Nosaprise, the trebly-voiced poet-­rapper born Nosa Ebedor, is the antithesis of Houston rap; at least, that's the skin-deep evaluation you'll hear about him from most.

And we suppose the "Not Typical Houston" label is correct. After all, he's the son of heady poet parents, cites his discovery of B-boy culture as a pivotal moment in his life, lived outside of the country (!) for a portion of his life and is of proud Nigerian descent (and we mean real Nigerian descent, like, used-to-be-carried-around-in-one-of-those-baby-pouches Nigerian descent, not ate-at-Suya Hut-off-West-Airport-a-few-times Nigerian descent).

But that's the type of labeling that has long typecast Houston in the perpetual role of the slowed-down purple city. We've always been more than that, and the need to add a disclaimer reeks of insecurity and slights several of Houston's genuinely talented, slightly less than famous artists in the process.

But on the real, Nosa's not like most Houston rappers. Not even close.

With a sound that's an amalgamation of Afrobeat, definitive early soul and message­­-driven hip-hop, the nasally Nosaprise jumps from ?uestlove-esque beats to engulfing, thick brass landscapes on his debut LP Grownfolks Music. All the while he manages to replace any clichéd backpacker hip-hoppiness with a lucid B-boy angle, crisply enunciated rat-a-tat flows and hat-tips to everyone from Blackstarr to John Denver to Stevie Wonder. All that, and don't be surprised if he busts out with a guitar in this live setting, too.