February 15th, 2007
I distinctly remember the first time I ever heard Ween, I was in the 6th grade and watching MTV’s Alternative Nation. Kennedy was on-screen, inevitably doing something smarmy and annoying. Suddenly, the music channel cued the video for Ween’s “Push th’ Little Daisies.” Being 11 years at the time, I certainly wasn’t in on the joke, didn’t understand what sort of mushrooms they were eating, and basically sided with Beavis and Butthead when they declared that Ween “like totally sucked.”
So when the New Hope, Pennsylvania duo followed up Pure Guava with 1994’s Chocolate and Cheese, I wasn’t exactly paying much attention to the band (maybe if I’d seen the album cover.) In fact, I really hated them at the time, thanks to one of my best friends, who whenever he wanted to annoy me, would start flailing around in a circle like a retard and yelping “Push the little daises and make ‘em come up…yeah!!” ad nauseum into my right ear. It was fucking awesome.
So that year, while I was busy memorizing the lyrics to “Regulate” and “Indo Smoke” Chocolate and Cheese, Ween’s fourth album wasn’t exactly on my radar. Which is too bad, because its a certified masterpiece, a dizzying, disorienting and hilarious trip through the twisted minds of Dean and Gene Ween. A record that sounds like the White Album if it were played strictly for laughs (and dedicated to the then-recently deceased John Candy) Often described as pop de-constructionists for their Zappa-like ability to simultaneously break down various genres, Ween pay homage to and lampoon music of all stripes, tackling Philly Soul, Afro-Carribean funk, Mexican folk ballads, and British psych, among others.
Are Ween Groupies Called Weenies?
What separates Chocolate and Cheese from being just another jokey light-weight record are Ween’s masterful song-writing ability. Even when penning a tune as ridiculous as “Don’t Shit Where You Eat,” the band’s bizarre but kinda’ poignant finale, Ween build the track around shimmering acoustic guitars and gentle resonating bass lines that in a Bizarro universe would be hit singles (No “Fergielicious.”)
Of course, Ween wouldn’t be Ween if the album wasn’t weird. Its scatalogical and political incorrectness are worthy of Trey Parker and Matt Stone (who later went on to direct Ween’s “Even if you Don’t” video). In that vein, Chocolate and Cheese features a 7 minute Mexican outlaw ballad called”Buenas Tardes Amigo,” where the Ween boys take on a ridiculously thick Latino accent, and sing about Cinco de Mayo being on Tuesday and how they want to sell their enemies chickens with poisoned meat. “Spinal Meningitis (Got me Down) is a tongue-in-cheek story of a little child going to the doctor to get checked for Spinal Meningitis. Meanwhile, “The H.I.V. Song” is pure carnival jingle-jangle with the only lyrics, the words “HIV” and “AIDS,” repeated endlessly. This, of course, was at the height of AID’s paranoia in 1994 (see Reality Bites).
Interspersed are the truly classic album cuts, some of the more catchy slices of the pop ever recorded during the “alternative rock” era. “Freedom of 76″ invents Beck’s entire Midnight Vultures persona. The Prince homage of “Roses are Free,” is filled with stoned silly funk that Trey Anastasio hijacked for marathon Phish sets. And its practically inconceivable that “Voodoo Lady” never became a Top 40 single, as its sounds like it was made straight for sorority row., with its brainless lyrics and wildly catchy hooks. Sadly, most people probably know it as that song from Road Trip.
The Trey Parker and Matt Stone of Music
Shockingly, Beavis and Butthead (and me) were wrong after all. Ween are in fact, a great band, and Chocolate and Cheese pretty awesome. Having never seen them live, I’m damned jealous of everyone going to Bonnaroo this Summer, where Ween will be playing a set that will totally not suck. Well, except for “Push th’ little Daisies” which last time I checked, remains extraordinarily annoying.
Download:
MP3: Ween-”Voodoo Lady”
MP3: Ween-”Roses are Free”
Posted in The Old Testament | 6 Comments »
February 14th, 2007
There’s only a handful of ways to describe Dalek’s Abandoned Language. Most of them involve some permutation of adjectives typically bringing to mind High School English teachers lecturing on Edgar Allen Poe. It’s bleak. It’s harrowing. It’s chilling. It’s dense, claustrophobic paranoia. Sadly though, Abandoned Language doesn’t have any ravens. Instead, we get the Newark-based duo of Dalek (the MC and sometime producer) and his production partner, Oktopus, and their warped noirish masterpiece, so dark it sounds like it was recorded at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, half a dozen miles underwater, completely lacking in any and all presence of light.
