It is not disputable that too many dudes try to rap. That’s just fact. By the end of a week at SXSW the floor of the Jam Van was littered with the stepped on jewel-cases of clueless MC’s who threw them our way in hopes that we’d pop them into our non-existent CD-player. I think we listened to one. I don’t remember his name, but it was something good, something flossy.
Nemo Achida is not that. This guy didn’t hand us a CD on the street, not that I’m opposed to finding music that way, I’m just saying, it’s hard. That’s like playing the Powerball, but it takes a lot more time, you don’t make no money, and you serve to hear a lot of stuff that will make you dumber if you listen long enough. Again, Nemo Achida is not that.
Someone sent Nemo our way, told us to listen, he was solicited, a term they love in Hollywood. We listened.
Grizzled beard, eyes that seemed sleepy, my guess would be from equal parts toke and writing words on pads late into the night. He twists his fitted-cap back and forth around his head, constantly checking to make sure it’s in place, or in the place that he wants it at that moment. He lays down his words in the same way. Noticeably careful, everything well-put, everything stressed out just right. To me he reminds of a Jazz-man, or at least the smoky persona of one, the smoothness that at it’s best can cover up the most roughed up edges. A hip-hop Jazz Man, if you will. You could go ahead and say that Nemo Achida is that.