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YOU CAN’T BROWSE a music blog without eventually tripping over a post on Thebe Neruda Kgositsile, Odd Future’s little brother latchkey kid who goes by Earl Sweatshirt and usually claims responsibility for the better, darker, more acrobatic 16 bars (see Odd Future’s “Oldie”/see Frank Ocean’s “Super Rich Kids”/see the entirety of Doris, Sweatshirt’s sophomore full-length, released this year). But that’s not why he snagged all the press. At least, not completely — it’s usually a Cliff Note, a secondary thought, like: At the cusp of Odd Future’s success, Kgositsile’s mother sent him off to a boarding school in Samoa until his 18th birthday. … Also, he raps. Which makes sense; there are plenty of rappers out there, sprouting out of fabricated tough neighborhoods to leak terse, hubristic hooks about Maseratis and bedding bad bitches. It’s less interesting when a rapper comes clean with his fiction, at his most ornery when driven by imagination (he’s often listed as horrorcore) and at his most truthful and melancholy when he has to broach reality — his relationship with his mom, his time across the pond, reacclimating to his life in the U.S. and how many of the formative years he missed. You can’t blame glossies for sticking to that — it makes for gorgeous copy. But it paints over how unique Sweat is, not just for his generation (the dude’s a 19-year-old Pisces) but for his climate, for his peers. He antithesizes 2Chainz and A$AP Rocky and the glut of the immaculately produced but astonishingly terrible rap music flash-flooding satellite radio this year. He’s incredibly talented and, potentially, completely fucked up. Both come out in the music. Sometimes he raps about drive-bys and fame. Other times he talks about bad neighborhoods and solitude. And both are completely him, coalescing begrudgingly over a simple, brutal beat. MAX PLENKE