Tobacco sometimes runs with a group called Black Moth Super Rainbow. On Fucked Up Friends, his latest mission, he works alone. Tobacco’s tools are analog synths, tape machines, and deformed incantations from throats unknown. His music is a wash of distortion and melody over jagged beats. It amalgamates hypnotic, cosmopolitan pop, gritty, propulsive hip-hop and a night full of fevered dreams. It buoys the spirit, braces the nerves, and smuggles disoriented paranoia deep into the subconscious. These are anxiously driven, effortlessly smooth and unapologetically badass sounds of inner nature.

Fucked Up Friends is a collection of boombox rockers that sidestep lazy nominalizations as they weave their cryptic inferences. “Hairy Candy”echoes the summer-fixated celebrations of BMSR, but with a dark, fevered perimeter. “Hawker Boat” and “Dirt (Instrumental Version)” strain stadium-rock grandeur through a dirty filter and serve it with rocks and salt. “Side 8 (Big Gums Version),” “Backwoods Altar” and “Get My Nails Did” expose a deep menace beneath their enticing rhythms – they get stuck in your head like sinister get-rick-quick schemes.

As a whole, the album establishes a one-man genre. Even with the latest tape-to-tape dubbing technology, Fucked Up Friends can’t be duplicated.

Tobacco hails from rural Pennsylvania. He does not desire contact with the public at large.