fakemink is the anchorite of the UK rap underground. Like Florence Sinclair and John Glacier, the 19-year-old rapper draws from the same book as Dean Blunt, glamorizing the backwash of Britain and quilting tourist-shop tat into luxury couture. He isolates himself like Blunt too. His jerk-like music is fundamentally sun-shy yet rich with the fantasies of someone who spends a lot of time alone. Like the kid who doesnât speak in class all year and then reveals himself a genius during the oral midterm, fakemink approaches music with a cool insouciance.
âGivenchy,â which edges him closer to his 80th release of the year, is a mind-scramble of futuristic melancholia and lonely romance. Itâs one of the most tastefully experimental tracks the UK rap scene has produced this side of summer. Produced by regular collaborator cranes, the trackâs opening church bells sound harrowed and doomed, but then a sweet and stuttering chopped-up sample lightens the mood. Thereâs a coldness and rigor to fakeminkâs flow, as well as just a tease of romance. âGivenchy, kiss her like Givenchy,â he sighs. His matter-of-fact tone tinted blush pink, he whips and ping-pongs across the track, never letting you know where heâll land.
