“Even the most prominent of personalities are now rendered metaphysical … And that is what has happened; the artist is the icon. Beyonce’s last album was eponymous.
That Riff Raff, then, has prevailed, found himself lofted above the others blowing about in the sands with him, is not surprising; as an artist, few are so daring, so galvanizing, so blatant about treading the lines of ridiculousness and ferociously—admirably—artistic purity. He has created for himself, in videos, on Twitter, in singles and features and mixtapes, an ipseity unlike any other, saturating and, for the longest time, impermeable, like a thousand LEDs and neon tubes scattered by disco balls and broken champagne bottles and acrid mists, a display so dizzying and sensational as to leave its origins obscured, an octopus cloud DayGlo paint.”
“John was all by himself. He had his own small verdant bubble in the hill endowed—and this is a big thing in Chicago, a hill!, and in the Pool Table Metropolis, no less—bucolic expanses of Lincoln Park playing fields which spreads, as damselfly wings, from Montrose Avenue, a pretty little rolling jewel, an edenic cushion for the dusty, still golden-toothed skull of Uptown to rest on, his lime green shirt echoing the incandescent centipedes of lightning flashing between the city’s northern skyline, and he was kicking into the air … something, a fat little alien ball apart from the other implements rolling or sailing about.”