By Luke Wigren
Like mushrooms that emerge from the mossy forests and fallen logs of the Pacific Northwest, when you finally discover Porter Ray’s album Watercolor it may feel as if it has come out of nowhere. Upon closer inspection it might sound, as well, positively extraterrestrial: a psychedelic, brooding exploration into the inner-space of the subconscious.
Porter Ray chuckles when I describe his presence in the Seattle hip-hop scene as “enigmatic.” He’s grown up here his whole life. He answers every question without a hint of irony. He’s no hermit. On the contrary, he’s an open book — a hard feat in the heyday of Macklemore quirkiness, Southern rap absurdity and Drake’s practiced emotional detachment. Porter ventures into similar territory as his peers but comes up with something altogether different. His stakes feel higher. His braggadocio more vulnerable.
In the velvety, often sensual delirium of Watercolor, fantasy and reality blur together. Hypnotic, dense lyrics decompose the world into base elements of glitz and gloom. He ponders consumer excess against the sweet come-up of simply being able to walk the misty streets of his neighborhood, the Central District. It is wisdom for a 28-year old that seems almost rare. It is also hard-won due in part to the traumas Porter endured as a young man caught between worlds of privilege and poverty, black and white, and life and death.