Rot Hop. Death Grips, The Money Store.

The day I eventually dared to wade into overflowing inbox to extract and download Death Grips' Epic Records debut The Money Store (legally, of course) just so happened to be the very same day that my withering iTunes finally conked out. Coincidence? Perhaps not – this lumbering hunk of electronic had been puking up error messages for yonkers but such notion may add a certain impact to this here intro, whilst simultaneously elucidating the aural devastation located within this heap of impeccably heady hip hop. Now extradited to the outhouse that is the external harddrive like the discographic incarnation of rotten and bloodied-gummed psychotic Rottweiler it bloody well is, the time has come to inflict further trauma on ye olde MacBook and tackle the terrors of The Money Store.

Last year there was one LP that set every mouth to uncontrollably froth; every tongue to hyperbolically wag like furious docked tail; every world to giddily rock. It was martial masterpiece and although sharing few sonic nuances with The Money Store – if both may be entrenched in varying aspects of conflict – it'd appear that the experimental Sacramento avant-gardists are to emulate the universal laudation that Let England Shake was rightfully afforded consistently and continually throughout 2011. Reviews have been extravagant (if momentarily perhaps a little exaggerated), heralding the trio as torchbearers of blinding vitriol; the saviours of this, that, and the acerbic and although nigh on every opinion appears united, The Money Store is conversely the sort of caustic horror to spark, rather than slam any which warfare as PJ Harvey sought to do.

The primary strength of The Money Store is in its retention of the corrosive acidity which ensured their punk-rap prototype Exmilitary scorched itself into a more popular culture than anyone may have previously hazarded to conceive. The schizo reverbs and classic kick drum propulsions of Blackjack or the tribalistic unintelligence of Fuck That prove cases in point. However husky MC Stefan Burnett's deadly grunting and growling is here offset by undertones that may be more attuned to smooth glides across FM airwaves: beyond the snarl-lipped spits are humongous tunes; hits almost. Recent single The Fever (Aye Aye) for instance features quite dramatic rhythmic bludgeon that's alloyed with a strangely inviting industrialism and propelled by a devastating synth hook sharp enough to claw out four front teeth. It could arguably emulate the unforeseen successes of Azealia Banks' unabashedly explicit, full-frontal crossover thump 212 and if Banks already cashed in her most valuable asset then Death Grips are sitting on an account that's bulging with blockbusters: Hacker, for one, sounds like Drop It Like It's Hot were its inner workings infiltrated by Modeselektor, Burnett slurring of wanting "to break ina Apple Store". That the vox to its humongous chorus recall those of Datarock on ecstatic intoxicants only enhances its kooky charm, whilst the quick-witted garble of Get Got flitters manically between West Coast cruise and frenzied gurn that's perpetuated by skittering hi-hats and lubricated by a glimmering synth sheen.

In its latter stages The Money Store invests in the mixtape aesthetic that's oh-so-voguish contemporarily: siren-driven electro disco pummel redolent of MC Hammer is provided by I've Seen Footage; Lost Boys is cosmic menace to soundtrack space-age sitcom not yet envisaged; Punk Weight unites glitchcore with Auto-Tuned Bollywood infusions and Burnett's stereotypically savage vocal rampage. And if it may superficially seem like the sort of record a general public may love to hate, it'd seem that it's more love the hate. For it's already almost entirely assured of endless top spots come the inevitable year-end lists, yet if The Money Store could clamber to the pinnacle of the album chart, dictating indignation from lofty vantage point music and our concept of would surely be altered to irrevocable extent, and would be done so most probably for the better. The so-called torchbearers could then really kick up the fire to let the flames break loose...