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I was too old to be that sort of fan when Odd Future dropped its first mix tape, but when I saw Tyler Okonma - the rapper Tyler, the Creator - one of the collective’s breakout stars, reclining on the couch of the reborn “Arsenio Hall Show” a few years later, feet up, explaining a youthful worldview that was as harebrained as it was shrewd, as unmannerly as it was undeniable, my first thought was that I wish he had existed when I was teenager. They must have made it feel possible to do everything and be every way you wanted to but weren’t sure was allowed. How thrilling must it have been to be a young teenager in 2008, witnessing the birth of Odd Future, a Los Angeles collective of skater kids. “I want you to come to my apartment after this,” she said, staring me down during a moment of tenuous calm as her makeup artist sprayed a fine mist of glittering fuchsia across her cheekbone, “because I can tell it’s inconvenient for you.” Continue Reading In between takes at the video shoot for “Ohio” - a slow-burn ballad that descends into an unhinged rock jam - she asked several members of her team to smell her armpits (noting that the left one was noticeably more rank than the right) and talked colorful smack about other artists, esteemed music-industry institutions and an ex-girlfriend’s new girlfriend. In the time we spent together, I saw her mime masturbation after talking about how hot she thinks the singer Rosalía is (“She gave me a hug, and I was like, ‘You smell good.”) declare that if she were a man, she would “have a small, but it would work good” and announce that she wants to give her girlfriend a cast of her vagina for their anniversary. But in person - her birth name is Mikaela Straus - the singer comes off as a different kind of throwback: a bawdy, trash-talking caricature of old-school rock ’n’ roll excess.
Listening to the yearning R&B swoon of “Prophet” - from King Princess’ debut album, “Cheap Queen” - you may imagine its maker as a sad-eyed recluse, one who wears her sorrow like armor.
At 21, she has the lush, broken voice of a hard-living lounge singer in a David Lynch film, and her music is similarly timeless: guitar-driven torch songs with lyrics sharpened by what sounds like a thousand years of love gone wrong.
Hanging out with King Princess can feel like entering a time warp.