Chris Orrick is the patron saint of a poisoned world. The blue-collar Michigan MC writes surly hymns for charcoal lungs. Think Bukowski on an eloquent bender, swapping wine for whiskey, a notepad for a glowing LED screen, the race track for the recording booth. These are anthems for the irate, over-educated and under-valued. Chris Orrick made the generational manifestos of an ex-machinist in his mid-20s, saddled with crippling debt, substance addictions, depression, and dim job prospects. Thoreau's quiet desperation turned into a bitter yawp. He makes hip-hop to give Horatio Alger a stone cold stunner. He prophesized an American dream that swiftly turned dystopian. Then he'll balance it out by rhyming "listening to Bitches Brew," with "eating chicken vindaloo." Somehow, it puts the fun back in dysfunction. As Pitchfork said, "his pain never feels like a put on." XXL declared "if Chris Orrick is not on your radar, it's time to change that." The Mello Music Group artist combines the emotional chaos of early Atmosphere with the incisive satire of Open Mike Eagle.