Words by Sean Moeller, Illustration by Johnnie Cluney, Recording engineered by Ian Grimble and Richard Matthews of Communion Music at 2KHz, Crouch End, London
Behind much of Adian Coker's raps is something of a tortured soul. It's one that's not right, but it's still clawing away and knocking around enough to not have to worry about it surviving from one day to the next. It's a chin up sorta soul and it's going to outlive us all. It's one of those salty, do-whatever-it-takes kind of souls that's never going to show its discouragement. It's going to build a better army, a thicker armor and it's just going to keep right on plugging away until that all goes south.
Coker is a venomous wordsmith, capable of slaying people without any weapon to assist him. He could cut someone's neck with a word. He could stab them without a knife and he could sock them a heavy blow to the guts without a fist or a swing. He can cut another man down at the knees swiftly, casually. He's capable of real hurt, real pain, but he mostly keeps it to himself. He doesn't seem to have enough of it yet to just let it all go so he wades around in it, up to his nipples. He's got some pretty mad angst and still, he has his own ways of dealing with it. He can go tit for tat with anyone, claiming, "I just make my chest puff like the magic dragon." We're sure that's both some kind of a boast and a pot reference, happily all rolled up into one. It's economical that way.
He paints a picture of some place that you'd call nowheresville. It's a dreary and heartrending place where nothing good much happens, other than revenge and its merits are debatable. He does like company there, however. It makes the time go quicker. It doesn't make the time pass easier though. That never changes for him, in this place where he's "shittin' on these fellas like they live in my toilet." The fellas he's talking about don't matter much. They need not be identified by name. We just know that it's not good for them or the shitter, having all of this happen.