This is a combination of the albums I’ve been waiting on Cannibal Ox and DJ Shadow to do for the last half decade: a brilliant collage of eerie frigid instrumentals so cold you can practically feel the bone-rattling gusts of wind icing up your nose and ears; mixed with pure old school politically-bent lyricism. The production is a hybrid of My Bloody Valentine-esque swirls of dusty gray and ghostly white surrounded by gritty boom-bap drums.
Usually when hip-hoppers push the bar forward, at best they wind up like Subtle: intriguing but non-accessible to most hip-hop traditionalists. This is that rare album that offers something for everyone. True heads will appreciate Dalek’s mission statement on the first verse of “Corrupt (knuckle up)”: I script gutter beats and scribe lyrics/sounds that resonate for days off these ears that simply fear it/situate my verse six inches off curb/eternally can turn/when will these kids learn/I box with concern of elder statesmen/only breath for three decades but displayed I ain’t vacant/ranks of MC’s infested with fakeness…dispel your bitch rumors/tune the block with hangers/wires givin‘ tumors/Never write my songs for consumers/ironic, cuz‘ I write my songs for heads with phat laces on their Pumas.”
Dalek: Rappin‘ Like Cannibal Ox/Lookin‘ Like Big Pun (at least the guy on the right)
Tracks like “Lynch” will appeal to fans of avant-garde instrumentalism, or as Ian Cohen so aptly pointed out: “I imagine this resembles what Wolf Eyes sounds like to people who don’t think they’re a bunch of worthless noisemakers.” Indeed, through the track’s five and a half minute run time, it features creepy synths stabbing through a miasma of noise, with slow assassin-like precision. Inspired by David Lynch flicks, the song could just as easily soundtrack a scene in “Mullholland Dr,” or a ritualistic killing in ancient Ireland, with the Stone Aged villagers sacrificing a body and tossing it into a peat bog to let it idle, suspended for eternity. (That’s the last time, I get high and go to the Natural History Museum.)
Fans of conscious hip-hop like Immortal Technique and The Coup will appreciate Dalek’s clear-cut political bent. Gratefully, they never diverge into easy polemics, coating their beliefs in classic but still easy-to decipher NYC slang, as seen on the hook to “Bricks Crumble:
“Militant speech type Amiri Baraka/await actions from heads that ain’t proper/words strength and emotions they foster/brinks crumble in defeat of this offer.” Later, they claim to wield “assassin’s arrows aimed at the affluent.”
Yet the true brilliance of Abandoned Language lies in its sense of balance. This duo from the Bricks intuitively understandw how to balance their sonic density with accessibility. While I consider the Def Jukies to be among some of the most brilliant and innovative people in hip-hop, their detractors often knock them for their arrhythmic beats and incomprehensible SAT-word lyrics. Yet Dalek walk the tight rope between Mobb Deep and Cannibal Ox, a duo unafraid to experiment, yet never at the expense of listenability. Just when an instrumental is about to grow tedious, Abandoned Language veers into a hard-hitting break beat or some tough-minded yet undeniably artful lyrics. Few albums made this year capture a mood better than Abandoned Language. It’s the best hip-hop album made since Fishscale. It’s the first great rap album of the year.
Rating: 9.1
Download:
MP3: Dalek-”Abandoned Language”
MP3: Dalek-”Bricks Crumble”
Dalek on Myspace
Pre-Order Abandoned Language
Posted in Album Reviews | 7 Comments »
February 13th, 2007
The Setting: Jay-Z’s lavish offices at Def Jam Headquarters in Manhattan. Reclining in his leather chair, Jay throws his S. Dot kicks up on his mahogany desk and lights a Cohiba Cigar with a $100 bill. Suddenly, he hears a knock at the door.
Jay-Z: Holla at ya boy!
The door opens. Pete Wentz walks in, clad in eye liner, a dash of glitter, and a see-through mesh top, that reads “This Ain’t a Tee-Shirt, It’s a Nipple Seen.” Wentz bows before Jay-Z.
