By rights, grime should be well and truly dead, a musical genre consigned to the history books, like dubstep and witch house.
Someone, it seems, forgot to tell Wiley.
At the age of 38, on his 11th album, more than 15 years after the term "grime" was first coined, the man born Richard Cowie has made the genre's masterpiece, a five-star stunner that cements grime's blistering return.
On Godfather, everything sounds epic, like Wiley's pushing every dial up to 11 in the studio in a bid to assault all of your senses.