July 28th, 2009
Everyone compares In Living Color to Chappelle’s Show for the same reductive reason: they both featured talented African-American comedians performing topical sketch comedy to the delight of millions. But more than just the superficial racial parallel, both transcended merely skewering culture icons to wholly re-contextualizing them. Try listening to “Superfreak” without thinking of “I’m Rick James, bitch,” or Lil Jon without a trip to the doctor’s office, or Prince in a pre-pancake universe. Though it’s 15 years later, the same can be said about In Living Color, and its dated but still relevant ridicule of Vanilla Ice, Snow, and Grace Jones.
While most targets of satire opt to buck the two-dimensional depictions, Grace Jones does little to contradict the Keenan Ivory image of her as alligator wrestling, glass chewing, shark riding, killing machine. This is a good thing. While it might work in inter-personal relationships, international politics, and episodes of Lost, nuance is the last thing people want from Grace Jones–other than perhaps a sequel to Vamp.
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 2 Comments »
June 25th, 2009
Between Randall Roberts’ West Coast Sound post and Reed Johnson’s Pop and Hiss post, you’ll find plenty of specifics, plus pictures. Besides, if you missed Femi Kuti, Santogold, and Saadiq last Sunday, you either live outside Southern California or you’re a huge fan of Million Dollar Password. In other news, Regis Philbin is alive? Who knew.
I’d rather pontificate on the notion of shadows, and how Femi Kuti escaped them on a honey-baked and halcyon summer night at the Bowl. I’d never listened to much Femi before Sunday, thanks to the same logic that’s led me to avoid Ziggy Marley like I avoid cess (unless it’s inside a blunt passed to me by 40-year old women at a DJ Quik concert–which by the way, thanks ladies.)
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 1 Comment »
March 16th, 2009
The slender hippie wearing jeans and an aloof gesture, was replaced by a crisp suit and the makings of a middle-aged gut. But as the third installment of the Timeless series proved, Arthur Verocai’s music continues to wield an indelible power that will ensure survival until we’re watching music holograms in our own private hyperbolic chambers (yes, my vision of the future essentially looks like a cross between 2001: A Space Odyssey and the Neverland Ranch.)
If you aren’t familiar with the Rio De Janeiro-raised Verocai, his epononymous 1972 masterpiece, and the hapless backstory that led to him being something akin to the Tropicalia Vashti Bunyan, I have a brief but hopefully useful synopsis at Pop and Hiss. If you’re too lazy to click over, think a synthesis of soul, classical, funk, folk, samba, rock and jazz, occupying a psychedelic middle ground between Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On,” Miles Davis’ “Bitches Brew” and Frank Zappa’s “Hot Rats.” I also had the auspicious fortune of interviewing Verocai–as always, leftovers below the jump.
Thanks to faulty intel, I missed a DJ set from Madlib with an appearance from MF Doom (he, of the just-leaked and awfully good, Born Like This). As for Verocai’s performance, what stood out most wasn’t the music, as bewitchingly beautiful as it was re-created live by a 36-piece orchestra including Brazilian royalty, Ivan “Mameo” Conti, Airto Moreira, Jose Bertrami, and Carlos Dafe. Instead, the moment occured slightly after the encore, with Verocai soaking up the spotlight, submitting to the roaring crowd with “we’re not worthy” bows, slightly uncomfortable, but absolutely awestruck by the reverence and admiration–the accretions of lean years and deferred dreams suddenly vanishing from the creases and sharp angles of his face. Though he spoke little English, his coruscating expressions intimated the fulfillment of visions first illumined nearly 40 years ago.
If you aren’t familiar with Verocai’s music, it’s absurdly recommended. Scoop the songs below, saunter over to Soul Sides for two more, and cop the rest from your favorite Russian MP3-monger. Bible material–as printed in Portugese.
Download:
MP3: Arthur Verocai-”Presente Grego”
MP3: Arthur Verocai-”Karina [Domingo no Grajau]”
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 3 Comments »
March 13th, 2009
Photos at West Coast Sound.
Like The Editors and the Shitty Beatles, Cut Copy practically begged for derision the moment they named themselves. Let’s be honest, these guys aren’t exactly re-inventing the synthesizer, openly cribbing from New Order, Duran Duran, and Human League. Had they signed to Island and been unable to wrangle DFA linchpin Tim Goldsworthy to get behind the boards, the Australian trio’s lack of originality would surely be used to paint them as another faded dance-punk outfit leftover from the ‘03-’04 pandemonium — when hipsters discovered, “hey, maybe this whole moving-in-rhythm thing isn’t nearly as bad as Stephen Malkmus made it out to be.”