Pete Wentz: Greetings sire.
Jay-Z nods at Wentz.
Jay-Z: This is what critics said couldn’t happen.
Pete Wentz: Indeed, they were all too busy believing that you were really with Beyonce.
Jay-Z: I don’t think its meant to be. She loves her work more than she does me.
Pete Wentz: I can take your problems away with a nod and a wave of my hand. Because that’s just the kind of boy that I am.
Jay-Z: I dedicate this to everyone who said we couldn’t make it.
Pete Wentz: Oh we can make it.
Jay-Z: I know some places we can go. Do you wanna’ ride with me?
Pete Wentz: I sing the blues and I swallow them too.
Jay-Z: I’m a writer not a biter.
Pete Wentz: That’s good to hear. Wasn’t it Eazy E who said, ‘quit bitin’ it and shit.
Pete Wentz moves closer. Much closer. He looks longingly into Jay-Z’s eyes.
Pete Wentz: We take sour sips from life’s lush lips.
Jay-Z: Welcome to Hollywood baby.
Ring the Alarm, Indeed.
Jay-Z: Come and get that cash from me. They call me the rain man.
Pete Wentz: I only want to sing you to sleep in your bedroom. We need umbrellas on the inside.
Jay-Z: Act like you want it. You know you hot like fire. You throw that body. I’ll throw them dollars.
Pete Wentz: Come hell or high water…well I’m feeling hot and wet.
Jay-Z: Not till Kingdom Come.
Pete Wentz: But that could take forever.
Jay-Z: Go ahead. Keep goin. I got some nice dresses for you guys over there.
Pete Wentz: Dresses? The band will love it. I’m a size 6? Did you know or just guess?
Jay-Z: Guess who’s back? It’s Hov.
Pete Wentz: Ow..that hurt. I’m a preacher sweating in the pews for my salvation that I’m bringing you.
Jay-Z: Dig a hole, bury yourself.
Pete Wentz: Wait, isn’t it supposed to be the other way around.
Jay-Z: Shut up, Wentz. The rings and things you sing about, bring em out. It’s hard to yell when the barrel’s in your mouth.
Approximately three minutes later (no snuggling), Pete Wentz is at the door, saying his goodbyes.
Pete Wentz: Sean, can I call you Sean now?
Jay-Z: Hov!
Pete Wentz: Ok, Hov. Well, thanks for the memories. Even though they weren’t so great. He tastes like you, but only sweeter.
Jay-Z: Who? I’m sweeter than your sister’s Kool-Aid.
Hip-Hop Is Dead
Wentz opens the door. Standing outside waiting to enter is Kanye West. All three men break into smiles. They live happily ever after. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Posted in Best Of, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 3 Comments »
February 12th, 2007
Today’s links are presented by Link, the hero of Legend of Zelda. I do have one question about Link though. Mainly, how come no one ever pointed out that for as tough as he pertains to be (what with his sharp sword and magic potions), dude is rocking a green mini-skirt and a pair of Uggs. Just sayin.
Nerd Litter Interviews yours truly as part of his Behind the Blog series. So if you ever wanted to learn more about my hate of Coldplay, my love of Woody Allen and the seedy details of my personal life, head there. Though, I cannot promise that the details are actually seedy.
The Angry Citizen sees the Hold Steady in NYC, admits he likes the show and undergoes an existential crisis over whether or not its actually okay for him to like them. Proving once again that its damn near impossible to see Craig Finn & Co. live and not come away impressed.
Kele from Bloc Party rips Jack White in an interview claiming that “I was amazed when Jack White said it wasn’t his job to be critical about foreign policy because he was being paid to be an entertainer.I thought that was treacherous because it’s complicit with the capitalist society,” he explained. Kele then went on to add, “I just finished freshman year Econ 101 at Vassar College and it was life-changed. This Karl Marx dude is like totally awesome.”
Aquarium Drunkard has two tracks from the very solid, The Good, The Bad & the Queen record.
Billy Sunday eloquently explains Dipset at his XXL blog: “The DipSet movement is like the Harlem Globetrotters of rap music. The Globetrotters never lose either because you can’t beat a fool at his own game. You just end up looking like a fool yourself.” Well played, sir.
