This collection of defining mixes by Steve Stein, aka Steinski–made in collaboration with his longtime musical partner Douglas “Double D” Di Franco, as well as DJs P-Love and E.T., and covering every base regarding audio collage that’s been touched upon since the heyday of tape-splice edits–fills a long-standing gap in the history of hip-hop. It compiles the uncompilable, a series of promo-only mix 12”s and ascendant recordings by Stein alone and with others, each a patchwork of uncleared samples, save the harrowing 9/11 requiem “Number Three on Flight Eleven.”
What’s at stake here is the enthusiasm of a couple of clued-in outsiders–in every aspect of the culture they’d ingratiated themselves into–fully informing the hip-hop genre, still in its infancy in both practice and technique. Responding to a contest to remix a new artist, advertising employee Stein teamed up with Di Franco, a studio engineer with whom he’d worked professionally. With Di Franco’s technical experience, Stein’s crate-digging expertise, and with both keeping a close ear to the street, “The Payoff Mix” and “Lesson 2 (James Brown Mix)” evolved unburdened by any history other than which they were able to observe and create. Around the source material of a G.L.O.B.E. and Whiz Kid 12”, they crammed in Culture Club’s “I Tumble 4 Ya”, rammed it into Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti,” and let that spill into Herbie Hancock’s “Rockit.” In spite of the painstaking crafts which the two needed to develop, between tape splicing and quick cuts, these works dropped many a jaw in a fertile era where B-Boy culture in their homebase of NYC was still evolving and built into the ends of disco, breakdance and graffiti crews, punk rock, and Latin music audiences. With the implicit support of Tommy Boy Records and then-label manager Monica Lynch, who would release Steinski and Double D’s works in promotional editions (to avoid the inevitable copyright infringement issues their liberal use of sampling would incur), the duo would create lasting contributions to hip-hop, ones which would salute and inspire the artists then in the field and challenge those who followed (both DJ Shadow and Cut Chemist, for example, created their own “Lesson” mixes in the wake of the five presented on What Does It All Mean?).
The approach to all Steinski mixes is straightforward old-school cut-up, to be sure, but instead of taking the outwardly subversive approach, a la ad-busting collage artists like Negativland, the mixes here acknowledge the hyper-referential qualities of sample-based music as signposts in a larger process–medium above all–rather than using pieces of that medium for more dogmatic ends. Even “The Motorcade Sped On,” an elegy created by Steinski to document the JFK assassination, plays as ready for the dance floor as the “Lesson” mixes.
Disc one of What Does It All Mean? (Illegal Art, 2008) compiles fourteen of Steinski’s legendary promotional tracks, and shows his hand as an artist with an ear for soundbites as well as staying within the groove, but it’s disc two, a BBC-commissioned mix entitled Nothing To Fear, where the taste and skills of Steinski and crew really start to shine. Nothing To Fear is an hour’s worth of next-level cuts & scratches that jump decades with a single flick of the crossfader, tie in tap dance with beatboxing in and around the beat, celebrating the rhythmic constants within both. It’s a bombastic, expectation-leveling effort, and as with almost every selection here, illustrates that, with the right material and proper inspiration, anything is possible.
If we at The Fix found ourselves at the proverbial dusty crossroads where the Devil spends his down time waiting for desperate souls willing to strike a deal, we would pass on the usual transaction of our eternal destiny handed over for the chance to play guitar like Eddie Van Halen. We don’t actually want to be one of those musical types who lay bare their souls, subjecting it to the scrutiny and criticism of desktop critics and embittered wannabes. No, we are the embittered wannabes, dutifully slinging criticism and casting aspersions. The Fix has prepped an offer for the Dark Lord to exchange twenty over-hyped, way-outstayed-their-fifteen-minutes, ego-infested poseurs for five of the genuine articles. We’re talking five vital artists driven into obscurity and artistic Siberias out of disgust with the music business and all the foul shit they would have had to eat to remain in the mix, or who have been held at bay by drugs, depression or jail. We are willing to trade at a rate of four to one.
We offer for sacrifice, in the Aztec sense of the term, these twenty cultural stains:
1. Coldplay
Following the trail blazed by Klaus Nomi, Yanni and John Tesh, this band is what happens when your only records are ELO and latter-career Elton John and you misheard the few good parts of those. Uh, Mr. Paltrow, we know you’re rich and you look like you were rich before you were famous so quit dressing like an updated Artful Dodger. God invented the electric guitar so we didn’t have to listen to stuffy Europhiles saw away on those hideous violins and cellos, but you have forsworn God’s plan for rock ‘n’ roll and now we cast you out. Away.
