Sammus - Pieces in Space

Pitchfork 72

When something gets tagged as nerdcore rap, the implications are clear: this is for the Star Wars diehards, the sub-Redditors worried about the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s continuity with canon, or as Alex Trebek once put it on “Jeopardy!,” “losers.” It’s less MF Doom coolly retconning a comic supervillain into an enigmatic rap persona, and more Childish Gambino’s “Freaks and Geeks.” Nerdcore rap evokes the awkward and gangly, completely at odds with traditional rap bravado but still unknowingly, clumsily pantomiming its gestures nonetheless. To a point, it has long been insinuated that nerdcore rap is mostly just a safe space for introverted white males to write artlessly hypertechnical verses of Guardians of the Galaxy fan fiction and the like.

Enter Sammus, a Cornell PhD student and rapper/producer named for the Metroid heroine, making what she calls “black girl nerd rap.” Her strongest work to date is Pieces in Space, a weird and confessional collection of songs about being weird and confessional. Sammus’ music represents an under-reached subset of geek fandom: it’s made for black feminists trying to quietly coexist in the gaming and comic subcultures. But as the recent GamerGate scandal proved, this can be a culture of sexism and anti-progressivism, and it exists within a larger world that already belittles and diminishes black women specifically. Sammus’ writing converges at the intersection of race, womanhood, sexuality, and nerdiness, doing so with a subtlety lost on most in the subgenre, who rap like they’re mashing every button on a controller at once to do a combo. She’s just as influenced by hardcore nerdcore trailblazer Mega Ran as she is Kanye West. Sammus is a passionate idealist and craft-first poet, penning the kind of wordy marvels that rap annotator types fawn over; she is self-described as “living in the land of keystrokes and passwords/Cheat codes, amiibos, and actors.”

On the surface, the reference points for Pieces in Space are obvious and in keeping with the subgenre’s framework, dealing primarily with characters in the geek lexicon: MMOs, Nintendo, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and Sega with mentions of Loki, Luke Cage, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Lakitu, and Majin Buu. But a closer reading reveals understated and sharp critiques about the ways we relate in the digital age, and how they often rob us of true connection. In the margins, these themes continuously arise: Talking to Siri when no one will listen, sharing a Netflix account with an ex you never talk to, being attacked by anonymous lynch mobs of trolls and fire-starters in comment sections. It documents life online as a black female gamer, and in turn reveals how the internet is dehumanizing us.

On “Comments Disabled,” a tightly-coiled chronicle about the pervasively toxic and antagonistic internet culture that now extends all the way to the White House, Sammus dismantles trolls. “I’m thinking you should invest in collecting a best friend,” she raps, “Who won’t let you press send/To someone you just met/Through Twitter or Sirius XM.” On “Perfect Dark,” she examines the lack of women of color in comics, games, and anime, sending a simple message: black girls want to have heroes, too. Alongside Jean Grae (a skilled lyricist who herself is named after a comic hero), “1080p” finds Sammus writing about the hardships of balancing grad school, an indie rap career, and interpersonal relationships when trying to communicate emotions through phone and computer screens, an idea fittingly conveyed by the concept of seeing things in higher resolution.

What unfolds in Pieces in Space is a tale of personal identity and perspective that provides interesting insights on micro and macro scales. Sammus paints a complete and complex self-portrait while exposing truths about the subculture she wades through, and the greater world at large. She’s a ferocious and thoughtful MC whose flows call to mind the solving of a Rubik’s Cube, especially on songs like “Headliner” and “Genius.” Her hooks can leave something to be desired; they’re usually too long-winded and chewy to be earworms, sticking out like sore thumbs. But at any given moment, she’s liable to rattle off a bar like “Gotta spit so sick that you drain Big Pharma/Get your skin so thick you don’t get stigmata” on “Cubicle.” She’s as likely to rap about phosphates and integers as she is to name-check Serena Williams or Emmitt Till. Her delivery is piercing, her perspective refreshing. She ends up becoming the role model she once set out to find.