Teo STRIKE IV CHRIS DILLINGER X ACID SOULJA BOY

Teo has the time and energy to go places in London that our editorial team (who are all ex-vice staff in their late thirties) do not. One of these places is Christ Dillinger and Acid Soulja Boy's jacked-up internet rap that really makes ur brain go WHUUUURRR WHUUUUURRR WHUUUURRRR. Keywords: Hikkokimori; Tung Tung, EDM Beats.

Christ, we know ur real name.

When Keir Starmer sucker-punched British teens with a social media ban, I was left paranoid about the future of music. Albeit uplifted by the rappers’ chimerical charisma, Acid Souljah and Christ Dillinger’s London show felt like a spirited requiem to a subculture epitomised by its severely plugged-in teenage fans and innovators.

Outside The Garage, himkimori’s are hitting vapes from the black market and crying “Tung Tung Tung Sahur is so leng” after he came out on stage for bloodonmybalmain’s set. The bouncers don’t bat an eye when my friend and I promise we’re on the guest list and sneak in while Acid Souljah is mid-verse, rapping every bar in a falsetto that makes him sound like a slacker yelling at his parents from his gaming set-up.

This doesn’t feel like the usual underground rap (whatever that means now) extravaganza; barely any phones are in sight and the moshing etiquette is surprisingly considerate, which also means it’s appropriately and absolutely frenetic in there. The compound of Acid Souljah’s hilariously cunning bars and the sheer bounce of the music draws a twisted grin on my face; there’s something exhilarating yet uncanny in seeing such a mythical subject from my fyp in the flesh. You can tell he’s been performing for years now, and when the music is so authentic, the swag follows: naturally.

Joining Acid, Christ Dillinger glides onto the stage in a green Vetements shirt that droops down to his ankles — his silhouette harks back to a faded memory of a 2000’s MC. Inaugurating his utopian American party is X MAN, which entices an eclipse in the enthusiasm of the crowd, charging in droves towards the rapper. As he waltzes and nods about, a colourful contrast is cast between his virtuosic, based flow and the infectiously funky EDM beats he’s barring on.

Whether he’s expertly listing drugs or flexing his after-hours endeavors, Dillinger injects his music with a fluency in online-humour that never betrays his integrity. In between songs, an edited version of the trapaholics tag warns us,“This song is fucking is horrible.” Freud believed that collective laughter occurred at the breaking down of authority — that seems to be happening a lot tonight.

I get goosebumps when a vulgarly ear-stimming trance beat drops after the MC candidly confesses: “The only opp I got is depression”. Diving into the mosh for a few minutes and fulfilling a kid’s request to end the show on the triumphant and familial note of “based world mansion”, Dillinger proves he is as unaffectedly committed to his fans as they are to him.

The rappers share the stage with their friends; they want the lights off; they pause the music for water breaks; and launch free Palestine chants. Based negative squad CEOs assured me that youth culture can only endure.