2. R.E.M.
Everyone so desperately wanted R.E.M. to make another good record that they went ahead and heralded this year’s Accelerate as a total return to form and bought up tickets for the tour. But like the last seventeen things Michael Stipe and company have released, it is a completely forgettable, tuneless mess, notable only for being slightly louder than the last album. Hardly cause for celebration, especially considering they remain the most self-important, humorless men in rock, who have been lapped in the creative department not only by one-time contemporaries like U2 but even disciples like Radiohead, Coldplay (see #1) and Snow Patrol. It’s time to put the blue eye shadow away and climb the pyramid.
3. Pearl Jam
We could have gone with the Eagles or the Doors, but what about the ‘90s answer to both? These puritanical pollyannas employed hippie business logic–“so, we can bust our asses on world tours, or, we can sit here doing nothing and blame Ticketmaster?”–while their mystic side quickly faded in turn for the same old rock records everybody in the ’70s had ditched by the ’80s. Their laissez-faire jock image resonated with millions of meat heads to the chagrin of those who had peaked back around the time punk broke. Vedder’s vocals–that throaty, steam-powered, full-body contorter known as the “yarl”–went on to inspire cum stains like Dave Matthews (see #10), Creed’s Scott Stapp, and that guy from Nickelback. Pearl Jam’s grand plan to grind shut the gears and restore order following Nirvana’s untimely demise worked like a charm. And by not contributing a single advancement to rock music, they effectively set our musical culture back two decades.
4. Green Day
The M. Night Shyamalans of pop music might have busted out of the gate, way the hell back when, brandishing enthusiastic re-takes on classic models, but what the fuck have they done for us lately? People now listen to the McPunk of Green Day out of drone habit. Growing more pretentious and sadly self-important by the year, it’s enough already with the political lecturing from a dude pushing forty who wears eyeliner and buys his rags at Hot Topic. We liked them better when they didn’t give a shit. Now, it’s our turn to not give a shit.
5. Kanye West
His artless flaunting of a primitive and novitiate distaste for whitey is just so quaint, and may be his only compelling characteristic. Touted in the lineage of Wu Tang and KRS-1 as an educator-rapper, this halting babbler of pop culture fixations has done nothing that holds a smidgen of value three weeks after its release. His ill-begotten sampling and foolhardy blasphemies of soul and R&B classics denotes a clear break between his reprehensible “school” and all that is decent in music. Iconoclastic punkers deconstructed horse shit false idols and struck back at heinous industry constructs that had gutted the musical landscape of its vitality; and there are plenty of sycophantic music critics who will credit West’s evil doings to artistic license and cultural idiosyncrasy, but his reckless layering of tuneless yammering predicated on random references to shit you can read off of billboards and see in movie ads over the top of Ray Charles and Otis Redding treasures is unforgivable. This poster child for ADD will soon fade from memory and hopefully all public record, but we would just as soon give his ass back now for somebody who will try and make the world a more musical place.
6. Sonic Youth
You had us at EVOL and you really should have fucking stopped when Kim started to look old. But then, do you even have a picture where she could pass for forty-five? Your A&R skills ‘plied to tap winners like Beastie Boys and Nirvana out of obscurity hardly makes up for the pretentious musical jack-off sessions and onerous multi-disciplinary European art exhibitions. Now we hear about a self-release of experimental instrumentals from an hour-long improvised show in Denmark from 2005. What the fuck did the Danish ever do to you? They make delicious pastries for chrissakes! 3 out of 4 Abu Ghraib prisoners chose to be the subject of an experiment in hooded sodomy rather than be subjected to one of your experimental EP’s in a cushy hotel room. Props for that Starbucks compilation, though; it shows you have the presence of mind to know your place, right next to Paul McCartney’s aural vomit (see #20). After innumerable offenses, your artistic licenses are hereby revoked.
