Teststripz.com; Cashfordiabetics.com; Teststripsearch.com. Visit one of the many equivalent sites and an eerie repercussion of America’s medical-industrial complex begins to unravel. Markets to buy and sell diabetic test strips endure, thanks to a vertical monopoly engineered by insurers and manufacturers. The atypical legality of the essential tool’s resale, combined with exorbitant first-party costs for the uninsured led to proliferation of third-party middlemen, thus flourished the strange gray market.
When announced, We Buy Diabetic Test Strips seemed more like another off kilter Armand Hammer aesthetic decision than a carefully crafted reference to a niche capitalist consequence. As they’ve demonstrated repeatedly, however, nothing the duo produces is what it seems, no reference unchecked and no bar empty. Unique to their sixth full length record, though, billy woods and E L U C I D adopt an all encompassing posture, reaffirming their hyper-aware stance and wrapping themselves in a shroud of mysterious perfection.
We Buy Diabetic Test Strips is the decade-long culmination of hip hop divinity. Since linking over a decade ago, the duo’s unparalleled quality has only increased with experience, and unparalleled success was found by proxy. Especially for woods, Diabetic Test Strips come only four months removed from his collaboration with producer Kenny Segal, Maps, epilouging an unprecedented year for the once-obscure New York Native and his underground empire, Backwoodz Studioz. E L U C I D, an artist and personality somehow more enigmatic than woods, has drawn his own circle as well. The rapper-producer extraordinaire provides Armand Hammer with ferociousness, allowing the duo to consistently outshine and outdo on all fronts and leaving Armand Hammer parallel with Outkast, Black Star, Mobb Deep, and the high elites of dual royalty.
In stark contrast to the pandemic-era Haram, which saw the duo singularly joining forces with The Alchemist, We Buy Diabetic Test Strips curates a far wider net, recruiting an ensemble’s worth of collaborators to create its expanse. Familiar faces pervade; production work from Kenny Segal, Preservation, Child Actor, Steel Tipped Dove, and others create the image of a classic Backwoodz release, though the labels’ ever changing and innovative aspirations leave the image blurry at best.
Though appreciated, it is not the return of classic collaborators that excites, rather the horizontal recruitment of underground compatriots. Over the last three decades, El-P has cast an indelible shadow on the aesthetics of underground hip hop, a shadow extended to “The Gods Must Be Crazy.” The drums are both feral and danceable, while the winded vocal chops reminisce of Death Grips, had they found fame in the 00s. The instance of frenzy proves El-P as a great placement, both physically, thanks to his belligerent productive style, and proverbially, thanks to his presence in the genre’s history.
JPEGMAFIA also leaves a hazy footprint on the tracklist, producing both ends of the record, as well as the outlandish “Woke Up and Asked Siri How I’m Gonna Die.” Rumors of petty beef begone, Peggy adds a much-welcomed dimension to the record. His cloudy synths contrast Diabetic Test Strips’ casual aggression, an obviously intentional design decision in spite of JPEGMAFIA’s classic furor. He puts a recognizable foot forward beyonce his signature “I like JPEGs” tag. His work largely fits nicely in the chronology of JPEGMAFIA, prefaced by his vaporwave efforts.
Don’t be distracted, the stars of the show are still E L U C I D and billy woods. Their knowledge of self prevails, as woods often gets out of the way for E L U C I D to open up. It keeps the record at equilibrium, personified perfectly by “I Keep A Mirror In My Pocket.” “Don’t invite me to your house, ask me to remove my shoes, and your floors ain’t cleannnnnnn,” demands E L U C I D. woods grounds in his approach, delivering a narcissistic and spiteful chant regarding forgone lovers. Wrapped neatly in a bow of chaos with Cavalier’s wicked hook, it exemplifies the oxymoronic precise chaos Armand Hammer has perfected.
Their common-minded willingness to approach musical danger pervades. It’s hard to find another lyricist willing to find footing in the haunting feedback loops of “Ni**ardly (Blocked Call),” or the screeching backdrop of “Trauma Mic,” but adventure rivets the pair. E L U C I D’s strained stutter on the latter opposes woods’ fluid, almost lethargic delivery, even if their paranoid interests align. Survival instinct prevails, as both MCs point at their fallen associates, both dead and alive, as reason to stay hyperaware. Paranoia is the only reason they’ve sustained, paranoia must persist.
Moments that have no relation to one another are constantly blended and mended by Armand Hammer’s impeccable chemistry. On “When It Doesn’t Start With A Kiss,” while woods opts to step aside on the digital rainfall that opens the track, his leadership on the bubbly downward spiral of the latter half boasts purposiveness. Their dreary messages of struggle and strife converge, refusing optimism even in humored situations, like when woods is cautioned by a laundromat operator to be careful after leaving some drugs in his load.
With no disrespect towards the duo, Diabetic Test Strips would be a shell of itself without its plethora of collaborators, vocal and otherwise, that add the spice and flair necessary for the success of this record. The hook from Cavalier morphs “I Keep A Mirror In My Pocket” from a dastardly abstract cut to a genuinely catchy earworm. Curly Castro’s gnarled intonation prevents “Empire BLVD” from losing itself in its haunted cadence, while a spoken word from Moor Mother provides “Don’t Lose Your Job” and the record as a whole the recentering it desperately needs. Pink Siifu’s two appearances have nearly no relation to one another, though they each do the job exactly as is required. Praise to Sons of Kemet bandleader Shabaka Hutchings as well, whose fleeting woodwinds pepper the album with the mystic and glamor that catapults it to the upper echelon.
Due praise must also go to Junglepussy, whose sleek appearances provide some of the record’s most exciting moments. The irrational pace of “Y’all Can’t Stand Right Here” is cut by Junglepussy’s impeccable rhythm, who also immensely contributes to “Empire BLVD’s” downright terrifying sheen. Between Junglepussy’s commandeering presence and DJ Haram’s work behind the scenes on “Trauma Mic,” Diabetic Test Strips is indebted to its feminine presence, who are crucial to both its core and finishing touches.
There’s hardly a note out of place across Armand Hammer’s discography, but their latest effort accentuates the crucial intelligence that’s kept them ahead of the curve. It’s impossible to subvert an expectation one fails to understand, but time and time again, awareness proves to be Armand Hammer’s greatest strength. It’s apparent they fundamentally understand, not just hip hop, but music, culture and life in its past and present forms. They seek to dictate the future.
The duo reprioritize themselves on Diabetic Test Strips’ closing tracks, forgoing theatrics and harkening to their days as a scrappy underground pairing. It presents a valuable lesson: fundamentals are everything, and everything is fundamental. Fundamental to Armand Hammer is the impeccable chemistry of two larger than life rap personalities with encyclopedic knowledge and vocabulary. Ever unceremonious, but always grounded; consistently aspiring, but never pompous, We Buy Diabetic Test Strips is a course in thoughtful excellence. Don’t forget to do the homework, they expect a response.