Black Milk

  • Black Milk

This week Black Milk released his new album, No Poison, No Paradise, and since it came out I haven’t taken “Black Sabbath” out of rotation. The song is Black Milk at his darkest—drenching drum claps in reverb, letting low- and high-end synths wander in and out of minor keys. Flint native Tone Trezure haunts the song with his crooning guest vocals, lamenting in harmony with himself, “Stop, you can’t find your way in the dark.” Black Milk enters after almost two minutes to reflect on the nostalgia he’s dished all album. In the slums where slugs fly past your rib, it’s either white picket fences or fences with barbed wire. A year after moving to Dallas, the man otherwise known as Curtis Cross is still trying to figure out which option he ended up with. As the album goes on, Black Milk leans less and less on samples. The further removed he is from his memories, the less able he is to get them off his mind. Catharsis is just a rumor, but Black Milk will keep retelling his stories anyway. It’s the only thing he can do with them.

Black Milk performs tomorrow night at Subterranean. Quelle Chris opens.