Earl SweatshirtRather than become a prima donna, fame has turned Mr. Sweatshirt into a photophobic recluse imprisoned in a thickly ganja-fogged basement.
A genuine solo effort, Earl has shrugged off the guest-spot rappers and producers that saturated Doris and found both his own voice and sound, the gloomy sludge-soaked production and at times near-comatose drawl obscuring many numerous instances of adept polyrhythmic construction. Despite the clear evidence of sticky green substances, Earl has forged his most focused work to date.
