“There must be something in the water. The soil is rich, yes, but it has to be the water…” 
You should already know who Porter Ray is (but you probably don’t.) The machines that seek to control your perception don’t want you to. He is too much of an anomaly. Porter skews the modern experiment that is contemporary rap music wildly. He is in a word: Authentic. Porter Ray is a natural… he sounds like East Seattle feels. 
From the same wet blocks that spawned Quincy, Jimi and Ishmael, comes Porter Ray. Having previously penned six projects showcasing dexterous wordplay, unflinching honesty and vulnerability, tempered with equal degrees of braggadocio and charm; Porter is an old soul, a story teller par excellence, a griot possessing insight beyond his years. 
A bit of Context… 
The year is 2017 and something is amiss. Fascism is on the rise and nearly everyone is a “rapper” (but very few people are actually still rapping.) Something else has replaced the art form, the lack of intent and authenticity is nearly palpable. We have, by in large, exchanged clarity of voice for the unintelligible. 
Much of the shortcomings of the music being made is guised under the auspice of improvisation, its inadequacy explained away by the supposed importance of immediacy. It is in fact: Lazy. The craft is even more garbled and devolved by the haze of excessive prescription pharmaceuticals that most of its purveyors (and many of its consumers) are slave to. An inevitable figurative and literal glut ensues. The masses are numb (and loving it). 
Porter Ray has had no choice but to feel deeply. Loss and violence seemed to plague Porter’s adolescence and early adulthood. His father fell gravely ill, and his subsequent passing signaled the beginning of a dark time. Leaving high school devoid of any certification was next. Losing his younger brother to a much publicized case of gun violence four years later only added to the young de facto patriarch’s heavy heart and perceived curse. The year following found some of his closest friends [including the mother of his son] locked up in the penitentiary with lengthy sentences. 
Porter attempted to replace the cloud that seemed to be following him with a haze of inebriants… reconciling the futility of that approach, he found refuge in his notebooks… they started to give what he actually needed. Within them Porter Ray found Blk Gld and mined it, stumbled upon Wht Gld and purified it, gave us Rse Gold and we rocked it… he developed a set of fundamentals and made them mantric, then we witnessed Nightfall.