So at a time when bands like We Are Scientists, Hot Hot Heat, and Every Move A Picture are stranded by the side of the road holding up faded cardboard signs reading “will play cowbell for food,” Cut Copy are flourishing. Last year’s phenomenal, In Ghost Colours cracked every stateside year-end Top 10, and proved once and for all that Americans find a certain charm in an excessive use of the letter “U.” Meanwhile, this is their third-go-round to Los Angeles in the last 12 months, following stops at Coachella, LA Weekly’s Detour Festival, and now, two sold-out dates at The Henry Fonda.
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 3 Comments »
January 30th, 2009
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”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 4 Comments »
November 24th, 2008
More excellent photos from Timothy Norris can be found in slide show form at Play.
Of Montreal’s career can be cleanly cleaved into three distinct categories. Emerging as part of the second-wave of Elephant 6 bands, the first incarnation of the Kevin Barnes-fronted band recorded a handful of acoustic-skewing and schizo albums, split between tiny indies Bar/None and Kindercore. Heavily inspired by the Beatles and Barnes’ own theatrical leanings, the records attracted the Athens, Ga. band a modest, cult fanbase.
2004’s Satanic Panic in the Attic found the band upgrading to mid-sized indie, Polyvinl and undergoing a significant stylistic shift. Paring giddy drum machines, a garish flirtation with electronica and a golden, psychedelic tint to Barnes’ perpetual Fab Four infatuation, Of Montreal produced its finest work yet. The follow-up, 2005’s, The Sunlandic Twins, continued to dip towards a wired disco bliss and drew mixed reviews, some that chided Barnes for being in a rut. Arriving at a time when “angular post-punk” was the operative cliche, in hindsight, The Sunlandic Twins has aged remarkably well and without it, it’s highly possible that Mgmt would never have been promoted in the first place.
Then came last year’s Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer, the album which catapulted the band to a level of popularity almost unimaginable for an indie group not on Saddle Creek, Sub Pop, Matador or Merge. Perhaps the band’s most consistently realized work, Barnes’ songwriting grew more personal and direct, particularly on the record’s centerpiece, the nearly 12 minute long, “The Past is a Grotesque Animal–” a brilliant break-up ballad so painfully emo that it ensured that it would appeal to two very important demographics: 14-year old girls (see above) and music critics. On-stage, Barnes grew almost cartoonishly outlandish, performing as his alter ego, a middle-aged black she-male named Georgie Fruit. Wearing make-up, sequined outfits, wedding dresses and constructing elaborately surreal sets, the band finally emerged. As did Barnes, who decided to famously whip it out on-stage in Febuary of last year. Yes, it.
Thus, watching an Of Montreal concert today feels like a cross between a Ted Haggerty-led revival, a wrap party for suburban kids in a 9th grade production of The Wiz, and a Queen concert, had Freddie Mercury & Co. been born 20 years later and gotten their start as a Prince cover band.
If you were a 17-year old, sexually confused kid on ecstasy, it stands within reason that Saturday night’s show at the Palladium would’ve ranked as one of the greatest moments of your entire life. And I’m sure the couple of Hello Kitty and the hipster Phantom of the Opera (see above) were pleased. In fact, most of the under-21 set didn’t stop dancing from the moment Barnes came out on-stage, garbed in purple pants, a sequined blouse and surrounded by rock people who vaguely resembled the Grecian chorus in Mighty Aphrodite.
By now, Of Montreal’s stage show has blown up to such absurd pomp that it threatens to overshadow the music. Which is sort of a shame, because only a handful of songwriters have written as many good songs over the course of this decade than Kevin Barnes. Yet most of the crowd is there for the vaudevillian camp; this is arena-rock for hipster teens. In another lifetime, its not unimaginable to think that half these kids would’ve been die-hard Kiss fans, or at least The Village People.
Barnes isn’t the only one in on the act, as you might be able to tell from Of Montreal’s drummer, clearly striving for that Coco B. Ware meets Roman Legionnaire look that’s been so hot this fall.
