Crazy to think of a time when I'd rather hear anyone but Bladee on a track. The Swede’s quaint, throaty delivery made so much of his earlier, unpolished work feel draped in irony, as though anybody bumping his music was part of some inside joke. But because of his malleability and knack for uncanny melody, I grew to love the same qualities I used to reject. He never needed to explain himself. Bladee’s sometimes-playful, always-nihilistic autofiction has made his presence a guiding light, one that’s changed hues and cast new shadows over time. The anecdotes he’s penned–on ego death , on shopping sprees , on the act of sharing scars –have consistently felt as natural and spontaneous as they do perceptive. On Sulfur Surfer , the latest addition to Bladee’s sizable catalog, there’s this almost caricature-like approach to the way he tries to solidify himself as the imposing avant-gardist he already is.…