Speaking of the Dips, I’m sure most of you guys have already seen 50 Cent’s diss video, and heard Cam’s response. Don’t know if I’m the only one that feels this way, but this is the first hip-hop beef I’ve been interested in since Game/50 and perhaps Jay-Z/Nas. Granted, neither Cam nor 50 is anywhere close to as good as those guys. Then again, I’ve been chanting “Cuurrtiss!!!” all weekend. Dipset might not have good rappers but they’re fantastically entertaining.
Thighs Wide Shut sees Justin Timberlake live. Leaves less than impressed, points out that Timberlame looks like the guy from Not Another Teen Movie.
Oceans Never Listen Compiles His 20 Favorite Records ever and predictably turns in an outstanding list.
Andrew Unterberger of Stylus turns in what might be my favorite blog post of the year thus far: an in-depth analysis of Coach Bobby Finstock from Teen Wolf.
Ace Cowboy analyzes the list of SXSW bands, discovers that “the list has four bands from three different countries with names based on the word Panda, there’s Child Abuse, Dead Child andand Holy Shit!, Lesbians on Ecstasy, and [his] personal favorite, This Moment in Black History.”
Vik at Biochemical Slang takes on Jay-Z and his apparent 2007 New Year’s resolution to further whore himself to corporate America. He also posts an MP3 of EPMD’s “Crossover.” Awesome.
Blog to Check For:
Wake Your Daughter Up: I’m not sure how I didn’t know about these dudes until now (let’s blame that on the white widow), but as far as hip-hop blogs go, I’m gonna’ have to quote Nate Dogg and Warren G and say: “nobody does it better.” A must bookmark for any fan of the genre.
Posted in Links | 4 Comments »
February 12th, 2007
Today marks the debut of a new occasional column, the not-so-creatively titled, Local Band Watch. Its intent is to provide mini-snapshots of the myriad unsigned bands currently floating around the Los Angeles basin, in an effort to provide more fleshed out-coverage of the vibrant local scene. If you’re looking for more in-depth analysis of other LA up-and-comers, You Set the Scene, Radio Free Silverlake and Kevin Bronson’s LA Times Buzz Bands Blog are also highly recommended.
Radars to the Sky are some literate dudes. They list T.S. Eliot and Chopin as two of their main influences on their Myspace page, and one of their songs directly references “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” The same Myspace page also quotes Flaubert. But while you’d expect a band so unabashedly intellectual to write songs bloated with self-indulgent wankery, their style is closer to nervous twitchy guitar pop in the vein of Modest Mouse, Pavement or Tapes N’ Tapes.
Last Friday night at their EP release party at El Cid, the five-piece delivered a passionate and energetic performance to an approving crowd. Despite having just been together for approximately one year, Radars displayed a strong interplay together, delivering some fierce guitar riffs and rubbery propulsive bass lines that got the hipsters up and moving. Perhaps the highlight of the set came on “Long Walk Home” as Radars’ lead singer and female keyboardist delivered some beautiful harmonies fitting of the high praise that local bloggers, Inflight at Night and Floating Away have already lavished on the track. With funky jammy guitar solos a major into their live show, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Radars soon develop a devoted local following.
Download:
MP3: Radars to the Sky-”Long Walk Home”
Radars to the Sky on Myspace
Thailand: Because America’s Already Been Taken
As far as I can tell, none of the four members of Thailand are actually of Thai descent. Of course, I didn’t take a survey, but hey, I’m going to go out on a limb here after seeing them play and examining the picture above. Oh you wacky hipsters and your hipster irony. Either way, Thailand are another local outfit that’s been making some noise of late. Joe at Radio Free Silverlake has already declared himself a major fan of the band (read his interview with them here).
Playing the 10:00 slot before Radars, the band also turned in a taut and kinetic 45 minute set, full of shiny New Wave keyboards, booming drum hits and lead singer Marc Linquist’s rich baritone. Seemingly aware that the neo-New Wave sound is already wearing thin, Thailand balance their polished 80s sound with bursts of Punk Rock energy, at times reminiscent of the Buzzcocks or The Thermals. The set was short, sweet and incredibly catchy. With their debut LP, Motorcade recently completed, it probably won’t be long before the labels come hunting.
