“Look What This World Did To Us.” The command is rhetorical. You’re already aware of the echo, the generational discontent and alienation, the whispered and denied calls for absolution. No need to look around, just check your bank account and sigh—or echo Biggie and scream, “fuck the world.” Or melt into the couch and absorb Red Pill’s debut for Mello Music Group—a novel disguised as an album, a surly hymn from poisoned lungs. It’s a confirmation of what John Cage once declared: “all great art is a form of complaint." Or maybe the better comparison is Bukowski, memorializing the “broken factory windows of emptiness.” That makes more sense in Ferndale, Michigan where Red Pill calls home. After college graduation, “Leonard Letdown” started working at a machine shop. A temporary gig turned into a labor daze. The dream of converting music into rent money seemed more elusive by the day. Depression compounded. The empty packs of cigarettes turned into cellophane towers. The whiskey mixe...