and an array of dazzling sun- and smoke-carved beats.
East meets west on Subject: Matter, Sandman's debut EP for the label of Madlib and Dâm-Funk. To accompany the introduction, Sandman added a subtext to his six-song collection, noting on its cover that they encompass content that "no one has ever rapped about before in the history of rap music. Unfortunately not a very difficult thing to do." Sandman is as Queens as the Unisphere, and his braggadocio bears a boldness that suggests that he grew up in the Bridge not Elmhurst. It's probably unnecessary arrogant, but it also reflects a welcome sign of ambition. Few deducted points from Lil Wayne for boasting that he was the greatest rapper alive (even if 49 percent of the electorate disagreed). Nor should they blame Sandman much for his myopic history.
After all, the man can rhyme. A former saxman, Sandman takes a modal approach with his screwball flow that dips and dives, stops and starts. He bevels his patterns at bizarre angles, employing a vocabulary worthy of Lisa Simpson. He's unapologetic about his intelligence, and even if it skirts the line of pretension, he keeps a progressive approach. Not only does he carefully weigh the importance of "being nice," he's focused on vivid storytelling too. Subject: Matter is both a self-challenge and the hurling of a gauntlet. Sandman wants to see his peers expand their imagination. And while the modern-day rap world has no scarcity of songs channeling topics of the zeitgeist (the entirety of XXX, 1/3 of Watch the Throne, whatever you make of Lil B), his originality is warmly welcomed, if not demanded.
So though "The Miracle" parallels the storylines of Pharoahe Monch's "Rape" and Mos Def's "Love", it offers a penetrating analysis of the act of creation from Sandman's side. "Unforgettable" tells the tale of the woe brought onto a man too sprung on his ex. It mirrors a less-graphic version of Ghostface Killah's "Marvel", but Sandman spins his own saga of picking up mediocre girls at Best Buy and sexing them while reminiscing on his last conquest. "Canned Goods" is about canned goods. Closing track "Soap" pictures a biblical deluge washing away the inequities of the world.
The psychedelic, elegiac beats are handled by 2 Hungry Bros, Ben Grymm, the Audible Doctor, rThentic RTNC, and the latest Stones Throw rated rookie, Jonwayne. Despite the diffuse cast, the EP feels exceptionally cohesive; it's also a throwback to the days when A&R departments actually existed. A half-decade ago, a record like this would've been needlessly over-hyped, with true-schoolers rushing to anoint Sandman the bulwark against an ineradicable tide of commercialism and greed. Now that the "Hip Hop is Dead" era's over, Sandman merely needs to be good. And he is.
With a healthy number of his peers engaged in shoving rap onto strange terrain, Sandman is another vivid character adding to the expansion. Subject: Matter might be Sandman's best work yet, but more importantly, it's a salient reminder that a song's only perimeter is the limits of human imagination.
