In a June event for the memory of Anysia Kym more real, DORIS gasps breathlessly over his own floor-rumbling tracks: a strange sight, considering his “hair on the floor” are awkward bedroom ballads, less Mike Dean than Dean Blunt. Take “Usher,” the airy single released via MIKE's 10k label three years ago. A relentless Enchantment loop yearns for “Gloria, my Gloria” while DORIS wanders into the mix, chirping about weed – listen closely and you can hear him choking on smoke. It's beautiful in a raw way, like early Ariel Pink or R. Stevie Moore sending heartfelt prayers through microphones. Imagine him on stage now, smothered by feedback, rattling speakers and the crash of his own cut backing track, no longer whispering but screaming through songs that lend themselves to silent weeping. Raw passion permeates even his coolest, most distant dreamscapes. “Real and straightforward,” he said in a recent interview: “That's what I want to be, 100 percent of the time.”
DORIS is Frank Dorrey, a Jersey-raised multitasker who first came to the public's attention as a visual artist whose whimsical portraits have graced album sleeves and limited-edition skate decks. His few press appearances paint him as a cerebral recluse, happier speaking from a SoundCloud account than a soap opera. The statements he made from said SoundCloud account were surreal—fleeting fever dreams that reached the same psychedelic heights as eerie, amorphous Picsart prints. He chose the name DORIS in part as a tribute to Earl Sweatshirt: an artistic young introvert who resonates with the brain behind I don't like shit, I don't go out.
Dorey is still a bit shy, but he's coming out more often. (Pitchfork caught up with him earlier this year at the opening of a joint art show with Brayan Ramales.) He's also much more comfortable with his voice—comfortable enough to throw down a massive 50-track project without stumbling over the same idea twice. Last month, it was released independently Ultimate Love Songs Collection, a plethora of lo-fi demos largely lifted from his SoundCloud. It scans much like other ambitious hard drive cleanups, à la Roaches 2012-2019 the Sent from my phonebut it manages to remain familiar—and incredibly entertaining—where the longform idea dump genre falls apart. Ultimate Love Songs Collection it doesn't feel low effort or self-esteem—it shares the song's cathartic release in the shower. “I'm just riding on the beat, I just like the way it sounds,” admits a giddy DORIS on “Baby reign,” sounding lost in the sauce. Unlike many of the young pioneers of underground rap, he doesn't so much play up his influences as he does simple passions: his own company, the songs he's pumped up, and the weed he smokes while trying to loop his favorite parts. Deep as it is within its universe, the music is familiar enough to nestle comfortably within our own.