7. Smashing Pumpkins
The same argument implicating Pearl Jam goes backward for Smashing Pumpkins, who were lucky enough to gain notice but stupid and egotistical enough to blow it on miserable excess and rehashings of the failed experiments of others. The balls on this Corgan guy. But he couldn’t even back ‘em up by at least making a show of eschewing the successes. And their handful of moments, aligned in a truly spaced, sun-dappled afternoon whomp of guitar resin, sink without trace into all of their puddle-deep platitudes. To think that these guys used the punk and indie rock networks to make such an obvious grab for fame and money constitutes unmitigated blasphemy, which is irrelevant of course to these soul sellers. Generations ahead are already forgetting you. The world is a vampire, Billy. May you go insane alone. Or at least go away.
8. Ryan Adams
Being prolific doesn’t necessarily mean being great and since he fell off the stage in London, breaking his wrist in January 2004, Adams has been anything but. He and his backing band the Cardinals released three albums of watery Grateful Dead style jams in 2005, before Adams joined up with Phil Lesh and hit the hacky-sack circuit. Next, he took to the Internet, using his website to release 18 albums worth of novelty music. He spent 2006 hoovering heroin, cocaine, booze and pills. His comeback efforts, Easy Tiger and the Follow The Lights EP, are so banal they make the Counting Crows sound like Pitchshifter. Lately, Adams has been blogging his adolescent poetry in an effort to win back his last girlfriend and denying he’s hooked up with tween has-been Mandy Moore, even though everyone knows he totally has.
9. Modest Mouse
In Conan O’Brien’s “Bizarro World” these guys are the dilution of the post-Slint/Shellac-lite school of indie malfeasance. Too cacophonous to dismiss as innocuous, this coagulation of feckless groupies-with-a-record-deal do not warrant extensive exposition. So, let’s dispense with the formalities. You guys go away and we won’t dispatch a Fuzz staff detail to hold down your “singer” for a round of Cleveland Steamers.
10. Dave Matthews Band
Talk about lyrically challenged. 1000 monkeys on 1000 typewriters for 1000 years would not churn out drivel as inane as DMB’s choicest moments. One more quarter-assed metaphor for getting high and/or boning and we might literally die. Plus, their milk-the-fans-of-every-last-penny scheme, with twice the live releases (12) as studio albums (6), requires a positively sociopathic combination of cheek, greed and laziness.
11. Usher
There are at least twenty-five of his ilk that should suffer this fate but he will suffice as the stand-in. We have to start somewhere with this abominable gaggle of pseudo-crooning pussy beggars. Chicks give this guy ass just so he’ll shut the fuck up about it. And that obviously doesn’t stop him from maintaining a running commentary during the bedroom activity. If he actually liked girls he would know that most of them aren’t all that interested in “making love,” they just wanna fuck, and without a bunch of bloated, observational banter while in the act. You’re getting a little nippy there lover boy; better put a shirt on and Usher your ass the fuck outta here.
12. Cat Power
Hard to remember now, but there was a time when Chan Marshall was interesting. Her most awe-inspiring shows usually ended abruptly with her running off stage in a stream of tears. Her records offered a glimpse into the mind of an artist battling real demons. But a few years ago Cat Power cleaned up her act, became the face of Chanel and hit the road with a bunch of veteran studio musicians, effectively turning herself into the indie-rock Norah Jones. Compare 2000’s adventurous The Covers Record with this year’s Jukebox, another covers record that only manages to summon up the most pedestrian takes on songs by Bob Dylan, Hank Williams and James Brown. She approached each Jukebox song as if sleepwalking, like she did through her most recent tour, just a ghost of the volatile singer that once made our hearts race with meltdown classics like “What Would The Community Think” and “Moon Pix.” Enough.
13. Dinosaur Jr.
We could almost give J Mascis a pass based on the whole pity tip but he was remaking the same record over and over back when he was purportedly lucid. Offering him for sacrifice is not really fair since it amounts to more of an indictment of the endemic laziness of music fans than it does a denouncement of Mascis’ idiot-savant like pre-occupation with his 2-and-half chords. But then games with the Devil are hardly ever played fairly. Suckers play fair and suckers lose. Later J.
14. CocoRosie
The pu-pu platter of every weird thing that’s gone down in pop music since Kate Bush and the Residents, all rolled into one deplorable costume. CocoRosie have crammed so many disparate identities into their music it sounds like nothing at all, despite their desperate, clingy reaches into diabetic levels of gooey sap. It’s like watching a child’s doll collection try to rap–and poorly, we might add––serving as a pointed and prescient warning against raising your children without boundaries. If you see someone over 21 in your neighborhood who looks like these people, expect a rent increase soon. An eternity on roadside trash detail should be their fate. Nah, just go away.
