Thanks to the real Douglas Reinhardt for reminding me of the classic video for “Flavor of the Month.” This is one of the reasons why the LP for A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing hangs from my wall. More rappers should carry shepherd staffs in their videos.
Download:
MP3: Black Sheep-”Flavor of the Month”
I can’t help but feel that this could’ve gone a lot further. I mean, on the original song, Juelz is talking about “English Muffining” you and how “you need hugs.” Still, if you parody Santana and Wayne, it’s hard not to be funny.
Download:
MP3: Juelz Santana & Lil Wayne-”Black Republicans”
So yeah, I completely slept on that Bug record. This track is the “Paper Planes” that you aren’t sick of.
Nate Patrin’s review from last summer nails it.
” London Zoo..stands out amidst the recent wave of dubstep in a way that makes Burial’s Untrue sound like Music for Airports. But it also takes the Bug’s work into a somewhat cleaner, less abrasive area– it streamlines the sound, shaves away the distortion, and draws most of its impact from the rhythms themselves. Of course, “less abrasive” doesn’t necessarily mean it hit any less hard: Martin knows how and when to drop a heavy beat directly on top of you, and there’s a carefully crafted tension throughout this record, no matter how sparse or dense that beat actually is.”
If Los Angeles had a viable subway system, I can’t imagine I would listen to anything but this.
Download:
MP3: The Bug ft. Warrior Queen-”Poison Queen”
While inferior but fine noise + noun outfits like Wavves, Women and White Snake, elicit the brunt of blogger bombast, Wooden Shjips stay buoyed if not blotted. Other than Dusted (who consistently get it right), judging from the relative critical and public apathy Wooden Shjips have received, the San Francisco four-piece seem fated for a cult following, It makes sense. Not even in the most chimerical alternative universe could they ever reap radio play. Last time I checked, psychedelic drone wasn’t ready to supplant “Womanizer” on KIIS, or any Airborne Toxic (non) Event track currently in KROQ vogue.
But I expect more from the critics, so all apologies if I call bullshit for the unfettered fawning over the latest phalanx of baby-faced noise nerds, still a shave and a decent haircut away from being fully formed. It’s not that they’re “bad,” it’s just that the hype they’ve engendered would dupe one into believing that they’d invented flight, rather than borrowing broken-in riffs from old Siltbreeze songbooks. Some are more punk, some are more ambient, some are more garage, but all of the latest critical darlings are unified by their love of reverb, lo-fi haze, grimy drums, and of course, the gibberish jeremiads for the cherry on top. The next best things? Maybe. But not yet. I won’t argue with you that “Black Rice” isn’t a great song. It is. Hell, the Smell scene is solid, if less spectacular than the No Age deists declare. But for whatever my chump change is worth, out of any of the lo-fi bearded brigade, Wooden Shjips is the best of the bunch. Breathe into a paper bag No Age fans, you’ll be fine.
Of course, they don’t have cool t-shirts; they record for Holy Mountain rather than the taste-maker approved indies (though Sub Pop did put out a “Loose Lips” 7-inch in ‘07), and they lamp in the Bay Area band badlands with a name nabbed from a terminally un-hip David Crosby song-at least, until Fleet Foxes finally take over. But when I fortuitously discovered that Wooden Shjips were playing at San Francisco’s Eagle Tavern, not even the place’s gay leather bar rep could dissuade me from seeing them live (nothing against gay leather bars, it’s just that if I wanted to see that many bears, I’d go camping).
Wooden Shjips: Sturdy, Solid, Mahogany
In person, it’s not hard to fathom why the band has yet to induce hallucinations from the hype machine. Each Shjipsman appears 30-plus, not quite conducive to the untrained noble savage myth so popular in the contemporary underground. You know, the glory of garble, the idolatry of the incondite, strength in blunders, etc.. Wooden Shjips are too old for those nostrums. Instead, led by guitarist/singer/Charles Manson look-a-like, Ripley Johnson, they detonate into hypnotic, motorik grooves. Rock at its most minimalist and mesmerist. Johnson, with a murmured baritone, bellowing imprecations and incantations, letting off scimitar guitar riffs that undulate in weird waves. Drummer/Kal Penn clone, Omar Ahsanuddin drills his kit primordial and primitive. Two drinks, three songs in, and you’re in a land of the lost, straining to ignore the Sleestak leering at you while leaning on the pinball machine.
The sound is somewhere between “Sister Ray”/”Murder Mystery” Velvets and The Doors stripped of bloat and pretension. A lean carnivorous howl that belies the group’s unassuming esprit de corps. They don’t talk–the communication is psychic and if that sounds like a cliche, it might be. Wooden Shjips’ genius lies in subverting those sallow ideals. Bliss through chemical means is cheap, as is the ability to scrape and scar your stapes with punishing guitar feedback. What isn’t easy is ditching that pit of lysergic orthodoxy–the ability to release bruising welts of noise that still ring with powerful irridescence.
