SOSS GANG

SOSS GANG - SOSSWRLD MIXTAPE VOL 1

YO - Sup Sossiety, quick little intro here. This one is a bit of a love letter to the album our whole crew put together. What follows is a track by track run down of the album, probably best enjoyed while listening along or if you got that shit on lock in your mind.

Huge shout out to the homie samsraps for collabing with Dream Soss again to put this one together.

Ok, we put a lot of blood sweat and soss into this record, please enjoy the review....

"HMM, SOSSWRLD..."

The fetal thought is curtly interrupted by the sad trombone that lives in your stomach - hunger pains. Your neck unkinks. You've never seen this restaurant before but these places tend to be fireflies just blinking in and out of existence off the main drag. Looks like as good a place as any to pop in and grab some grub.

In lieu of a hostess, a stack of sticky menus and a handwritten sign sit atop the podium at the front of the room.

"SIT WHEREVER"

You thumb one off the top and make your way to the far corner. It doesn’t take long for a large man in a half-unbuttoned Ed Hardy shirt to appear tableside. His sloppily appointed nametag reads "Uggo".

"HERE'S A BOWL OF OUR COMPLIMENTARY FLAMING LIPS CHILI"

[FLAMING LIPS – PAULO - 0:58]

"CHOP, CHOP. HURRY. I GOT PLACES TO GO

I’M ON A STOPWATCH, OPPOSITE OF TAKIN’ IT SLOW"

You down the chili just as fast as it came out. Spoonful after spoonful of flavor-packed bites. Every ingredient tasted individually, then as one. While you wait for The Beach Bum to come take your entrée order, you notice the B- health rating plastered to the window- somehow this only makes you trust the establishment more.

[THE SIZZZLA - 0:00]

"WHAT THE FCK DID YOU PUT IN THAT SOSS?"

Commands and insults pour out in equal measure past the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. Before even getting a chance to peruse the menu, your surly server slams down a hot plate.

"ONE SIZZZLA HOT AND FRESH!"

"I DIDN'T ORDER TH...."

But he's already gone. Strange pulsating tentacles mixed with what looks like purple cabbage scream against the stone plate.

[THE SIZZZLA - SAMSRAPS 0:22]

"MY DOGS CAN SNIFF BITCH AND THEY TELL ME THEY SENSE YOU"

The conversation at the booth off to the side seems to erupt. The house band (Yes, there's a band, don't ask) is playing some LSD-infused surf rock at a menacing tempo. It only manages to distract you from your plate for a minute or so and then….

The whole place halts. No more voices from the kitchen. The band’s gone quiet. All the cooks, servers, back of house—everyone—start pouring out of the saloon doors and lining up beside your table.

"OH GREAT"  you think.

"I WONDER WHAT THIS PLACE’S RENDITION OF HAPPY BIRTHDAY IS"

[INFORMANT - ÜGGGY 0:26]

"EXTORT THE INFORMANT, GET FOREIGN BY MORNIN"

They’re not clapping happily. The band’s bassist has shifted from soupy string phrases into pure power. Each member of the ragged staff takes a turn rattling off expletives and violent couplets.

[INFORMANT - GRANT FORE 1:55]

"GOT THAT THAT HEAVY METAL TUCKED IN THE BACK, DON’T GET GOT"

Stunned, you feel no recourse but to finish your SIZZZLA silently, as the night marches on.

[DIE BY THE SOSS - 0:00]

A neon sign throbs at the speed of an elephant walk.

"DIE BY THE SOSS"

A ghoulish mariachi band hits the downbeat with bass from the Underworld and

t h e c h a n t c o m m e n c e s -

"WE LIVE BY THE SOSS, WE DIE WITH THE SOSS"

Staff march out plates in succession to the chosen table, a slightly elevated booth adorned with TEXAS tchotchkes. Must be one of those Hot Ones type challenges.

A bespectacled man grins in the awaiting booth, draped in purple robes + tinfoil hat, his brood rocking various colors to match. Smells like gas even from here.

[YETTI - 1:14]

"SOMETHING GOT YOU GONE LIKE YOU JUST HIT A BONG RIP"

Seated so near the kitchen you’re “privileged” to quite an eye full when the doors swing. Looks like one of the cooks fresh off their smoke break. Or the walk in or whatever.

[THE MARINADE 0:02]

You overhear an ineloquent man a booth or two over start to order his meal.

