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Trudging through the cityscape, dragging from a cigarette, contemplating everything. It’s another day in New York City, and no one will turn when they hear you scream. The voices in your head refuse to ceasefire. This is where El-P calls home, and where I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead renders the darkest thoughts in living color. It’s a slugfest album with enough density to find beauty in the meat grinder, and enough heart to turn any man’s sleeve scarlet. It’s a late late-aughts record that charges into every facet of impending doom, sparing no detail from the near-future as we rejoice in the name of every day the world manages not to kill us, too. This is hip-hop of the flesh, the brimstone; El walks us down every winding corner, daring us to find love on a prison ship and ask G...
