Yo, you go outside lately? Maybe I'm old (I'm definitely old), but shit is straight weird, b—and I appreciate it when music properly reflects that. For instance: Last month, I was intrigued by "Bumpin Bumpin," a largely rap-free song/video by Kreayshawn, a diminutive white girl from Oakland with an incongruous Hello Kitty fascination (see her mixtape Kittys & Choppas), who looks something like a thizzed-out Amy Winehouse in a Lady Sovereign–sized package. Something about her struck me, even though I wasn't quite 100 percent on the song. Anyway, that song's one compelling line, "One big room/Full of bad bitches," was flipped into the starting point of her latest joint, the undeniable "Gucci Gucci." I found this song remarkable for several reasons: cameos by Odd Future's Jasper and Left Brain in its video, a slapping dubstep (or something) influenced beat, and its titular conceit—since "basic bitches" frequently covet and wear high-priced name-brand gear, she wants none of it, espousing an idea of personal style that can't be merely swooped off the rack.

She apparently also works with another cat I've been checking for lately, rapper/producer Spaceghostpurrp, aka Muney Jordan; his lo-fi bedroom rap isn't any frail indie-rock kid shit, but rather the kind of music that sounds like it was made by a drug-gobbling MIA weirdo who loves Raiders snapbacks, Three 6 Mafia, and the feel of '90s backpack rap. His poorly mixed mixtape won't sound crispy banging out your Jeep, but it might just grab you nonetheless, if you have a yen for ignorance like I.

Speaking of, Seattle's own Ricky Pharoe, despite his claims of "semi-retirement," appears to still be at it, recently letting fly a couple projects brimming with his usual mix of belligerent shit talk and open-eyes message rap. First, there's the Sex with Myself mixtape, which is a, uh, tossed-off warm-up full of insults and brief flashes of flow over some back-of-the-crate industry beats. More compelling is his LP with producer Mack the Knife (not to be confused with MTK, mind you) under the name Art Vandelay, They've Got My Number Down at the Post Office. For a bunch of unreleased joints expertly retrofitted and stitched together into an edgy electro-rock-influenced backdrop by the producer, it's Pharoe's best stuff since his unfairly slept-upon 2005 album Civilized. A tinfoil-hatted conspiracy misfit who hates fat, stupid Americans and first-world empire as much as shitty rappers and pandering radio, he's a bit of a classic backpacker, just with a sense of humor, an Aesop Rock–esque voice, and a gift of gab that's equally adept at self-deprecation as it is bone-tired resignation to the greased-lightning hell-ride we're all lucky to be privy to these days. Whee!

Meanwhile, Bruno Mars is playing WaMu Theater on Thursday, June 2? Why is that, again? Why, lord, why? Can't call it, but Janelle Monae and Mayer Hawthorne, both certifiably dope and non-radio-robot-clones, are also playing. So there's that.