It was the master’s tour de force, his last creative burst: imagine what he could have accomplished with just a little bit more time. Most of the largely instrumental album’s vocals were mere fragments, slices of breath and exhalation and noise ripped senselessly, divorced entirely from their respective contexts, shuddering like ghosts through the sounds of the tracks. The beats changed almost as quickly as they established themselves, varying almost impossibly in style and tone, a sequence of grooves and variations and samples chopped in points almost beyond belief. ![]() J Dilla’s last release, the almost-posthumous Donuts on Stones Throw, was an explosion of creative talent, an outpouring of ideas packed as many as could fit onto a 45-minute disc.
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