Yet the 34-year old frontman was clearly the show’s star, vamping for the crowd, whipping them into a statutory sexual frenzy. It’s sort of an odd combination, as prototypical objects of teenage adulation tend to skew younger and scragglier, not like the gaunt and girlish Barnes, his paper-thin hair worn in a neat side-part. But as the gremlin-like Lil Wayne has recently proved, anyone can be a sex symbol if they play the part and Barnes successfully packages it to the kids. So to speak.
The band’s set focused heavily off their latest record, Skeletal Lamping, a more scattered affair, but one not without its charms. Flitting back and forth between gaudy dance work outs, a surprisingly deep funk and occasional pyrotechnic guitar solo, Of Montreal displayed an impressive range. Deploying his Purple One-aping falsetto to the crowd’s delight, there were tiger masks, cartoons, a weird skit featuring Barnes as a priest with a sexy nun; it recalled an Amsterdam sex show as interpreted by Stephen Sondheim. The kids loved it.
Hell, even the corpse of Andy Warhol seemed to have a good time.
Download:
MP3: Of Montreal-”Disconnect the Dots”
MP3: Of Montreal-”So Begins Our Alabee”
MP3: Of Montreal-”Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse”
MP3: Of Montreal-”Id Engager”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | No Comments »
November 11th, 2008
I wouldn’t describe myself as a “happy” person. Not to say that I’m some sort of lugubrious, sepulchral soul brooding over melancholy poems by lamp light,* but rather, I find “happy” one of those banal adjectives that I tend to associate with watchers of CBS sitcoms, I’m From Barcelona fans and protagonists of the last decent Adam Sandler vehicle (no Punch Drunk Love). Yet strangely enough, the reason why I love going to see the Hold Steady in concert is because they make me really fucking happy. Of course, there are a lot of great bands that I enjoy live, but few elicit such joy as Craig Finn & Co.—it’s pretty embarrassing actually.
Thing is, whenever I see The Hold Steady, I get this broad, bovine grin on my face, like a sorority girl at a James Blunt concert, or a narcoleptic at a Coldplay show—and I’m not the only one either. I’ve stated in the past that the Hold Steady are closer to a cult than a rock band and that belief has only become more entrenched each time I see them. They don’t get fans, they get fan boys and listening to the albums, it’s impossible to grasp exactly how they could do such a thing. Because, let’s be honest, I’ll ride for all four of the band’s records but I’m not about to throw on “Boys and Girls in America,” give someone a pair of headphones and tell them that “The Hold Steady will change their life.” **
But something undeniably special occurs at a Hold Steady show. The audience gets swept into a sort of weird rapture, almost impossible to find in the mumbling, introverted world of indie rock. Throughout the band’s hour and a half Sunday night set at the Orpheum in Boston, my attention kept on getting momentarily diverted by three different types, all of whom continually kept on “losing their shit” (for lack of a better phrase). The first, a lanky hipster in a sport coat and asymmetric hair-cut, whose arms never slacked, a frenetic, flailing mixture of pointing, roof-raising and pure reverie. Every few songs, he’d get so swamped in the music that he’d storm to the front row, only to be hurled back to his seat by security. Normally, he was the type of guy I’d mock mercilessly and Google for a random photo to illustrate his absurdity.
Craig Finn In the Midst of Performing a Cover of “YMCA”
Instead, the Kramer-esque, “hipster doofus” seemed imbued with a certain fundamental righteousness. As did the couple in the front row, rocking and holy-rolling to each song, arms intertwined—save for when he paused to rifle off an imaginary air guitar lick or she whipped out her camera to preserve the moment. To say nothing of the two teenaged geeks in the row in front of me, who like everyone else in the room seemed to know every word to every song. The pair amounted to a miniature Wayne and Garth, elbows akimbo, nearly knocking me out with their spastic churning and head whipping. There was a certain sweetness and sincerity to the affair, one lacking in the often-arch, tight-lipped performances that fall under the loose umbrella constituting “indie.”
Of course, I agreed. My grin, wide and nacreous, all of us distinctly different, unified in our shared belief that unfettered joy was the only appropriate reaction to Craig Finn’s giddy stage presence, beads of sweat pouring down his face, beatific smile and wild, frantic rapper arm gesticulations. Or Tad Kubler, the unassuming lead guitarist whose tattoos and guitar chops seem to multiply exponentially every time I see the band. While Franz Nicolay, multi-instrumentalist extraordinaire (harpsichord, keyboards, harmonica, accordian), chugged red wine straight from the bottle and once again, marked himself as the band’s secret weapon and the prime reason for their ability to diversify their sound beyond the Replacements and Springsteen worship of their first two albums. Perhaps predictably, the band leaned heavily on their most recent album “Stay Positive” (reviewed by me, here), but made sure to play the fan favorites from its predecessors (“Chips Ahoy,” “Your Little Hoodrat Friend,” and a particularly great, “Positive Jam.”)