15. Gnarls Barkley
Weren’t these guys calling themselves OutKast or Black Eyed Peas like last week? A publicist can post any bio they possess the gall to claim as legit, attempting to sell this construct as a human act, but GB are quite obviously a botched student multi-media project. Grade: F. Now delete those files from the school’s hard drive and don’t enroll in this class next semester.
16. Euro Techno Re-mixes
We are not aware of a concept more shamelessly odious than some boner calling himself something like “DJ Bart Simpson Blue Revolution Snapple” putting dance beats behind “My Heart Will Go On” or “Losing My Religion” and feeding them across language barriers to the oppressed. Mindless, yet archly commercial, we’re not sure pop music has ever sounded so despicable. May food riots plague your festivals until you flee for your very lives.
17. Morrissey
The very reason we have to put up with all this goddamn emo music nowadays. Were it not for Johnny Marr would we have ever even heard of this guy? Unredeemed save for his long gone collaboration with Marr and a scant few accidental comic moments (e.g., “I would go out tonight but I haven’t got a stitch to wear”), Morrissey has been pissing and moaning about God knows what all for twenty odd years. We’ve been force-fed eight albums of angst so melodramatic it wouldn’t be out of place in an 8th grade girls bathroom (nor likely would Morrissey be), so yeah, we’re starting to get a little sick of it. And by a little, we mean the sound of his voice makes us want to eat a pipe bomb.
18. Amy Winehouse
Crack. Yeah Amy, you like crack. All right, you really, really like crack. We all do. The shit’s popular for a reason. Could you just not let your videographer friends (and husband) follow you into the bathroom every time you smoke it? Or, how about you just drop the tabloid-ready antics altogether and focus all your time and energy on ripping off ’60s artists. Oh wait, then you’d be Lenny Kravitz. Forget it, Amy, just go with what you know. Promise you’ll stay hydrated, and for God’s sake get yourself some Bactine or something before all those open sores get infected. And as for you, Lenny, the only thing that’s saved you from a good cockpunching all these years is that your mother used to live next door to George Jefferson.
19. Madonna
Seems like a million years ago that Madonna was relevant. That’s because it was. She’s a million years old. And instead of aging gracefully she’s going for the marathon-runner-that’s-been-skinned-alive look. If not for her career-saving decision to re-hash an ABBA song, we’d be coming on 20 years since Madonna brought us something other than an utter embarrassment to anyone involved. Now she resorts to kissing girls (so edgy!) and dry humping Justin Timberlake (edgy! again!) to stay in the news. We get it, Madge. You’re cool. Now stop making out with the kids and scram.
20. The Beatles
The seminal blight on the history of rock-and-roll since their fey little asses came skipping out of whatever grotesquely verdant, throbbing and respiring pod spawned them back in Liverpool. Their second record, With the Beatles (1963), is rife with unabashed emasculations and mal-renderings of milestone R&B hits and signaled the beginning of a decade of serial brazen mockery, especially with their injustice to Barrett Strong’s “Money (That’s What I Want).” The Beatles were to rock-n-roll what Enron was to the working man. They were arrogant, elitist, dilettantes who–even though now diminished by half–just won’t go away. Well boys, the Devil’s here and he’s got a past due notice for what’s left of your hollow, wheezy souls. Once and for all, Go Away!
…and these five we want back, please:
Neutral Milk Hotel
Jeff Mangum clearly ascribes to the George Costanza philosophy of going out on a high note. Fuck protecting your legacy and throw us a bone here. We’re drowning in assholes. We’d trade some vital organs (in addition to the afore-mentioned) for just one EP.
Shuggie Otis
Could the impossibly precocious (age fifteen at the time) lead guitar player on father Johnny Otis’ raunchy blues classic Snatch and the Poontangs and author of “Strawberry Letter 23″ deliver us from this latter-times R&B desert?
Bitch Magnet
The name alone warrants a comeback, Soo Young. Let that nasty bass guitar show us who our daddy is. You, Shellac and My Bloody Valentine at All Tomorrow’s Parties? Just the thought makes us feel naughty. You’re the coolest dorky-looking post-punk rock songwriter since, well…forever. Your tension-and-release ferocity is sorely lacking in this age of kids with no sense of dynamics or restraint. Return to make ‘em all bow, keel and grovel.
Captain Beefheart
Duh.