The songs are there, they just drape loosely off the bone. The groove is compulsive, the assault cracks clavicles. Wooden Shjips are the apotheosis of that noise. A sinister, shaggy, stoned bunch who can out-freak your favorite freaks and out-drone your favorite drones. Am I generalizing here? Maybe. Is it possible that the bands I’m comparing them to aren’t technically noise bands. Naturally. But the thing is Wooden Shjips can float alright, but really, they should burn.
Download: (From Their Holiday Cassingle. Ignore the Yuletide connotations–they knock.)
MP3: Wooden Shjips-”O Tannenbaum”
MP3: Wooden Shjips-”Auld Lang Syne”
From Wooden Shjips
MP3: Wooden Shjips-”We Ask You To Ride”
As Disco Vietnam succintly stated: everything about this song is good.
Download:
MP3: Q-Tip ft. Raekwon, Busta Rhymes & Lil Wayne-”Renaissance Rap Remix”
Sach O only slept with your mother cuz she’s dirty.
Good writing and complex writing aren’t one and the same, a notion conveniently ignored by white indie rappers, college educated singer-songwriters and pretentious-ass music bloggers with little to say and the lingering desire to make their college education seem like it was worth the money. I came in the door, I said it before, I never let mic magnetize me no more, doesn’t even mean anything but Rakim GIVES it meaning. Same with I’m a millionaire, I’m a Young Money Milli-on-aire, tougher than Nigerian hair for that matter. Music thrives on economy and often its strength is expressing so much with so little. With that in mind, I give you one of my favorite album openings of all time.
Son. I’m thirty.
I only slept with your mother cuz she’s dirty.
See that? Two bars and a short story’s worth of details. A father and son have a heart to heart, the dad breaks down and admits that the kid’s an accident and the only reason he even exists is that his mom was an easy lay. In two bars! And it only sounds better in the context of the Happy Mondays’ masterpiece, Pills N Thrills and Bellyaches. While the Mondays are unfairly remembered as drug casualty follow-ups to New Order as depicted in the film 24 Hour Party People, there was much more to the group than pills, Martin Hannett and Paul Oakenfold. Of course, they benefited from superb production (Oakenfield’s beats on this album recall another Paul: Prince Paul) but the brothers Ryder had bluesy funk and lyrics to spare and are so sorely underrated by a generation that all-out ripped off the post-punk that inspired the Mondays that you’d think they’d been blacklisted by some broody tastemakers hell bent on sucking the fun out of music.
It’s probably because they’re not nerds. While we somehow expect rappers to emerge from the hood as prodigal poets untainted by the history and self-awareness that surrounds white music, a BAND is a whole other story. Post-punk is (falsely) remembered as a bunch of art-school kids rescuing punk from itself but these guys were more Sex Pistols than Gang of Four: they couldn’t play their instruments, ripped off the Beatles for the fuck of it and their fans were God damned candy ravers who danced to 80’s HOUSE.
(Psst: remember when indie kids hated house, before it got all minimal and boring? I do too.)
But give me Pills N Thrills N Bellyaches over Daydream Nation any day. Even if my inner music critic can’t sulk to it.
Sean Ryder’s sardonic screeds on love, life, family, sex, racism, customs officials, clothing and of course, drugs are half clever and half dumb, recalling the aforementioned Wayne in their nursery rhyme catchiness and layered meanings. 16 Men in an empty hotel comes off as a non-sequitur on its own but sung over a breezy accordion based sea-shanty (on a “rave album” no less) it’s something else entirely: the initial description of a bunch of misfits.
Who’d Have Thought That These People Would Be Fans of SHITDISCO?
Ryder uses the same trick on “Family” writing about his grandfather’s funeral using the bare bones language of an autistic kid but sparing none of the emotion, even the uncomfortable bits. “It’s only the old man that’s died so why’s everyone making a fuss?” he more-or-less says in tossed off couplets. “Bob’s your uncle” is a sex jam that would make Too $hort blush and stands as the album’s most dated moment but in an era of
“Lollipop” apologists it may as well be considered a highlight. Sean’s creepy Gainsbourg-like crooning may utterly fail at sexiness but at least it delivers a laugh-a-second. My personal favorite though? “Loose Fit”: a guaranteed personal anthem, a song that advocates baggy jeans, drug consumption, individualism and doing what you feel like in the face of trends and social pressure.