Indeed, it’s the title of the latter song that indicates what makes the Hold Steady one of my favorite bands and ensures that I’ll see them every time they come through town (ensuring that you–dear reader–will be bludgeoned with another review in my on-going quest to cadge free tickets***). Blessed with the rare talent to mix sincerity and smarts, heart without schmaltz, The Hold Steady remain on my short-list of the finest bands to emerge during this decade. By the time, they unfurled a “Rock + Roll Means Well,”
banner during their encore (played with Patterson Hood of the Drive By Truckers), the band had validated every bit of the vague meaning contained within the statement. I was happy and I don’t think anyone in the room felt any differently.
*I mean, really, I do the wide majority of my reading during the day.
** Is it safe to say, with the decade winding down, that the “Shins will change your life” scene in “Garden State” is the worst sequence in any non-critically reviled movie made in the last 10 years. (Crash obviously discounted, for being perhaps, the worst film ever made—period.)
***Because unlike rap music, journalism lamentably isn’t conducive to the “champagne wishes and caviar dream” lifestyle.
Download:
MP3: The Hold Steady-”Sequestered In Memphis”
MP3: The Hold Steady-”Slapped Actress”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 6 Comments »
November 3rd, 2008
Larry David articulated the maddening, finger-nail gnawing, pre-election neuroses far better than I can, so no need to reiterate. This final descent towards election day has been excruciating for us all, to the point where it’s nearly impossible to talk about anything else. Hell, on Friday night one of my friends ended up heckling some McCain supporters who had the temerity to suggest that Obama “supports terrorists,” while using the term, “Iraqians.”
So forgive me if I openly wonder if writing this review isn’t an exercise in banality. Let’s talk grand scheme here: me and Fujiya & Miyagi don’t matter at all right now (if we ever did). In a few dozen hours, the globe’s destiny will be sculpted severely by the whims of the Pennsylvania suburbs (give or take the cult of a few Ohio plumbers.) Factor in anxiety over the ever-worsening recession, the savage scalping incurred by American journalism this week, and the death of renowned oral historian, Studs Terkel, and any mind, sober or stoned wouldn’t be blamed for opting to hibernate until the 5th –or the next eight years, depending on Tuesday’s outcome.
So consider it a triumph that for an hour and fifteen minutes on Thursday night at the Troubadour, Fujiya and Miyagi accomplished the near impossible: convincing a mass of worry-wracked souls to ditch these anxieties for a cathartic dance party. This, of course, excludes the Hipster Runoff types willing to dance for wooden nickels at a drop of Sparks and the drop of an 808.*
Capes: Superhero Necessity or Hipster Accessory? You Be the Judge
It was a fairly impressive—particularly, considering on paper, few bands seem more ephemeral than a group of British guys ironically assuming a Japanese band name to make neo-Kraut Rock. Nor does it help matters that lead singer David Best delivers irony-addled lyrics with a sotto voce whisper so perverse that only a lunatic would allow him within 74 feet of their children.
Yet Fujiya and Miyagi succeed because of their uncanny ability to tap into the wiry Motorik groove of their chief Teutonic influences: Kraftwerk, Can and Neu! Matt Hainsby uncorks pig-pen filthy bass lines; Lee Adams, the band’s drummer (and a recent line-up addition) strikes an ignition that conjures 100 mile an hour visions and wide-open space. The band understand the power of repetition, with rhythms rippling in round, golden rings of noise, sound both precise and loose—jam band music for Germans, robots, or German Robots named Fritz.
The set-list was evenly split between the band’s breakthrough, 2006’s wonderful Transparent Things, and the recently released, Lightbulbs, a more spotty and uneven affair. To the group’s credit, even the most lackluster new cuts gained a vibrancy and energy performed live. If the band faltered at all, it was on those rare moments when they veered away from their rhythm section to offer dull ballads.