Sly Stone
Double Duh.
Don’t have time to search out this week’s essential MP3s, streams and viral videos? That’s why we’re here.
The Long Blondes “Here Comes The Serious Bit”
Kate Jackson is the best Debbie Harry throwback we’ve heard in a long time. So it’s kind of a good thing her stylish Sheffield, England band has Blondie’s primitive new wave sound down pat on this standout track from its second album, Couples.
MP3: “Here Comes The Serious Bit”
(via Insound)
N.E.R.D. “Everybody Nose”
The leadoff single from N.E.R.D.’s forthcoming Seeing Sounds is exactly as crazy you want it to be, complete with clunky Space Invaders beats, a new jack swing breakdown and ape-shit lyrics shouted at top volume.
The Submarines “You, Me & The Bourgeoisie”
Blake Hazard of Los Angeles’ The Submarines has the kind of pure pop voice that won’t make you cringe when she sings things like, “Everyday we wake up, we choose love/ We choose life, it’s too easy just to fall apart.” On this track from the group’s sophomore album, Honeysuckle Weeks, her husband and musical partner John Dragonetti provides the requisite gloss.
MP3: “You, Me & The Bourgeoisie”
(via Insound)
Martina Topley-Bird “Valentine”
Tricky’s former smoky-voiced muse returns with her second album, The Blue God–produced by Danger Mouse–and this beautiful late-night meditation of a single. Watch for the fleeting slide guitar solo in the middle. It will melt your heart.
MP3: 07Valentine.mp3
Tim Fite “Yesterday’s Garden”
Brooklyn’s Tim Fite is on the same label as Tom Waits, Nick Cave and Lyrics Born, which makes a lot of sense. His third album, Fair Ain’t Fair, is a thoroughly eclectic affair, as this crackpot ballad confirms. Fans of Randy Newman, any of the above, or, really, music in general will not be disappointed.
MP3: “Yesterday’s Garden”
(via Insound)
Six years ago, it was all over the news: R&B superstar R. Kelly accused of videotaping himself and a minor possibly as young as 13 at the time, performing sex acts famously parodied on “Chappelle’s Show”.
Such an obscene scandal under intense media scrutiny has tanked other superstar’s careers, but for now, Kelly seems bulletproof. Gary Glitter, convicted of possessing child pornography, fled the country and lives as a recluse. George Michael has parodied the events that led to his downfall–sex in a public bathroom–but has still not fully recovered. R. Kelly, however, is still a huge star with no visible dings, and it looks like he might even win this case.
A bit of backstory: Kelly was arrested in February 2002 after the video tape (which may have been made between 1998 and 2000) was sent to police by his local paper, the Chicago Sun-Times. Four months later, Kelly was charged with 21 counts relating to child pornography and released on $750,000 bail. Seven of the charges have since been dropped. Kelly’s lawyer has filed a motion to further postpone the case, but Chicago Cook County Judge Vincent Gaughan is reported as not being likely to agree.
As of May 12th, three jurors had been selected. MTV news has reported that Chicago Sun-Times writer Jim DeRogatis’ name came up as a witness, and former R. Kelly manager (and Aaliyah’s uncle) Barry Hankerson was mentioned as another.
Kelly has been present for the jury selection process. Writer Jennifer Vineyard was in the courtroom and wrote for MTV.com, “For the most part, Kelly seemed disengaged from the process, staring at the table, often holding a tissue to his face as if he had a runny nose or was warding off a bad smell. (The men’s bathroom was only a few feet away from him, and at one point, deputies scrambled to find Lysol to spray in there, though no one else seemed to be affected. However, on Tuesday, May 13, a jury consultant asked Kelly if his cold had improved.)” Each juror would then be asked, “Can you look Mr. Kelly in the eye and tell him you can give him a fair trial?” at which point the singer would put down his tissue, look straight at them, and nod.
Provided 13 more jurors are selected in time, the trial is scheduled to begin on Friday.
Last week, Live Nation gave Jay-Z (née Shawn Carter) between $100-$150 million in exchange for the next 10 years of his life, in the form of stock shares and promises of cash. The entertainment conglomerate will take control of his releases, his concerts and ticket sales, as well as bankroll Jay-Z’s own entertainment interest, Roc Nation, in a paternalistic arrangement conducted under the auspices of Live Nation.
Essentially, dude won’t be allowed to write a Valentine poem to Beyoncé without running it past the guys in legal before she reads it.