Thailand on Myspace
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 2 Comments »
February 9th, 2007
It is a sad day for America. The flag sits at half mast while a nation riven by ethnic, religious and political tension unites to cope with the shocking loss of Anna Nicole Smith, its preeminent former stripper turned Playboy Playmate turned obese reality television star. Indeed, our nation’s mourning has manifested itself in various ways. In lieu of donations, her family has asked that spare silicone and peroxide be donated to the Anna Nicole Smith Memorial Fund, to teach underprivileged girls how to select themselves a billionaire Octagenarian. And millions have responded, once again showcasing the generosity of the American people.
Yet out of the countless scores affected by this unspeakable tragedy, the president of her fan club, Morris Van Kamp, of Skokie, Illinois, might be the most desolate, claiming that the loss of Smith has made life simply un-worth living.
“I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t drink. All I can do is sit here, in front of my computer, and stare at my Anna Nicole screen saver and think why her god? Why not me? Or why not Pamela Anderson?” Van Kamp said, blowing his noise with a tissue plucked from the box next to his computer. “The tabloids liked ripping on Anna, focusing on the negative things, like the time she married a walking corpse for the money, or the many times she talked about how she needed to ‘fuck’ in front of her teenage son, or even how she couldn’t stop her poodle Sugar Pie from humping everything in the room. But what those people fail to mention is how hot she looked in her playboy video. (nsfw…via Goldenfiddle)
Pucker Up
While Van Kamp pointed to the routine humiliation inflicted on Smith by the tabloids, Betty Carter, a producer at Extra spoke out about the situation down at the magazine’s Los Angeles-based headquarters.
“A lot of people believe we had it out for Anna, but that was far from reality. In fact, right now, down at headquarters, the staff are swathed in black, performing a candle-lit vigil, praying for her soul,” Carter said solemnly, wiping a tear from her face. “This was the last thing we wanted for Anna Nicole. Reality TV stars don’t grow on trees. And even if they did, no tree could produce anything so train-wreck entertaining as Anna Nicole….Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go call Bobby Trendy for a quote.”
Yet Nicole Smith die-hards and tabloid editors aren’t the only ones in pain. Americans as far away as Baghdad are suffering from the loss of this national icon. In particular, Daniel Bradshaw, a colonel in the United States Army’s 103rd Regiment, expressed his anguish at Smith’s loss.
“It’s not easy here in Baghdad. Today, alone I had to interrogate four suspected insurgents, dodge three roadside bombs and duck twice from sniper bullets,” Bradshaw said. “But to come back to base and turn on the TV to see that the American people are uniting over Anna Nicole’s death? Well that makes me want to keep fighting. The world must be made safe for our nation’s most important domestic product: reality television programs full of silicone-chested scantily clad blond women. USA! USA! USA!”
Goodnight….Sweet Princess
Even President Bush expressed his regret at the death of his fellow Texan.
“Anna Nicole and I go way back. Back when I was a young man that hadn’t found Jesus and hadn’t yet given up Jim Beam, I used to watch her dance all around Houston. Heh Heh Heh,” Bush said, with a chuckle and a smirk. “In fact, I introduced to her to J. Howard Marshall. Him and pop were buddies, back in their oil-baron days. Her death is a sad day for America and reminds everyone once again, not to mess with Texas. Perhaps this great nation can learn from tragedy and unite behind a cause that can make this nation great once again: cutting taxes on the rich.”
Ultimately, despite the epic nature of this tragedy, even the most broken-up souls expressed hope for the future.
“While the nation will never be able to replace Anna Nicole, her death shouldn’t be looked at as tragedy. Instead, it should be looked at as an affirmation of the American dream,” Van Kamp said. “Where else can a stripper marry a man on the verge of death and go on to take half of his fortune, become a reality TV star and make millions of Americans fall in love with her. Where else can someone lacking in any and all discernible talent or intelligence become incredibly wealthy off the size of her breasts alone. Somewhere a little girl can go to sleep tonight, snug and safe in her bed, knowing that if Anna Nicole can do it, by god, so can she.”
