His gravelly narrative asides - “The wounds your father gave you did not heal…I see pure gold in you” - are where the influence of family friend/executive producer Terrence Malick makes itself very apparent.) He was a creative dynamo who found an outlet, a purpose, a posse and a sense of salvation in underground hip-hop. (The directors give Gus’s mother and grandmother lots of screen time, though pride of place goes to his grandfather, social activist and historian John Womack.
He was someone’s son, brother and grandson. The answer? He was a happy toddler, an emotionally distant child of divorce and a rebellious teenager. Whether you love or hate the face tattoos, crude trap beats and straight-outta-LiveJournal lyrics, it’s still impossible not to see him perform and think, Whoa, who is this dude? The guy radiates charisma even when he’s cutting his heart out in front of you. It’s not what he says in that opening two-word refrain but the way he yelps/shrieks it - “Switchblades, co-caiiiine” - that gives you goosebumps. Just watch the footage of Peep belting out his song “Witchblade” onstage. It’s an In Memoriam that makes a case for the legacy of the late 21-year-old as more than a casualty. They will understand why so many people instantly gravitated toward his alter ego, who seemed both indestructible and on the verge of imploding from his own vulnerability.
For someone with no attachment to his music or his status as the slurred, sensitive voice of his generation, this look back allows them a chance to get to know Gustav Ahr (Gus to his friends and family). H.Q/skaterat crash-pad loft or walking the runway during London’s fashion week? You got it.īut Sebastian Jones and Ramez Silyan’s portrait of an artist as a raw nerve is arguably better suited for folks who only knew Lil Peep as a name in a news ticker. You wanna see footage of the groundbreaking emo-rapper getting the crowd jumping to “Beamer Boy” in Tucson, Arizona or hanging with the Gothboiclique in their L.A. And yes, the die-hards will indeed find themselves giddy over the home movies, the behind-the-scenes peeks, the rise-and-fall of it all when they’re not tearing up. It’d be easy to think Everybody’s Everything, the painfully intimate documentary on the late Lil Peep, is a strictly-for-the-fans endeavor - that the only audience are the people who heard songs like “U Said” or “Crybaby” and felt like someone had mysteriously tapped into their own inner monologues.
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