Jay-Z played his first post-deal concert on May 3rd at Boardwalk Hall in Atlantic City, New Jersey, ahead of a two-night Madison Square Garden stand that begins May 6 in New York City. It was part of the Heart of the City Tour, which he co-headlines with Mary J. Blige. The tour was already being produced by Live Nation, even as the new deal was being struck, so there were no immediate changes in the day-to-day routine.
Boardwalk Hall was sold-out, as are most of the shows on the tour, and the 20,000 faithful who came to the Atlantic City gig got exactly what they paid ridiculous sums of money to see–a highly predictable, seamless and stiffly professional big time showcase revue–a real snoozer. The sets of both Blige and Jay-Z involved immense backing bands with string and horn sections, live video feed to enable those in the nose-bleeds to feel as though they were actually at the show, pyrotechnics for those who enjoy deafening and jolting surprises, costume changes, and heart string-tugging video clips of Notorious B.I.G. as well as one of Jay-Z and Blige sharing their humble, platonic love, and giving each other props, etc.
With entertainment that is corporatized, commoditized and scripted out to such a level of exactitude, the average onlooker would not be able tell the difference between rapper Jay-Z and pop icon Elton John, or, hell, for that matter, even Céline Dion. In a deal where the money outstrips what was given in a similar arrangement to the vaunted Madonna last year by Live Nation, Jay-Z has–as the late comedian Bill Hicks would have put it–taken himself off of the the “artistic roll call, forever!” Jay-Z is now melded, at a mitochondrial level, with the dreaded and monstrous Corporatia. He is beyond anyone’s intervening reach. Allow the man some dignity in his passing and, please, look away.
Don’t have time to search out this week’s essential MP3s, streams and viral videos? That’s why we’re here.
Radiohead: “All I Need (Live at the BBC)”
The best track from In Rainbows gets a faithful makeover in front of a reverent BBC audience. But listen closely and you can quietly hear Thom Yorke baring his soul on the lyric, “I’m an animal/ Trapped in your hot car.”
(via Six Eyes Media)
MP3: all_i_need.mp3
Dizzee Rascal “Sirens (Acid Girls Can Hear It Too Remix)”
As if this British rapper’s thick-accented rhymes weren’t mind-blowing enough, someone has gone and turned this song into full-tilt old school rave anthem. Anybody have a glo-stick we can borrow?
(via Online Home)
Flight of the Conchords “Business Time”
The funniest HBO singing comedy duo since Tenacious D delivers the least sexy slow-jam ever, plucked from its forthcoming Sub Pop album. We so want to hear R. Kelly cover this.
(via Julio Enriquez)
The Kooks “Always Where I Need”
The only flop-haired U.K. band worth keeping around, The Kooks return with another deceptively scrappy rock tune featuring chugging guitars and a shout-it-from-the-rooftops chorus.
(via Done Waiting)
Cut Copy “Lights and Music”
With its dizzying beats and driving bassline, this New Order-ish track is capable of transporting you to a booming nightclub without ever having to leave your couch. What are you going to do with the 15 bucks you just saved?
(via Sean Ryan Online)
Hayes Carll “I Got a Gig”
While Ryan Adams busies himself trying to win his model ex-girlfriend back with sniveling blog posts, the rest of the world can move on this Texan songwriter whose Townes Van Zandt style of barroom rock sounds so authentic it’s kind of freaking us out.
(via Left Over Cheese)
MP3: I_Got_A_Gig.mp3
Tina Dico “On the Run”
The occasional Zero 7 collaborator and full-time Danish pop star breaks out of her down-tempo shell, convincingly rocking out on this burly new track from her latest solo album, Count To Ten.
(via box.net)
MP3: 0as94ovswg.mp3
Following up a debut album like 2006’s critically acclaimed smash-hit St. Elsewhere automatically puts a band in a sort of critical Catch-22; change too much and risk alienating fans and critics alike, don’t change enough and put your all-important creative “credibility” on the line. It’s a fine line to walk, and with the abrupt and early release of The Odd Couple, Gnarls Barkley has stepped onto the tightrope. Fortunately, with hordes of fans ranging from your avid 14-year-old future-Real-World-applicant to the most discerning of Julliard production geeks, this duo has a reliable safety net for any eventuality. The Odd Couple leans for credibility, and with a more mature but subdued sound, slips off into the waiting arms of the critics and connoisseurs.
