The enigmatic Brooklyn rapper’s debut album is part airing of grievances, part origin story: a blood-stained portrait of the forces that made him.
Crowned Brooklyn’s “Best Rap Alien” by Noisey in 2019, Taphari has continued to nurture the detachment that drew him into the spotlight. In an interview earlier this year, the rapper shrugged off any affiliation—with Brownsville, Brooklyn, even New York City in general—that might force him into dialogue with the past or position him within a clear-cut lineage, pledging allegiance only to “the eternal present and the evolution of the self.” Taphari wears his alienation like a badge of honor, basking in a deep serenity that seems to defy human origin.
Blind Obedience winds back the clock on his otherworldly mystique. Part airing of grievances, part origin story, Taphari’s debut album is a blood-stained portrait of the forces that transformed him into the unbothered loner emerging from the void on the cover. The icy soundscapes of a five-producer team led by XL Big Alex complement the introspective mood as Taphari reveals a war of emotion raging beneath his cool exterior. Wading through illusions in search of an even higher self, he lashes out at friends, lovers, and himself with a blend of cautious vulnerability and venomous lucidity.
Album highlight “Table 42” comes closest to perfectly threading the needle between the two. Catching the rapper off balance, somber piano chords simultaneously trap Taphari in the darkest corner of his mind and spark admissions of his own fragility (“I wish my heart was as resilient as my expectations”) before he fires off one last text in horny desperation. Speaking from within a specific experience lends much-needed weight to his jaded reflections. The beginning of a romantically inclined trio of tracks that closes out Blind Obedience, “Back Soon” glides in on a swooning chorus courtesy of Bayonet Records labelmate Benét; a long-awaited reunion gleams on the horizon. When Taphari swoops in to deliver the ugly post-mortem (“I see your intentions/There was no connection/Attachment is forced”), his deep voice bouncing through the track’s rumbling bass before joining Benét in a trembling reprise of the melody, the contrast is devastating. His mastery of this newfound tenderness lapses on the next two tracks, meandering too far into platitudes to achieve the same clarity of emotion; Taphari best transcends his own alien enigma when he paints a clear target to aim at.
Thankfully, the undefined shadowy adversaries that crowd around him serve Taphari well in his comfort zone: the energized loner anthems found on Blind Obedience’s first half. “Cost You” shines with a sinister glee as his elongated sing-song cadence chops into the beat in the chorus. Dancing with fists balled behind his back, Taphari winks and turns away, letting the track’s menace dissolve in a hail of punchlines as he retreats into solitude with a giggle. And when the bubble of “Table 42”’s intimacy pops, he immediately springs back into razor-sharp cynicism on “Kathy Bates,” fleeing the scene with premonitions that “The water is rising/And the sharks on the way.” Even as he drops the curtain on his reclusive hustle, Taphari can’t resist throwing up a few new walls to guard his heart. For an artist who draws his greatest strength from disenchantment, knowing when to tear them down again is a battle all its own.
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