Posted in The Fakest News in Town, Best Of, It Got Weird, Didn't It? | 4 Comments »
February 8th, 2007
I almost never listen to the radio. Not out of any sort of musical snobbery (well, maybe a little). But mainly, I don’t listen because I’m an album sort of a guy. But every now and then, a moment will come along that reminds me why I loved the radio so much when I was younger. Yesterday, in particular, was one of those instances, as I flipped on the radio for the first time in a long while, to fortuitously hear one of the my favorite pop songs of all time, Dee-Lite’s “Groove is in the Heart”
I’m sure you’ve all heard it before. During the summer of 1990, it reached “Crazy” or “Hey Ya” levels of ubiquity. It was one of those rare songs that had something for everyone. Rockists appreciated its rubbery, impossibly funky Bootsy Collins bass lines, its Maceo Parker sax riffs, and its Fred Wesley trombone, not to mention its jazzy Herbie Hancock “Bring Down the Bird” sample. Hip-Hop heads appreciated the mellow buttery smooth verse kicked by a very young Q-Tip, fresh off his succesful debut, People’s Instinctive Travels in the Paths of Rhythm. Teeny bopper pop enthusiasts dug its sheer sense of fun, as the song struts along, full of dizzying slide whistles, jittery tambourines, and Dee-Lite vocalist, Lady Miss Kier’s, breathy soaring vocal. All this coupled with the kaleidoscopic psychedelia of the video, featuring Tip, Bootsy and of course, the terminally sexy Lady Miss Kier in a leather mini-skirt and/or a saran-wrap tight full body suit.
What strikes me the most about the video and the song itself, is how very much a product of its age it seems. A throwback to the midst of hip-hop’s Golden Age, a pop song that seemed to soak up the genial Native Tongues spirit, piggy-backing on their undeniable sense of playfulness, bright colored clothing and throwback jazzy vibe. Most of all, it was fun, something that most American pop music seems completely bereft of 17 years later.
Lady Miss Kier and George Clinton in 2006: Groove is Not the Only Thing in His Heart
In contrast to the booming Pro-Tools mini-symphonies of today, “Groove is in the Heart,” feels infinitely looser, warmer, and more organic. Lady Miss Kier nonsensically babbles about succotash wishes, hula grooves, oblique Dr. Suess references, nth hoops and somebody named DJ Soul who reportedly was “on a roll.” Meanwhile, Q-Tip’s spends most of his 8 bars rambling about his sense of rhythm, his sense of funk and feeling high like a Hendrix haze. If this song were re-recorded today, it’d probably be done by Gwen Stefani, feature a few apropos-to-nothing yodels, a couple lines about LAMB and a guest verse from TI, where he’d probably tell you how he’s on fire, how he has fans from Peru to Japan, and something about “the trap.”
Inevitably, the song would’ve been cooked up by six empty suits in a laboratory, scheming on what alchemy of producers and guest verses would make the album go platinum. In contrast, “Groove is in the Heart” came about when Dimitri (the Ukranian dude with the pony-tail in the video) sent a demo to Bootsy Collins. That’s it. Don’t get me wrong. Pop has been and always will be a manufactured art form, but with the decline of R&B and the rise of shiny Mickey Mouse Club pop starting in the late 90s, it seems to grew ever more contrived and lacking in true joy or fun. Today, we don’t get lyrics about Horton Hears a Who, we get male pop stars cooing lewd come-ons that sound closer to a date-rape (yeah, you Timberlake) or we get boring braggadocio about how “fly” or “dope” said pop star is (Hi, Gwen.)
Sure, every now and then a Lily Allen floats through the muck to seemingly refute my thoughts. But Allen herself has gone on record to state that the songs that made her a star were initially rejected by the suits who wanted her to work with bigger-name producers who could properly sanitize the sound and lyrics. In a time where the music industry is in a dire-panic about their flagging sales, they might want to re-think the manufactured synthetic product they’ve been cultivating. Musicians should celebrate their quirks and eccentricities. Not recite seedy cliches to the backdrop of atmospheric synths and anchor-heavy drums. But even if pop ends up further devolving into a morass of pre-packaged sanitized personalities, its always nice to look-back on weird pop gems like “Groove is in the Heart.” Songs that remind you that pop doesn’t have to be a paint-by-the-producers product and that the genre isn’t inherently bad. Just Gwen Stefani.
