When Apollo Brown and Crimeapple connect, it’s like old film grain under a projector—gritty, timeless. This album isn’t just boom-bap nostalgia; it’s a rebirth of smoke-stained bars, where Crimeapple plays both poet and philosopher, flipping bilingual manteca rhymes with a chef’s precision, stirring up the street grime and serving it with a side of sharp wit. Apollo Brown, as always, builds his beats like ancient architecture—dusty, soulful, and heavy with forgotten stories. These tracks sound like the cracks in the sidewalk talking back, the perfect companion for long nights and even longer thoughts. It’s a sonic novel, a street sermon, and Crimeapple’s wordplay dances through it like grease sizzling in a pan, a reminder that even in decay, there’s beauty. This, Is Not That