Dino

4y

Goated answer to 5am

WESLEYS THEORY

4y

There will never be a song in VZ that beats Tuscan Leather

Unless it’s MJ

e t

4y

Damn how do you pick here

Theory Talk Trader

4y

tuscan for 40 on page 40 just right

Theory Talk Trader

4y

tuscan for 40 on page 40 just right

WESLEYS THEORY

4y

There will never be a song in VZ that beats Tuscan Leather

Unless it’s MJ

Vietbrah

4y

Drake and 40 swivel at the same time and start tapping the keys of their laptops, cuing up the first track off of Nothing Was the Same, a song called "Tuscan Leather"—a title, Drake tells me, named for a Tom Ford fragrance that some say smells like a brick of cocaine.

The truth is I have no idea what to expect. The paradox of Drake is that he's so multiple, he might write a love song sung by an Idol contestant ("Find Your Love") or something so raunchy you can't play it for kids ("Practice"). He could be rhyming about the kingdom of his material world, and then crooning about his spiritual state. He's a mama's boy who'll cut you up, though his tough-guy posturing seems occasionally halfhearted because, after all, he seems so kind of...decent.

Now comes the music, in a sudden blast, like green light through fog, the first notes strange and dissonant, in a lurching 3/4 beat. The intro hurtles and whiplashes, and a woman's voice, as if on helium, floats through the chaos, in the highest register, sorta funny and ghostly and beautiful. (It turns out to be a Whitney Houston sample.) The sound is an evocation of something that feels nostalgic and new, exuberant and menacing, at once. Which is when Drake's voice breaks through, rapping, pumped up, spitting nails. Both inside and outside the song itself, he keeps repeating, How much time's this nigga spending on the intro? How much time's this nigga spending on the intro? It feels like bedlam.

All the while, the real Drake sits with his eyes closed across the room, moving his lips, rapping to himself rapping. There's a verse, and then an as-yet-empty spot for a guest rap, and then Drake comes back under Whitney's helium voice. This time the words shift, as does the beat, becoming more sinuous and personal. Rising underneath the music, too, is a gentler keyboard riff, and by the time the third verse ends, the song rivers into a soft, ambient landscape that includes crowd noise and then, eventually, a voice—Curtis Mayfield's, at the end of a 1987 concert in Montreux—saying, "Having the same fears, shedding similar tears, and of course dying in so many years, it don't mean that we can't have a good life."

Then it outros on that beautiful repeating keyboard riff, and the Drake in the room, eyes still closed, scrunches his face, feeling every note. When it's over, he awakes from the spell. 40 remains hunched at the computer for a moment, letting the music settle into the silence. And then they both swivel in my direction again.

Vietbrah

4y

Drake and 40 swivel at the same time and start tapping the keys of their laptops, cuing up the first track off of Nothing Was the Same, a song called "Tuscan Leather"—a title, Drake tells me, named for a Tom Ford fragrance that some say smells like a brick of cocaine.

The truth is I have no idea what to expect. The paradox of Drake is that he's so multiple, he might write a love song sung by an Idol contestant ("Find Your Love") or something so raunchy you can't play it for kids ("Practice"). He could be rhyming about the kingdom of his material world, and then crooning about his spiritual state. He's a mama's boy who'll cut you up, though his tough-guy posturing seems occasionally halfhearted because, after all, he seems so kind of...decent.

Now comes the music, in a sudden blast, like green light through fog, the first notes strange and dissonant, in a lurching 3/4 beat. The intro hurtles and whiplashes, and a woman's voice, as if on helium, floats through the chaos, in the highest register, sorta funny and ghostly and beautiful. (It turns out to be a Whitney Houston sample.) The sound is an evocation of something that feels nostalgic and new, exuberant and menacing, at once. Which is when Drake's voice breaks through, rapping, pumped up, spitting nails. Both inside and outside the song itself, he keeps repeating, How much time's this nigga spending on the intro? How much time's this nigga spending on the intro? It feels like bedlam.

All the while, the real Drake sits with his eyes closed across the room, moving his lips, rapping to himself rapping. There's a verse, and then an as-yet-empty spot for a guest rap, and then Drake comes back under Whitney's helium voice. This time the words shift, as does the beat, becoming more sinuous and personal. Rising underneath the music, too, is a gentler keyboard riff, and by the time the third verse ends, the song rivers into a soft, ambient landscape that includes crowd noise and then, eventually, a voice—Curtis Mayfield's, at the end of a 1987 concert in Montreux—saying, "Having the same fears, shedding similar tears, and of course dying in so many years, it don't mean that we can't have a good life."

Then it outros on that beautiful repeating keyboard riff, and the Drake in the room, eyes still closed, scrunches his face, feeling every note. When it's over, he awakes from the spell. 40 remains hunched at the computer for a moment, letting the music settle into the silence. And then they both swivel in my direction again.

Vietbrah

4y

Drake and 40 swivel at the same time and start tapping the keys of their laptops, cuing up the first track off of Nothing Was the Same, a song called "Tuscan Leather"—a title, Drake tells me, named for a Tom Ford fragrance that some say smells like a brick of cocaine.

The truth is I have no idea what to expect. The paradox of Drake is that he's so multiple, he might write a love song sung by an Idol contestant ("Find Your Love") or something so raunchy you can't play it for kids ("Practice"). He could be rhyming about the kingdom of his material world, and then crooning about his spiritual state. He's a mama's boy who'll cut you up, though his tough-guy posturing seems occasionally halfhearted because, after all, he seems so kind of...decent.

Now comes the music, in a sudden blast, like green light through fog, the first notes strange and dissonant, in a lurching 3/4 beat. The intro hurtles and whiplashes, and a woman's voice, as if on helium, floats through the chaos, in the highest register, sorta funny and ghostly and beautiful. (It turns out to be a Whitney Houston sample.) The sound is an evocation of something that feels nostalgic and new, exuberant and menacing, at once. Which is when Drake's voice breaks through, rapping, pumped up, spitting nails. Both inside and outside the song itself, he keeps repeating, How much time's this nigga spending on the intro? How much time's this nigga spending on the intro? It feels like bedlam.

All the while, the real Drake sits with his eyes closed across the room, moving his lips, rapping to himself rapping. There's a verse, and then an as-yet-empty spot for a guest rap, and then Drake comes back under Whitney's helium voice. This time the words shift, as does the beat, becoming more sinuous and personal. Rising underneath the music, too, is a gentler keyboard riff, and by the time the third verse ends, the song rivers into a soft, ambient landscape that includes crowd noise and then, eventually, a voice—Curtis Mayfield's, at the end of a 1987 concert in Montreux—saying, "Having the same fears, shedding similar tears, and of course dying in so many years, it don't mean that we can't have a good life."

Then it outros on that beautiful repeating keyboard riff, and the Drake in the room, eyes still closed, scrunches his face, feeling every note. When it's over, he awakes from the spell. 40 remains hunched at the computer for a moment, letting the music settle into the silence. And then they both swivel in my direction again.

Deletedd

4y

its insane how many quotables drake has

BRAVE

4y

Diamonds Dancing pasta vibes