[ÜGGGY]

"I’LL TAKE A UH, FUCKINNNNN…"

But his sentence dies beneath a clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen. The chef, newly nicotined, shouts down the line.

[ÜGGGY - 0:12]

"WE STEADILY MIXIN THE MARINADE"

In turn, the line chefs respond with bits of Spanish you weren’t taught in high school

[GRANT FORE - 1:41]

"TREMENDO LÍO BATALLAR CON MI CORILLOLLAMA LA AMBULANCIA QUE ESTE CUERPO ESTA FRIO"

You try to piece it together with what little you know… all you get is "AMBULANCE" and "COLD BODY." Whatever it means, the outcome can’t be good.

[RUN AWAY]

It’s hard to gauge just how long you’ve been here - (nobody’s taken your order yet you HAVE had an appetizer) No sign of the waiter - you decide to throw in your ear buds and check out this new tape your homie sent you. Some sort of tripped out hip hop group. The name escapes you but you notice a couple MC’s name scrolling by:

“YETTI, SHOE? WHAT IS THIS, BIGFOOT?”

You look around. The tinfoil wizard from across the room seems to be goading you on with his gaze.

[RUNAWAY - SHOE 2:37]

“WHAT DO YOU VALUE ON EARTH TO MAKE YOUR LIFE WORTH WAKING UP EVERYDAY GOIN HARD”

And for a brief moment you’re lost in reflective pause. The tape sounds like your type of thing but before the track ends …

[HIGH WATER]

Your server (finally) comes over to properly take your order. You remove an ear bud and let the tape fall to the background. He drones on about today’s specials…trout mask soup, deep fried uncrustable soufflé with a blunt wrap reduction drizzle…

[GRANT FORE: 0:26]

“I CAN SEE MY DICK JUST FINE YOU MOTHERFUCK”

you stifle a laugh, but not before the smirk spreads from one dimple to the other

“YOU THINK THE SPECIALS ARE FUCKIN FUNNY GUY?”

you point to your right ear, but he’s already decided your order for you

“FINE. TROUT IT IS,”

he mutters as he walks away, scratching in his pad just as you put the left bud back, the tape warbles out into a bassy, rippling atmosphere....

[samsraps: 1:04]

“NO GOD, JUST ME GETTIN BLAZED AND SHIT… HELL OR HIGH WATER, KNOW IM HIGH AS HELL FOR THIS”

you fumble for the half-smoked jason in your breast pocket. slightly stoned may be the only way to choke down the trout mask soup

[CREATURES - NONE, THE WISER 0:50]

“BODIES IN A FORD EXPLORERI'VE BEEN HOARDING HORS D'OEUVREDOOR TO DOOR COLD CALLING CANNIBALS TO ORDER MOREIGNORE HORS D'OEUVRE AND SET A MAIN COURSE FOR MORE DESSERTS”

What looks to be one of the higher ranking chefs is barking possibly felonious orders down the line. You're still not entirely sure what -kind- of restaurant this is, like a chili's but like, more sinister (if that's even possible).

[YETTI - 1:12]

“IM SO SHOOK, NEVERMIND THAT JUST DONT LOOK - IM ABOUT 3 MINUTES 8 MILES 50 CENTS FROM BREAKIN OUT THE TECH NINE...”

You've done some time on the line yourself and while it is a high stress position you're not trying to end up on tomorrow's news if that abominable line cook decides to reach for whatever is tucked behind his apron. Although you still haven't managed to order yet....Fuck it, smoke break.

[HITTHESTREETS (SKIT)]

the poorly lit dining room gives way to a sunny spot just beyond the restaurant’s awning.as you cup your left hand around the roach and flick your bic, some Hagrid (haggard?) looking dude is filming man-on-the-street content with two guys.

You overhear their names are… Roachie Montana and Bodega Freshie??

Animated as they are, it’s tough to make out anything but a nasally southie accent and really incorrect N-Sync lyrics over the roar of street noise

[GRANT FORE: 1:07]

“LET THE BULLETS RAIN, CAUSE IT’S GONNA BE ME"

[FVCKFVCKFVCK]

The strange trio shuffle off almost as fast as the rain brings another duo in sheltering at the edge of the awning.inhalesour diesel, your favorite.

