Dusty-Ass Motherfuckers. Odd Future, The OF Tape Vol. 2.

In the words of OFWGKTA fringe player L-Boy: "Once upon a time there was this group of dusty-ass motherfuckers, create lidl group for theyselves. They call theyselves Odd Future." When not perfecting kickflips atop Californian concrete they'd flip out verbally on erratic mixtapes which went on to receive ecstatic acclaim far beyond their native State. Linguistically filthy and impulsively derogatory, interest soon evanesced leaving the future of this multimedia-molesting collective indeed odd and altogether uncertain.

Such flagrant misogyny, bigotry and vitriol may be, from a rational human perspective, preordained to dwindle yet Lionel Boyce's aforesaid intro perhaps insinuates quite the opposite. For whilst Odd Future previously thrived on an unflappable resentment toward anyone and anything outside of their tribalistic clan, Boyce's acrimonious harangue suggests an internal disgruntlement arguably extracted from its components' varying degrees of external success. His most splenetic outbursts – which feel of an imprudent yet wholly impulsive nature – are reserved for the true brat of the pack Tyler, The Creator, he of a voice mellower than medicinal cough gunk Frank Ocean and Syd tha Kid, one half of The Internet alongside fellow Golf Wanger Matt Martians. Irrefutably the outfit's most prosperous members, he continues to assert his detestation for "all these niggas" yet the polemic directed at Syd sees the group's quintessential obsession with, and predilection for homophobia extended to lesbianism. You sense that, as the sole female amidst a throng of teens of insatiable copulatory thirst, she's more than capable of holding her own although amidst the endless explicits this instance is immediately embossed as an unnecessary and highly iniquitous quip that simultaneously feels both personal and dehumanising. That said and with Boyce now stigmatised, let's face the music and drool, shall we?

As ever it's the perfectly tangible yet slippery production, largely devoid of sample, that comes courtesy of the already-lambasted Syd tha Kyd that interweaves any meaningful sense of coherency into the anarchic inconsistencies of Vol. 2. For while the rabid yapping hauled to the forefront of the mix may engage attentions and flex vexations, Syd's continued involvement eases in and out with proficient rigour and, quite fittingly, The Internet track Ya Know provides a bulked-up highlight that's smoother than Joe's polished and depilated brainpan. It's the most consummate Odd Future cut since Mike G's Everything That's Yours that feels like a tripartite movement which begins with a burst of mushy electronics evocative of Battles before slipping into a sultry state of R'n'B humidity, eventually showering in what sounds like a particularly fresh reconfiguration of Little Dragon's Brush The Heat. Feasible as 'tha Kyd previously twiddled with Seconds... Mike G's clunky Forest Green contribution recalls Fiddy thus dispirits as he'd engendered such enthusiasm last time out whilst Hodgy Beats and Domo Genesis combine to seethe methodical menace and spew compulsive utterances of that derogatory timeworn term for malicious constituents of the female gender as if plagued by a monosyllabic strand of Tourette's on the prosaic Lean and the sci-fi clanging of Bitches.

And what of Tyler? Well whether it be due to the release of yet more testosterone into that brutally abused bod of his or an unfathomable fulfilment of the wild desires previously intimated, his vocals now lie deeper than Redtube throat. It's as if those persistently referenced cojones finally dropped to the presumed esteem of anyone to have been on the end of the unleashing of one of his more uninhibited lyrical hocks. His first intervention comes on the disquieting and genuinely disgusting NY (Ned Flander), a track perpetuated by talk of tugging and "sucky sucky" that ends amidst distressed Spanish commotion and some repugnant minx snarling: "I sucked five of your friends' fucking dicks! You didn't know that, but you fucked my shit up." It's as if Tyler's finally picked on someone with the proverbial genitalia to bark back and henceforth he recedes into silence. We reconvene with his stoned, stony growl four tracks later where the ringleader of these insistent tormentors is languidly dispelling the common (mis)conception that he's some "psychomaniac" over a woozy estival groove. Here however he's all but entirely eclipsed by Syd's perpetually impeccable production and Ocean's sterile croon: like the Craig David/ Marvin Gaye of 2k12, his soulful stylings immediately seduce, prompting the listener to posture à la Will Smith on that Big Willie Style shot for Frank is the beam of pure irradiance within the grim abhorrence (see MellowHype's revolting 50 for the epitome of). He comes to embody the purity amidst the putrid squalor; the light amidst the overriding grimness that enshrouds the Tape thus it seems wholly suitable for his most imposing participation to be entitled White. Lavish orchestrations reminiscent of those to have powered Monáe's The ArchAndroid proceed a practically a capella ballad infused with the concept of chattering trees that is planted throughout and although its brilliance is starkly accentuated by the unremitting brashness that surrounds it, White certainly bodes well for the Def Jam debut expected later on in the year.

The record's packaging meanwhile centres on the reappearance of Thebe 'Earl' Kgositsile, the 'Free Sweatshirt' brand emblazoned across its innards and despite having recently turned eighteen (thus now free to publish his vocals without parental consent following his return from juvie/ jail/ Samoa's Coral Reef programme, a "treatment programme for at-risk teenage boys"), Ocean's vocals are the real secret weapon to sink hearts in honeyed sweetness. Tyler has his moments too, warding off obsessives atop the alarming sirens of P ("If another fan asks for a fuckin' photo while I'm snackin' on my pizza Lunchale, I'mma fuckin' snap") although on a tape as disparate as ever from these shit-mouthed Californian scamps, the distance between them is growing exponentially as Syd and Frank gleam like newly inaugurated Hollywood stars.