Overall, it was a damn fine performance, an oasis of levity during the last leg of this odyssey. In the meantime, there’s approximately 50 hours left and there are electoral maps to pore over and Cable News anchors to castigate. Good day, y’all.
*A pox on the house of the flailing cape-clad, costumed jackass dancing up at a storm. I mean, honestly dude, it wasn’t even Halloween. And you didn’t look like Indiana Jones, you looked like Frank Costanza’s attorney on Seinfeld.
Download:
MP3: Fujiya & Miyagi-”Knickerbocker”
MP3: Fujiya & Miyagi-”Collarbone”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 1 Comment »
October 17th, 2008
Jay-Z and Memphis Bleek on stage at the Palladium. Click on image to view entire slideshow. Photo by Timothy Norris.
The irony of Jay-Z being asked to open the revamped Hollywood Palladium wasn’t lost on the man who calls himself “the black Frank Sinatra.” After all, it was 68 years ago last month that the uh, white Frank Sinatra opened up the venue, along with the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra and a thousand people to whom, it is safe to say, had an entirely different notion of the word, “swingers.”
Backed by an nine-piece band, including a three-piece horn section, two guitarists, two percussionists, a keyboardist and DJ AM on the decks, Jay’s career-spanning two hour set marked his continued evolution into hip-hop’s elder statesman. Indeed, 13 years after Reasonable Doubt, Jay seems to be the last commercially viable link to rap’s second Golden Age, with the audience split between long-time fan-boys mouthing every word to “Can I Live,” and “baby mama drama” aspirants ensconced in the VIP, gyrating to his abominable Neptunes collabo,” Change Clothes.”
It’s tough to imagine any of his long-time peers being asked to open the refurbished theater; not just because Jay has to earn his keep after recently signing a lucrative, landmark 360 deal with nascent music behemoth, Live Nation, but rather that it’s difficult to imagine any 90s stalwart still capable of selling out a 4,000 capacity space. Blessed with the intuitive ability to balance the dueling concerns of the commercial and the street, Jay’s cannily been able to keep his career going, when artists like Wu-Tang and Nas remain stuck on the House of the Blues circuit.
Does This Mean Don Ho Was the Asian Sinatra?
The secret, beyond the obvious (sterling discography, brilliant branding ability, having the hottest chick in the game wearing his chain), is Jay’s inherent charisma. While the word swagger is more played out than Ed Hardy shirts, it’s tough to remember that Jay was essentially the trend’s pioneer, the first to value style over substance, though never at the expense of putting out quality product (well, maybe sometimes). And in person, that charisma is prominently displayed: the loose-limbed Big Boss-man strut, the plangent baritone, the unflappable poise. Dude’s a professional, despite an inherent goofiness that’s been successfully veiled, partially from the dividends of mass appeal, partially from the massive Aviators concealing his homely hangdog looks. It’s no surprise that Jay big-upped Obama several times throughout the show, as they both possess a certain indefatigability—the notion, that no matter what you say or do to them, they can’t be rattled. Or as Jay once put it: “I will not lose.”
So consider the Palladium launch a victory for both Live Nation and Jay-Z. At times, ol’ brown eyes shouted out his kinship to his blue-eyed predecessor, at others he cracked jokes, offering the Democratic nominee an extemporaneous bit of advice, about “the girl…you know…what’s her name..’you betcha.” To which, he lit into an electrifying version of “99 Problems.” Aided by Memphis Bleek, the intensity crackled with feverish pitch, the crowd alternating between arm waving and throwing Roc signs in the air. At one point, T.I. performed an impressive version of his verse from “Swagger Like Us,” punctuating it by telling the crowd, “It’s the King, bitch.” Which has a 73 percent chance of becoming my new favorite tagline (I mean, “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter…Spray,” was just getting tired.)
Clad in a black Roc-A-Fella shirt, black jeans and black Yankees fitted, Jay’s energy level was high and throughout, he seemed genuinely thrilled to be there. Not everything was perfect: the set list hewed heavily to Jay’s more comparatively lackluster post-Blueprint material, strangely avoiding much of his two greatest triumphs: Blueprint and Reasonable Doubt. Still, despite the fact that his recent recorded material might not live up to his catalogue’s former luster, Jigga left no doubt that even though he might be a bit long in the tooth to be CEO, he remains Chairman of the Board.
