#TYLER THE CREATOR E30 MOVIE#
#TYLER THE CREATOR E30 SERIES#

During my time in LA, a bright pink billboard for Odd Future's third annual Camp Flog Gnaw Carnival towers above Sunset Boulevard, promoting headlining performances from Pharrell and Rick Ross. Loiter Squad, published a book of Odd Future's photography, started a clothing line called Golf Wang, and opened a retail store-all in the time it would've taken him to get a bachelor's degree.

#TYLER THE CREATOR E30 SERIES#

Since Odd Future signed a distribution deal with Sony/RED in 2011, Tyler has released three albums, produced three seasons of an Adult Swim sketch series called Your eyes are lowkey your most important sense of how the world works,' he says.

#TYLER THE CREATOR E30 MOVIE#

Same with a fucking movie poster or trailer: before you know who directed or acted in it, those first five seconds-that shit matters. You want to know more because your eyes said, 'Wow, I like that.' Bam. 'On a scale of one to 10, how attractive is she?' An 11. 'Nigga, think of any girl you like,' Tyler says, trying to explain his early visual work via metaphor. They carefully chose each hat, logo, and font, showcasing a brand identity that fans could emulate independently of appreciating their sound. They also had taste: Vans and Supreme, MF Doom and Waka Flocka, Adventure Time, and Six Flags. The crew's six core members only worked with each other, articulating a singular sound characterized by barbed beats and dense rhymes. By contrast, early Odd Future clips pulled you in to a fully realized universe of the group's own creation. Rap's first wave of internet-empowered poster children- Wale, Kid Cudi, maybe Charles Hamilton-had used the web to push out into the world: remixing singles across genres Myspace messaging any blogger who'd click their links collabs, collabs, collabs. They were shocking for both their content and the sophistication of their hand-stitched production, and they quickly attracted the attention of an industry gasping for change. The early videos he made with his Odd Future collective included, among other stunts, images of Tyler hanging himself and compatriot Earl Sweatshirt ripping off his own fingernail. 'Hey sir, sorry? I was just speeding? Around a corner? In a sports car? During rush hour? My bad.''įour years ago, Tyler went zero to 60 in record time. 'We could've been exchanging information. 'That could've been a completely different reality just now,' he says. Got my adrenaline in for the day.' We ride on, and when we pass through the gate to his cul-de-sac, Tyler exhales. The previous attempts didn't faze me, but that time, I felt it. Were you scared?' He's asked me this a couple times throughout the ride, playfully testing my threshold, performing. Tyler brakes instinctually, swerving back to the right lane a few moments before disaster. The tires screech, losing contact with the asphalt, and a motorcycle and gray sedan emerge from around the hill, heading right toward us. My right side crushes into the passenger door as he increasingly hugs the oncoming lane. The car churns forward, growling, and Tyler swings a sharp left around the bend. I know when this dude is thinking about making a left turn before his blinkers are on.' 'The way I drive, I have to see three cars ahead. It gets kinda sketch out here,' he says, waiting for a minivan in front of us to veer off and clear his straight shot back down the slope. Trailer homes line the road a nearby scarecrow hangs from a tree branch by the neck.

When he finds a bend of road sloped around a rocky hill that looks promising for a clean drift, Tyler plows up it, gets some distance, and makes a sharp U-turn.

We swing to a dead-footed stop centimeters short of every rear bumper we face, and slingshot out from under every fresh green light. He mashes his checkered Vans into the gas and brake pedals with binary force. Still weaving across lanes, he grabs his phone and begins skipping through demos from his upcoming fourth album, which he's been quietly recording for the past year, and lands on a two-minute blitz of scratch verses and stampeding, jagged drums. He is 23, born Tyler Gregory Okonma in March 1991 in Los Angeles, and the stretch of the San Fernando Valley he now calls home is all mountains and dust, lizards and mansions, a $40 Uber away from the Fairfax skate shops he lurked as a teen. Suddenly, he's miming along to thick '70s soul, performing to his speedometer, which has climbed to 85. He palms the wheel with one hand and thrashes to the music with the other, changing songs every 40 seconds. 'I really wanna fucking drift,' he says, shifting gears like he's in an arcade racing chair. Tyler, the Creator is tearing down Route 118 in an all-white BMW, blasting Death Grips.

Tyler the creator e30