Mach-Hommy isn’t simply trying to management his narrative; he retains it below lock and key. Little or no concerning the Haitian-American rapper’s life is public information, and no matter specifics he presents in songs and interviews normally produce extra questions than solutions. Nonetheless, there’s a meticulousness to his antics. He sells his personal albums for $444; he makes use of lyrics concerning the significance of a Gore-Tex jacket to convey specific eras of time; he presents piecemeal particulars about his previous in journal cowl tales. His grip has loosened barely since he’s performed extra press and launched a great chunk of his discography on streaming platforms, however he nonetheless relishes the space afforded to him by his masks and microphone. “We doin’ donuts with somebody A6/Don’t none of this shit belong in Page Six,” he says with cheeky disdain on “Bad Hands,” the second observe from his newest album, Infamous Dump Legends: Quantity 2. It doesn’t have the gloss or pomp of 2021’s Pray for Haiti or Balens Cho (Sizzling Candles), however Mach’s mystique and lyrical talent hold the music unpredictable.
Just like the 2018 launch that kicked off the Infamous Dump Legends sequence, the second quantity is a team-up with Atlanta rapper-producer and frequent collaborator Tha God Fahim, who seems on all however one tune. On a technical stage, their varieties complement one another effectively. Mach is a Swiss Military knife, able to switching flows and languages on the fly whereas busting out lyrics each tuneful and blunt (“Two L’s make a dub in this cold milk” on “Cold Milk” or “Heard none of you niggas’ weed plates” on “Pissy Hästens”). Fahim is the grounding voice who arrives with straight punchlines and life recommendation, adhering strictly to the beat. On “Pissy Hästens,” an agitated Mach’s voice slowly turns right into a growl, embodying the frustration he experiences when folks mispronounce his identify. By way of all of it, Fahim’s workmanlike rhymes anchor the Jersey rapper’s erratic ideas. Sometimes, Fahim matches Mach’s power and the 2 enter a sparring contest; “Olajuwan” and “Everybody (Source Codes)” include two of Fahim’s most energetic verses ever, his voice briefly rising above his normal nasal monotone. Once they rap collectively, Mach and Fahim adapt to one another’s altering tides like a consistently morphing yin-yang.
Regardless of the reciprocity, that is in the end Mach’s present. He has the extra thrilling vocal turns, the extra slippery flows, and his bars have the very best stakes. You’ll be able to hear it in his croons concerning the “Sour Patch Kids writing pieces on me daily;” in his tales of seeing enemies calm down on the identical seashore as him; or in the best way he transitions from English to Patois and Kreyòl mid-song, as if he’s swiping between apps on a cellphone. It’s laborious to not get caught up within the mythmaking on the finish of “Olajuwan,” as Mach clears his throat in grand vogue: “His last shit became public domain as soon as he spit it/He a wizard, his name is Mach-Hommy, he the illest.” For all his cultured poeticism, Mach loves a great flex as a lot as any rapper. Quantity 2 doesn’t stray removed from that sensibility, one other excuse for him to replicate on his life and luck—and for him and Fahim to burrow deeper into their very own legends.