The duo of ELUCID and billy woods, standing at the vanguard of the NYC underground rap scene, make claustrophobic rap songs that are at once hypercritical of society and empathetic towards its humanity. Their latest LP, Haram, a collaboration with mafioso rap maven the Alchemist, might be their most accessible yet, a beacon for the like-minded, a way for creatively gifted kooks to feel less alone. But while some rappers will go to great lengths to break down their rhymes and coded imagery into digestible bits for the mainstream listener, this is an educational exchange with which Armand Hammer seem wholly uninterested in engaging.
ELUCID and woods manage to wield irony without becoming poisoned by it; This is rap music decrying gentrification and capitalist oppression made by a group named after a billionaire industrialist with ties to the Soviet Union. They exude a general distrust of governments and the world at large through a cannabis-tinged cloud of paranoia, dropping periodic reminders from the past that these sentiments are not unreasonable. Armand Hammer make Brooklyn rap by way of Africa, pulling the wounds of postcolonialism out of the history books and onto the examination table.
Haram is an Arabic term—analogous to the Hebrew traif—that represents everything forbidden by Islam. The album’s packaging is covered in graphic depictions of its most common signifiers; butchered pig heads, marijuana cigarettes, a firearm, alcohol. The record itself is a jump-off for explorations of taboo, an examination of the dogma that tends to codify our lives. On “Chicharrones,” they skewer latent homophobia (“Got caught with the pork/But you gotta kill the cop in your thoughts still saying ‘pause.’”), on “Roaches Don’t Fly,” they implore us to rethink our sense of meaning (“Bounce per ounce, more, what counts?/Kill your landlord, no doubt, asymmetric unconventional extremist/make meaning”).
The Alchemist’s hypnotic loops give this record a more subdued texture than a typical Armand Hammer album. A master of mood, the producer paints an abstract noir with morose piano samples and plodding bass lines. On “Falling Out the Sky,” a sampled David Lynch ponders the semi-consciousness of daydreams, and Earl Sweatshirt sounds even more lethargic than usual—though his wit remains as sharp as ever. Haram is uncharacteristically jazzy, alternating between smoky downtown lounge vibes (“Robert Moses”) and disjointed trumpet croons and operatic vocal loops (“Peppertree”). For someone with such a distinct and recognizable style, Al seems to embrace the chaos that woods and ELUCID manifest; each song feels like a puzzle with all its pieces snipped and trimmed and reassembled.
Armand Hammer are breathtakingly prolific, with solo albums and various distinct collaborations in addition to the four records they’ve made together in the last four years. They write story raps, political screeds, even love songs. Yet the common thread is a sense that they constantly seek to challenge, not so much the listener, but themselves. Colored by the Alchemist’s palette, Haram offers another perspective of New York City’s hard heart, rooted in ruminations on power and how it’s wielded. These are the spiritual descendants of Def Jux, rappers that not only embrace the darkness, but wear it as a protective cloak.
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