Download:
MP3: Jay-Z-”Jockin’ Jay-Z”
MP3: Coldplay ft. Jay-Z-”Lost (Remix)”
MP3: Jay-Z, Kanye West, T.I., Lil Wayne-”Swagger Like Us”
Bonus: (Because Zilla Did a Better Job Than Jay’s Tepid Version”)
MP3: 5 0′ Clock Shadowboxers-”Lost”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses | 7 Comments »
September 10th, 2008
Prior to Lee Perry and the technicolor Lucky Charms Coat taking over that Mormon bastion, the El Rey theater, I watched Pacewon and his DJ/producer/token white boy, Mr. Green deliver a capable, simple set of beats and rhymes. It was fine, but the entire time I couldn’t help but wish I was watching an Outsidaz show. For those of you who didn’t spend the 90s poring over overpriced copies of the Source and engaging in Mixed Up Files Of Basil. T Frankweiler-esque escapades at Fat Beats, Pace Won used to be a crucial member of Newark clique, The Outsidaz, one of the better, lesser known groups of the late 90s.
Best known for their debut on The Fugees’ “Cowboys” and a one-time affiliation with Eminem, the crew released a couple of great 12″ inches, and managed to cultivate a modest underground buzz before the ham-handed hackery of Ruffhouse/Columbia (catalogued by Noz ) delayed their first LP, The Bricks, until 2000. Beyond the record’s non-existent promotion, it didn’t help that the pop averse, grimey Brick City rappers fit into nether the Rawkus-model backpack nor the Escalades and rims raps already entrenched at the top of the Billboards.
The Outsidaz’ career seems dogged by “What Ifs?” What if they’d formed a few years earlier, during an era when their hardcore, pre-crossover raps would’ve meshed well. Or what if Eminem hadn’t ditched them (and Royce) in favor of putting out the largely talentless, D-12? Or what if Rah Digga, one of the more skilled female MCs ever, hadn’t been plucked away by Busta for the Flipmode Squad, thereby reducing their ranks and depth.
The Outsidaz: $5 Bucks If You Can Guess Which One Is Pony Boy
After The Bricks bricked, the crew dissolved, with Young Zee signing a deal with rap graveyard Aftermath/Shady Records and predictably never being heard from again, save for an appearance on the 8 Mile Soundtrak, where the label trotted him out like an exhausted prisoner of war for a propaganda shoot. Pacewon’s solo attempts didn’t fare much better, with few albums no one checked for and a beef track aimed at Eminem that seemed futile against Shady’s overwhelming popularity at the time.*
Currently working the comeback trail behind his Mr. Green collabo, The Only Color that Matters is Green, I happened to like a good portion of pair’s new material. Pacewon can still rap and while the performance wasn’t close to mind-blowing, the ex-Outsida(z?) maintains the charisma and magnetism to work a crowd, even one that didn’t have the faintest idea who he was. Despite the cheers Pace elicited, there was something a little sad to it. Not through the performance itself (which was good), but in it’s context. Of course, it didn’t help matters much either when Pace admitted mid-set that “I’m get older….I’m getting better…but I’m getting older.”
Rap generally shoves it’s elders off on ice floes. Hell, not even the greatest of the Golden Agers remains commercially relevant. So in a way, it’s nice to know that Pace is hanging in there and continuing to make music despite the slim odds that he’ll ever make it back to the show. It’s an uncomfortable reality, but most rappers just aren’t interesting enough to be solo artists.** In reality, the wise move is to call up Young Zee and Rah Digga, and try to get the band back together. Perhaps they’ll find BSkills playing Latin lounge music at the Ramada. I mean if if Camp Lo could get re-signed after hibernating for a decade and Kardinal Offishal can top the charts, there’s always a shot.
*At least, Pacewon can take solace in the fact that in 2008, the only people who continue to like Eminem obviously haven’t heard him rap during the G-Unit era.
** For further solace, Pace should understand that plenty of great rappers have never been able to hack it solo either. See Sermon, Erick.
Download:
MP3: Outsidaz-”Rain or Shine”
MP3: Outsidaz-”The Rah Rah”
MP3: Outsidaz ft. Eminem-”Macosa”
MP3: Outsidaz ft. Eminem-”Rush Ya’ Clique”
MP3: Outsidaz ft. Eminem-”Hard Act To Follow”
MP3: Outsidaz ft. Method Man & Redman-”Why You Be”
Posted in Beards, Blazers, & Glasses, Uncategorized | 8 Comments »