[YETTI - 0:15]

“PAID TAXES, PAID BILLS, STUPID DUMB BITCH WANT ME GO TO HELL”

The duo is mottled and dappled with spots of rain and other anonymous stains, they’re carrying flight cases – you know their type, some sort of traveling act, these guys don’t look like puppeteers, probably musicians or whatever passes for that these days.

One is wearing some type of stylized jersey button up, the number on the back says 5055. ok. he takes his spot in the dialogue

[samsraps - 2:03]

“IF YOU DON’T LOVE THE GAME, YOU AIN’T GOTTA PLAY, BUT IF YOU’RE GONNA TAKE THE STAGE YOU BETTER HAVE SOME SHIT TO FUCKIN SAY”

You ash the remaining roach and head back inside. you’re not sure what it is but you prefer your chances with the machine-gun-toting line cook over these two.

[THE GRIZZZLA]

you slide back into your booth. though you’re still yet to order, another plate is headed your way.

“here’s your GRIZZZLA”

the bus boy snickers

[UGGGY: 0:05]

“POPPED TWO TABS NOW MY SHADOW GOT SIDEKICKS”

you remove the half dome to reveal a polished platinum platter sat beneath a handheld mirror with a thin line of purple dust on it

[UGZ & samsraps: 0:10 & 0:22]

“MOVE WITH THE GANG LIKE WE WORKIN ON A NIGHT SHIFT // KEYED UP, GANG BAKED ON THE NIGHT SHIFT”

no bills on you, so you tear the wrapper off a paper straw and stick it in your sinus. one deep inhale turns your reflection liquid – light reflecting entropically until you’re both the stone and the rippling lake.

[NOTHING]

An unexpected calm washes over you, the whole establishment. things seem normal for a minute, finally, time to flip open the menu.

Appetizers: NOTHING

Entrees: NOTHING

Drinks: NOTHING !??!

Page after page of, nothing. is this a trick of the purple dust? a joke?

The menu begins to play a jingle like an out-of-touch birthday card.

[GRANT//UGGGY 0:25 - 0:55]

“I DON’T KNOW IF I WILL EVER MAKE IT INTO PARADISE, SO I’M SMOKIN ON MY INDO”

“BUT IT’S FUCK A COP A POLITICIAN AND A PREACHER, RETURN ‘EM TO THE DUST WITH SOSS BUMPIN OUT THE SPEAKER”

Lights flicker off, emergency house lamps kick on. Your earbuds spark out. Your cell phone melts into sand.

[SAMSRAPS // PAULO 1:40-2:10]“

ONE TUCKED IN THE HEADBAND OTHER IN THE LEFT EAR YES DEAR IT’S REALLY THAT SIMPLE. WHOLE TEAM IN TEA HOUSE SCHEMIN DOWN THE EASTBOUND BRANDISHIN THE BRAND ON THE PISTOL”“HOLY MOTHA FUCKIN MAMMA MIA, BARBECUE THE BEEHIVE, UPPERCUT YOU THREE TIMES”

Bass lines explode like locomotives off the rails, pyrotechnics blast out of every ketchup and mustard bottle. pots and pans from the kitchen blang and blao to form an orchestra cacophony.

[YETTI G//CLASS_SICK - 2:52-3:25]

“PRESSURE TURNS SOMETHIN TO A BRICK, FAMILIES FALL APART, DRUGS COME LIKE A LA CARTE, WHERE DID IT EVEN START?”

The man from the smoke session outside is banging on the glass door, forcing his voice through the cracks between and beneath. wait – isn’t he the cook with the machine gun?!?

“I’M DRUNK OFF MY REGRETS AGAIN, MY LYRICS DROWN IN EVIDENCE, I WROTE MY NAME IN CURSIVE ON THE CHECK BUT AIN’T NO HEAVEN SENT...”

From behind him, the interviewer charges. he wants in. his ham hand sheds glass shards as he breaches the front doors, pulling them open from outside. he slips inside before they lock behind him. he grabs your check (“for what??” you think, you didn’t (read: couldn’t) even order anything). he throws it behind him – it flutters and falls face-up next to the register. without missing a step he walks through the locked double doors, shattering them with his calm but firm tempo. After a beat, you follow, weaving easily through the Kool-Aid-Man-sized teeth of broken glass. as you wait to hail a pedicab, you scan the façade one last time. for the first time, the negative space of the neon sign blinks alive:

“SOSSWRLD: THE MIXTAPE”

A table for one awaits - Listen Here