A warning shot fires from the opening seconds of “Cheap Japanese Bass” raw, unapologetic, and impossible to predict. The beat doesn’t ask permission; it barrels forward, a noisy engine powered by sheer experimental will. Steve Lieberman doesn’t simply play a bassline; he unleashes a battleground of sound where structure and chaos wrestle for the upper hand.
The title itself sets the tone there’s a blunt honesty to it, almost a dare. Lieberman wears the “cheap” label proudly, flipping it into a badge of creativity. Beneath the surface clatter, a deeper method reveals itself: distorted bass grooves crash against walls of rough, frenzied instrumentation, creating a storm that feels reckless but is oddly calculated at its core. It’s like standing inside a jazz improvisation session that decided to ditch the rules halfway through and sprint toward something grittier and less polite.
There’s a sense of fluidity underneath all the turmoil. The body and depth of sound don’t just fill the room; they spill over it, soaking into the cracks. Every rough edge, every wild progression feels like an intentional move to break away from polished, overproduced expectations. The listening experience is intense but rewarding, dragging the audience into a dimension where psychedelic moments flicker in and out of the mix, like stray thoughts during a fever dream.
“Cheap Japanese Bass” might sound confrontational at first, but it reveals a fascinating kind of freedom — the freedom to be messy, to be imperfect, and to let raw instinct drive the music instead of formula. Lieberman doesn’t just perform a track; he lets it detonate, leaving listeners to pick through the beautifully scorched remains however they choose.
