Son of Kick - Byrdkick

Byrdkick – no references to Street Fighter II’s Chun-Li miss an open goal – is a B-more wrapping of knuckles with Yo! Majesty!/Kid Sister-like running at the mouth from Diplo-collaborator Arabyrd. Pushy drum kicks, synth whooshes from Joe Budden’s Pump It Up and a b-girl show mixed with rave ascendency are all present and get along fine. Perhaps not the revelatory insight you want from someone who has remixed Justin Timberlake and Jay-Z, though it’s a encompassing of genres to be reckoned with (the Son must have read DT’s recent article on genre boundaries) and an imposing volley of sounds.
Son of Kick’s 4KL mix pumps up the synths far and wide to wreak greater rib-rattling devastation nearer to breaks but keeping ragga charge in hand, and in a game of joint-wrecking survival of the fittest, Austrian elite Stereotyp administers advanced destruction. Trying to outdo the previous re-rub with taunts of my programming is nastier than yours, it’s a clear winner despite still never previously being remembered for such ill behaviour. Stereotyp certainly gives Son of Kick a lesson in how to spin a guide to dancefloor injuries in five easy minutes, so if you gonna skank to this, don’t be shy in bringing your crash helmet.

On some future hip-hop steez that okays Son of Kick’s scope, US vet Illeagle Immigrant spits street-slumped truths over SoK’s final frontier forecast Hustle Muzik. In whooshing 8-bit Technicolor, both give the package some milder-mannered (in fact, spirit-sapped) perspective from the preceding shit that’s kicked off. Handed over to Nixon, a dubstep odyssey sets out an initially atmospherically entrancing stall, then has the crap scared out of it as huge chopper basses whir into action. It’s a consummately managed set of set-pieces, tuning into the moment the moon voyager thinks they’re all alone, before the penny drops and things turn very bleak very quickly.