Download:
MP3: Dee-Lite-”Groove is in the Heart”
Posted in Are You From the Lester Bangs School of Thought?, Best Of | 7 Comments »
February 7th, 2007
It’s fitting that the mercury’s been hitting 80 degrees in Los Angeles over the past few days, making it feel like summer in the dead of Winter. Which fits perfectly with the vibes of the Parson Redhead’s debut record, King Giraffe that dropped yesterday on Yukon Records.
I’ve raved about their energetic stage show in the past and right now, they’re my favorite live band in LA. As for their debut LP, you won’t find many better “driving with the top down” records. It’s just breezy, catchy folk/rock in the vein of The Byrds and CSNY, with a bit of the Zombies mixed in.
My full Album Review of King Giraffe is up at Stylus now. (I gave it a B+ if you’re too lazy to click over).
Either way, the album’s recommended and if you’re in Los Angeles, their live show is a must-see. The Parsons open up for the Autumn Defense on February 16 and then for Menomena on March 10. Both shows are at Spaceland.
Buy King Giraffe Here
Download:
MP3: The Parson Redheads-”Full Moon”
Gorilla Vs. Bear also has another track from King Giraffe
Posted in Album Reviews | 3 Comments »
February 6th, 2007
With Redman slated to end his six-year hiatus next month with Red Gone Wild, its tempting to forget how great he was in his prime. Thanks to recent forays into the worlds of film, television, and advertising, it’s easy to dismiss Red as another washed up rapper that sold-out. Hard. Certainly no one’s about to forget the Red and Meth deodorant commercials, the sanitized television sitcom, nor to the St. Ides spots that single-handedly convinced me that Special Brew is the only fruit-flavored malt liquor manly enough to consume in public. A theory I continue to stand by.
But for all the money he’s still hoarding from the Red and Meth sitcom, Redman is inarguably one of the most consistent rappers of all-time. 7 albums deep, including Def Squad’s sorely underrated El Nino and the similarly undervalued Blackout), nearly everything Redman has dropped soars with his growling blunt-scorched baritone, animated flow and witty but still razor-sharp lyrics. Yet out of his deep catalogue, I consider Reggie Noble’s finest work to be 1996’s Muddy Waters.
Muddy Waters is the purest distillation of Redman’s sound: funk-sampling trunk-rattling Erick Sermon beats supplemented by clever lyrics that stick to the three B’s: Bricks, blunts and (crackin’ cold) Becks. Unlike other great rappers who strain feebly at making party records (Nas, Eminem), Redman is that rare great rapper able to carry an entire album on party cuts and shit-talking alone. Its not hard to see why Red was pegged as a natural fit in the entertainment world, managing to produce a half-dozen solid albums on sheer charisma and witty punch-lines alone (with an assist from some of Erick Sermon’s greatest beats).
But I Think We All Knew This Was a Bad Idea 
Commencing off with the Fab-5 sampling, dusty rattle of “Iz He 4 Real,” Redman lets loose a head-spinning array of pop culture references, befitting the man who had the most grimy MTV cribs ever filmed. In just 8 bars he name-drops Scottie Pippen, NBA Jam, Hennessey, Slick Rick and Vance Wright and claims that if “weak MCs…come to Jersey/they’ll get jacked like Jill, G.”
“Rock the Spot” flips Biggie’s “Unbelievable” for its hook and features another flurry of brilliant one-liners, including boasts that “my palms be swift with the pen like Lynn Swann,” and “you can quote this, I’m the Moby Dick of dopeness.” Other highlights include the album’s third single, “Pick it Up,” (one of the finer hip-hop 12 inches ever released with “Yesh, Yesh, Y’all), and its existential qustion: “if you see a bag of weed on the floor, motherfucker what the fuck you gonna’ do? (pick it up, pick it up.)”
“Smoke Buddah” finds Redman effortlessly creating another stoner classics, riding Rick James’ “Mary Jane” to craft a cut worthy of a place alongside Whut thee Album’s, “How to Roll a Blunt.” “Whateva Man” makes you wonder how much better EPMD would’ve been if Red had been there instead of Parrish Smith, not to mention its brilliant Blues-Brothers inspired video (with Method Man mysteriously replacing Erick Sermon).