I can’t overemphasize how bad Nu-Rave sucked, so let’s try this whole revival thing again. Ignore the neon colors, the dopey haircuts and the druggy afterglow surrounding Madchester. Instead, take a look at the lyrics born out of tough times, the funky beats inspired by the best of 70’s funk and the positivity that finally killed off the dull artiness that had become British pop in the wake of the Smiths. There’s a lot to be explored there and in the post-Bush years, this is the kind of music we need to become a cultural touchstone for upcoming bands. I don’t need to sell you The Stone Roses (though if you’ve never heard their debut, shoot yourself in the foot, B) and the rest of the bands in the movement might be a bit much from the get-go (I’ve got a Paris Angels write-up in me down the line) but give this a listen and more importantly, give it to your kid brother that’s starting a band. If Sean Ryder can pump out a 5 star classic like this after hearing George Clinton and Ian Curtis, then the next generation just needs the right push.
Download:
MP3: Happy Mondays-”Kinky Afro”
MP3: Happy Mondays-”Loose Fit”
Sometime in the near future, I’ll compile a list of slept-on records from 2008. In the meantime, allow me to serve this Studio remix of Rubies’ “Room without a Key,” a track so sublime that writing about it threatens to invoke the hoary “Dancing About Architecture” adage. Plus, I’m busy. So in short, the moral is that Swedish Balearic music is good. Work is bad. And Ikea is somewhere in between.
Download:
MP3: Rubies-”Room Without A Key” (Studio Version)
With a tip of the cap to Danny Boyle and A Way Between Voice and Presence, we take a deeper look at the alternately painful and joyous recollections that led to the construction of Rick Ross’ verse on Ludacris’ “Southern Gangsta.” Little known fact: Ross’ boss qualities are purported to be the inspiration for Slumdog Millionaire’s, Javed, the underworld overlord of Mumbai.
“I Got a Letter From the Government today. I opened it, read it, it said, ‘we are hustlers.”
Circumstances behind Ross receiving this government missive: It begins just like any other day at 3:00 p.m in Ross’ palatial South Beach estate. Devouring his third lunch, Ross feasts upon several Cornish game hens, four quarts of Powerade, and a cornucopia of thinly sliced diamonds. In order to pass the time, he opens mail with a garish gold letter opener, his hirsute image embroidered onto the handle.
Expecting it to be the tax rebate finagled by his father, Miami certified public accountant, Mordechai “Four Fingers Up” Ross, young Ross is pleasantly surprised to see that his United States-sanctioned permit to hustle has been granted. He had almost forgot that he had applied. While over 1.3 million apply to hustle yearly, only 1,000 are admitted. Thankfully, Ross’ extensive government experience made him an attractive candidate–as did his surprisingly nimble, walrus waddle, a move viewed by dance gurus as a logical successor to “the hustle.” Ross also possesses a very large Pete Rose baseball card collection.
“Had a Lexus at 18, Picture That”
Circumstance: After desperately beseeching his parents for a Saab, Ross took matters into his own hands and spent his Bar-Mitzvah money on a used Lex. Though he was not Jewish and never actually attended Hebrew school, the always canny Ross parlayed his Semitic surname and West Palm Beach propinquity into $6,000 in cash, $3,000 in bonds, via a Scarface-named celebration at the Hyatt Regency Miami.
“Had a Chevy With Pictures on It, From Pitching Crack”
Circumstance: Above picture taken during Ross’ psychedelic dragon phase, characterized by a glut of Peter, Paul, & Mary LP’s, peyote, expensive shaves, and trips to Trina’s house for some combination of the three.
“Bitch, I Know Haitians, We Speak in Creole.” 
Circumstance: Ross spent his early years as a child impersonator of Francois “Papa Doc” Duvalier, the late Haitian strongman. A favorite of then-ruler, Jean Claude “Baby Doc” and his wife, Michele Bennett, a grammar-school aged Ross had a popular but short-lived television program on Haitian televison. Entitled, Baby Grand Patron,” the show was a feeble rip-off of Webster. It was broadcast in both French and Haitian creole.
“I Got 20 Cars. Why exaggerate? It costs Five Grand Just to Fill The Gas Tank”
Circumstance: Ross hasn’t filled up his gas tank since his great y2K incident (will be disclosed at a later date). Accordingly, he hasn’t been informed that gas is currently hovering around $2 a gallon. DJ Khaled, who moonlights as Ross’ butler and auto-fleet manager, has yet to inform Ross of the decline. He is thought to be pocketing the difference.
“Love the Marble Floor, Got the Greek Pillars”
Circumstance: This refers to a reprobate realtor who peddled the Parthenon to Ross. Thus far, the Grecian government has refused to regognize Ross’ claims to the property.
