This Rap Song Is for Anyone Who’s Ever Had a Neighbor From Hell
On “Zugzwang,” underground rappers Miles Cooke and Defcee tell their building mates how they really feel.
Some of my favorite rap songs are so wildly specific they can’t help but feel universal. Lupe Fiasco’s “Kick, Push” is about a kid who comes of age—finding a girlfriend, a crew, and a sense of identity—through the world of skateboarding. MF Doom’s verse on the Madvillainy standout “Operation: Lifesaver” weighs the pros and cons of asking an otherwise attractive date to use a damn breath mint. This is a tradition the New York rapper Miles Cooke has fit into before—many of his croaky baritone raps use self-deprecation, a thesaurus-bending vocabulary, and intricate rhyme schemes to exorcise demons from the corners of his mind. And on “Zugzwang,” a highlight from his latest album Ceci n’est pas un portrait, Cooke brings his acerbic eye to a situation many are familiar with: the blood-boiling hell of living in an apartment building.
“This one a ‘fuck you’ to my upstairs neighbor” are the first words Cooke utters, his gravelly delivery helping every syllable land like debris on a concussed skull. You can practically hear his teeth grinding as he runs off his list of annoyances, from obnoxious stomping to aggressive glances in stairwells. “Rent’s too high for kindness,” he sighs later on, before acknowledging the harsh reality of living under someone who doesn’t know when to turn their music down: “Kill the noise is not an option/Silence came in sample sizes.” By the end of the verse, he’s looking for a new place to live after the super hits him with a “You get what you pay for, don’t bother me,” drawing a line between the squeeze of capitalism and aggrieved, sleepless nights. Both Cooke’s rhymes and his creaking beat, all staccato piano plinks and shuffling drum fills, are uneasy in a way that’s both macabre and wonky—but his anxiety is so palpable, you can taste it in the tap water.
Chicago rapper Defcee spends his guest verse fighting his desire for vengeance more directly, constantly irritated by a neighbor for scuffing his fresh Timberland boots and not acknowledging him when he holds the door open. “I hate his mom for having him, myself for not stabbing him,” he says in the thought bubble rumbling over his head. To Defcee and Miles Cooke, there’s catharsis in the bland grievances of apartment living. If they can’t blast these heathens into space, at least they can laugh about it.