Redman: Presumably Not Heeding GZA’s Advice About Sandals
Like most classic hip-hop albums of its era, Muddy Waters manages to turn in funny, well-constructed skits, including a painfully clueless news crew who come to Newark and get their gear stolen and shot at. Not to mention a “chicken-head convention” full of wayward clucking. The album is a bit overlong, running 1 hour and 7 minutes, but track-for-track there aren’t any duds, each verse studded with inventive similes, brash claims, and molasses slow stoned funk.
If you think Redman is all histrionic gestures and commercial shills, you need to own a copy of this record. If you like hip-hop at all you need to need to own this record. I’m not expecting much from Red Gone Wild but if it’s half as good as Muddy Waters, I’ll be a happy man. Hell, I’ll even buy a Special Brew to accompany the listening experience.
Download:
MP3: Redman-”Whateva Man”
MP3: Redman-”Do What Ya’ Feel”
Posted in The Old Testament | 8 Comments »
February 4th, 2007
Wow, that was some rainy, miserable, football. I’d rather have watched Dwight Schrute give a power-point presentation on the merits of Dunder-Mifflin paper, than have to sit through that thing again. Hell, I’d rather watch an episode of CBS flagship 2 and 1/2 men than spend 2 and a half hours wondering how much the Bears’ quarterback got mocked for having the last name, “Gross-man” at 9 years old.
Basically, if you weren’t from Indianapolis or Chicago, (okay, maybe just Indianapolis) this was one of the most dull and listless spectacles in recent memory. Yeah, yeah, it proved that Peyton Manning can finally win a Super Bowl. He also has the personality of a bowl of grape nuts, dull, flavorless but surprisingly efficient. Not exactly the stuff of Joe Namath or even Bret Farv….ruh. Y’know you’re suffering when one of the key media backstories of the game is how quiet Marvin Harrison is. Fantastic, news segments devoted to the fact that the star wide receiver is a mute.
I guess Prince doing the Super Bowl was okay. Although, next time maybe someone could pass NFL headquarters the memo that this isn’t the year 1985. Prince isn’t edgy. My grandmother likes Prince (and Benny Goodman). The most interesting side story behind the game was the fact that the Bears’ coach is named Lovie Smith. What the fuck is he, a care bear? A character on Gilligan’s Island? If I were named Lovie Smith, I would change my name to Nails. Something tough. Mean. Maybe if the Bears were coached by a man named Nails Smith they would’ve won (or at least limited Gross-man to like, 14 turnovers).
He Even Looks Like a Nails Smith
Don’t even get me started on the commercials. Maybe I’m not 12 years old anymore but I could’ve sworn that the commercials used to be funny. Now they’re just weird for the sake of being weird. Like that Snickers commercial where the two mechanics were making out? What the fuck was that and why am I supposed to find that funny? Like two grease monkeys swapping spit will make me yearn for a delicious peanut and caramel treat. (Unless of course, it was a commentary on Karl Rove’s deepest darkest fears behind legalizing gay marriage, in which case, it’s genius.)
Congratulations to the city of Indianapolis. If I were in Indianapolis I’m sure I’d be pretty stoked right about now. I suppose they’ve suffered long enough in Super Bowl purgatory (inevitably, God’s punishment for having produced Dan Quayle). But it does mark a new low in NFL history, that the quarterback of a Super Bowl winning team is named after a soap opera-novel about the lives of three lonely and repressed women.
Oh well. Another year, another Super Bowl. This one, stunningly more unspectacular than the last. And as much as I rue the appallingly bad alchemy of football, advertising and bland broadcasting, the irony is, of course, that I’ll tune in again next year, like everybody else. Why? Because I’m a sucker for any holiday that involves beer, chips, pizza and guacamole. Even if Dwight Schrute probably can play quarterback better than Gross….man.
Posted in Uncategorized | 9 Comments »
I distinctly remember the first time I ever heard Ween, I was in the 6th grade and watching MTV’s Alternative Nation. Kennedy was on-screen, inevitably doing something smarmy and annoying. Suddenly, the music channel cued the video for Ween’s “Push th’ Little Daisies.” Being 11 years at the time, I certainly wasn’t in on the joke, didn’t understand what sort of mushrooms they were eating, and basically sided with Beavis and Butthead when they declared that Ween “like totally sucked.”