“I Used to Serve Shake, Now I Serve Steak”
Circumstance: A reference to Ross’ purchase of Miami Beach’s lone Steak-N-Shake restaurant. In his later teenage years, Ross rose up the corporate ladder, from fry cook to Milkshake Maven, a position where he designed cocaine-themed concoctions. The Scarface campaign would prove to be Steak-N-Shake’s least popular ever.
“Keep Jewish Friends, The Latest Benz” 
Circumstance: Ross’ patronymic ties with the Hebrew people extend beyond mere limbo and freestyle rap competitions that he won at Bar and Bat-Mitzvah’s all across Dade County. They extend further than his love for smelt fish, gold, and smelt goldfish. It concerns his deep love of Talmud, his adoration for the Yiddish language, the way it weaves itself into the vivid impressionism of his poetry. Mazol tov, Rick Ross. L’chaim.
Download:
MP3: Ludacris ft. Rick Ross, Playaz Circle & Ving Rhames-”Southern Gangsta”
While justifiably lauded like most of his Studio One cohorts, within the pantheon of reggae greats, Jackie Mittoo rarely receives the same first-breath recollection of a Marley, a Toots, a Lee Perry or even a Winston “Burning Spear” Rodney, or Horace Andy. Ditching Jamaica for Toronto in the late 60s, the keyboardist, singer, one-time Skatalite, and Studio One music director missed the Island Records salad years of the late 70s and early 80s, but still put in work on nearly every seminal 60s release from Coxsone Dodd’s imprint, including Freddie MacGregor’s Sach O-approved, Bobby Bobylon. An untimely death from cancer at just 42, didn’t help matters either.
While driving home yesterday on the 101, adjacent to the sun and sand slanting between San Luis Obispo and Santa Barbara’s vernal valleys, Mittoo was the appropriate soundtrack: California’s mild January logic meshing perfectly with Mittoo’s bright, bent pianos and stoned slink. I may have just been high, but I doubt it.
Download:
MP3:Jackie Mittoo-”Hang Em High”
MP3: Jackie Mittoo-”Grand Funk”
MP3: Jackie Mitoo-”Black Organ”
Houston-based, Shea Serrano, is a columnist for the Houston Press and Houston Magazine. He’s also written for the Village Voice, Filter Magazine, URB Magazine, Mental Floss Magazine, Texas Observer, Dallas Observer, and others. Unlike much of the blogosophere, he does not believe that Plies “Da Realist” derives its chief inspiration from Di Sica.
Plies, Florida’s 32 year-old snarl with a rapper hidden underneath, is nothing if not a work horse. Over the last sixteen months he’s released three(!) full length albums: The Real Testament (”Shawty” feat T-Pain), Definition of Real (”Bust it Baby Pt. 2″), and, most recently, Da REAList. (That’s three more than Q-Tip released between 2000 and 2008, in case you’re curious.) The immediate concern, then, becomes obvious: With an abundance of content created, will his message not wane in substance? The answer is a resounding “no.” Because Plies, despite what Vibe would have you believe, is shit.
His is a brainless brand of rap, mostly devoid of relevancy or coherent thought. His mouthy sound, which accomplishes a perpetual howling of verse even in its most discreet form, is effective -that point is inarguable. But too often it’s marginalized by bumbling attempts at elicit description (”Take your time gettin’ undressed, while I take the diamonds off my neck, ’cause I’m finna get in yo chest” –”Spend the Night”) or redundant Goon rhetoric. (See: Every song)
His want for lyricism is an impediment no number of auto-tuned Billboard-toppers can supplement –you can only rhyme “wet” with “undressed” so many times, you know. But Nielsen SoundScan will argue otherwise. Nielsen SoundScan will tell you that since its release last month, Da REAList has moved 114,000+ units. That’s the equivalent of selling 475,000,000 units in 1994, I assume. So, solely out of respect for his large listenership, the remainder of this review will respond in a manner more in line with the succinctness his fanbase requires.
Plies? Ham-fisted lyricist. Superfluous. Inordinate. Unoriginal. Hackneyed. Clichéd. Corny. Songs? Passe’. Repurposed. Shallow. Done to death. Examples? “Make a Movie.” Horn-driven. Jeezy rip-off. Ugh. “Me & My Goons.” Goons? Again? We get it. “Fuck U Gon’ Do Bout It.” Bravado? Again? We get it. “I Chase Paper.” Chasing paper? Again? We get it. Do you get it? “All Black.” Lush first 0:13. Trash last 4:01. “Pant’s Hang Low.” Better than Jibs, at least. “Family Straight.” Best song on album. Still unaffecting. 4 out of 10. Maybe. In it’s totality? Awful. Terrible. Wack. Lame. You get it? Best use for physical CD? Break in half. Stab in own face for buying.
You Weren’t Really Expecting Plies MP3‘s Were you?
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