Cee-Lo’s gospel roots shine over the dense diversity of beats thrown down by Danger Mouse, creating a much more cohesive and tightly-produced sophomore effort. An understated, almost muted production pervades the album; it’s as if one is listening through a thick velvet curtain, and combined with the extraordinarily soulful vocal delivery it serves to tie the whole project together despite the laundry list of beats that Danger Mouse brings to the table. It works particularly well on tracks like album highlight, “Surprise” where the pair somehow combine Cee-Lo’s distinctive wail and a vaguely Latin riff with a stuttering drum roll and Beach Boys-esque chorus into a near-perfect distillation of cultural influences. Even the more upbeat tracks, like the single “Run,” and another standout, “Blind Mary” maintain the musical and thematic minor key and subtlety that sets this release apart from the frenetic schizophrenia of St. Elsewhere.
This polish and overarching melancholy leaves Gnarls Barkley sounding all grown up–which is unfortunately often just a euphemism for the slow and bitter realization that life is nowhere near as great as you thought it was when you didn’t know any better. The Odd Couple’s maturity is also its weakness; the youthful vitality, the tongue-in-cheek unpredictability and beautiful insanity that gave us the ubiquitous “Crazy,” and managed to sell depression, suicide and necrophilia to the masses is now gone–and missed. As much as I respect The Odd Couple on a critical and intellectual level, it’s just too smooth, too willing to fade into the background and forgo the limelight that the duo so righteously snatched from the likes of Kelly Clarkson and Nelly back in 2006. Although ?uestlove may disagree, I miss the humor, flippancy, and yes, the craziness, of their debut. In many ways that represents a step forward for the band, but The Odd Couple also remains a disappointment in that regard.
Luscious Jackson may be long gone–they called it quits in 2000–but recent years have witnessed a flurry of activity from the New York quartet. First, there was a greatest hits collection, then Gabby Glaser issued the eclectic Gimme Splash. Now singer/bassist Jill Cunniff, who has since become a mother of two, follows suit with her own self-produced solo affair amidst news of an upcoming children’s record from the original group. While this 12-track tribute to Coney Island and other summer delights doesn’t represent a radical reinvention of her previous band’s beat-oriented pop, City Beach bears the stamp of a more sophisticated performer. Except for a hint of vibrato here and there–she sounds almost like Joni Mitchell on “Warm Sound” and “Disconnection”–Cunniff’s soulful soprano remains much the same, but hip-hop grooves have given way to bossa nova-accented melodies. Throughout, she keeps the mood light with lyrics like “Life’s to enjoy” and “When are you feeling down, let the record spin around.” Co-writer Rachael Yamagata joins in on “Kaleidoscope,” while Emmylou Harris provides back-up on “Disconnection.” Overall, City Beach presents a more polished version of the patented Luscious Jackson sound. It isn’t exactly edgy, but Cunniff has earned the right to relax. Fun fact: Cameron Crowe’s Vinyl-Films label is behind the limited edition LP version.
In theory, I’m all over this album. Reality is another story. It’s not that I dislike the music; it’s that the concept is more compelling than the creation. Take Lily Allen, for example. The petite potty-mouth created something new and exciting out of her love for Blondie and the Specials—to say nothing of X-Ray Spex and Wreckless Eric.
The third full-length from these fellow Londoners features a cover of Blondie’s “Rapture”, vocals from Terry Hall of the Specials, and a more up-to-the-minute approach than its predecessors (thanks to the hip-hop and techno touches). Good grooves aside, this post-big beat venture lacks the attitude and personality of Blondie’s Autoamerican, the Specials’ self-titled debut… or Allen’s irresistible Alright, Still.
The Pistols also take on “Gangsters” (the Specials), “Peaches” (the Stranglers), and “You’ll Never Find” (Lou Rawls). Hall, incidentally, sounds just as dreamy on “Rapture” as on the Fun Boy Three version of “Our Lips Are Sealed” (on which his trio were joined by Bananarama).
The parade of non-originals gives the impression that Speakers and Tweeters is an ’80s tribute album or a greatest hits collection. As such, it’s pretty good—despite the scarcity of dub promised by their name (at least until “Stronger” rolls around). Maybe I just have impossibly high standards when it comes to certain genres, like ska and two tone. But this disc would serve as a swell party record, and to quote Heart, I bet these guys kick it out live.