KALAMBURY

The music here smells of concrete and dreams that don't fit in the stairwell. It's as if a guy in a hoodie is standing on the border between the neighbourhood and the Renaissance - writing rhymes like frescoes, calling himself Picasso or Leonardo. Instead of an easel, he has a microphone; instead of paints, he has beats and credits. Everything around him is grey, but he stubbornly mixes in colour - a cry, a breath, a new line.

Here, ambition roars louder than autotune: ‘Give me time, I'm still learning.’ And in this, there is no bravado, only honesty. He seems to be talking about music, but in fact he is talking about life - how to get out of studio headphones and into your own sky. While some people build walls, he breaks them down with rhythm, step by step, not guessing other people's feelings, just painting his own.