Stretchers outside the venue. That's the main thing I remember. For the past five years, I've lived in a sleepy Southern college town, and on the rare occasions when we do get a great live show in town, those live shows are usually fairly sedate affairs. But when Danny Brown came to town, all that went out the window. A couple of years ago, Brown played the biggest of our local clubs, selling it out and packing it full of mostly white, mostly affluent college kids who were losing their minds. At the door, I saw security confiscate one kids's bag of Cool Ranch Doritos; he hopelessly protested that he wanted to throw it onstage during this one specific line. And if he'd managed to smuggle it in, the snack-food projectile would've been in keeping with the spirit of the night. These kids came to party, and Danny Brown responded, blasting through a set of high-octane get-fucked-up rap music. And when I stumbled out of the venue, a little drunk myself, I saw flashing lights and EMTs and a couple of stretchers, there for the kids who'd partied a little too hard. But here's the thing: Brown was touring behind Old, and album about trying and failing to process trauma, about getting fucked up as a failed coping mechanism. He made music with layers, music drenched in self-loathing and regret, and the world accepted it as party music. It sounded like party music. So maybe Brown just had to make something that didn't sound like party music.