I'd take Jedi Mind Trick's (JMT's) "History of Violence" a lot more seriously if it'd earned Vinnie Paz a shout-out on Jihadwatch. I tried to describe it to my boss. I said "It's like gangster-rap, but with a crescent on the Jesus-chain that every once in a while dips its toes into conspiracy-theories, and somehow gets referred to as 'conscious'". And I'm not saying that's baffling- only depressing.
That said, JMT's producer deserves some type of 100% automatic auto-erotic asphyxiation machine for being such a badass beat-maker. The tracks are universally rich, layered, and textured. 'Heavy as a Melody' is dark, constructed with the delicate sound of bells, slow drums , and an oddly unnerving hum/machine-revving in the background. 'Trail of Lies' includes all sections of the orchestra (including the oft-overlooked 'chimes') to underscore the frail subject matter of young impressionable girls. Even the interlude 'Those with No Eyes' combines a skittish, desperate oboe, and an overplayed operatic sample over the high-minded spoken word text. The overall effect is subtle, but outstanding.
Which contrasts greatly with half of JMT's lyricists, who are about as subtle as a dangling condom lazily hanging out of a dance-floor skank's vagina. 'Jus Allah's technique is to say a bunch of nouns and/or adjective-clauses that rhyme. Which is cool for a while, but after a certain point... I mean, sentences were designed to have predicates for a reason. An example of 'Jus Allah's bludgeoning poetry:
I'm sand and stone, I stand alone
I'm a candle blown, I've hands of bone
I'm smart and old, I'm dark and cold
I've a pawn shop of parts, I've a heart of bold
I'm a heartless soul, Is my heart bestowed
Death to all, let the closest star explode
The better half of the other half of JMT's lyrical duo, Vinnie Paz, gets a bye on his stylistic integrity. His pace is monotonous and he has an atrocious reliance on end-rhyme, but he uses enough literary techniques that it makes it look like he's trying. And most of all, the heaven's above blessed him with a voice reminiscent of an avalanche of gravel, if said gravel came wrapped in a box that reminded you of the fat Italian enforcers used in mob-spoof films. He also gets a couple of solid lines thrown in there every once and a while. On 'Trail of Lies', a song about the disillusionment of young women by the fashion/entertainment industry, he references starlets with,
Ninety-pound skinny bitches, that ain't even girl to me
and
And what's gonna become of 'em in like fifty years
When Hannah Montana turnin into Britney Spears
The problem though, is that there's a limit to the credit I'm willing to extend to Mr. Paz for his heartfelt political, social and spiritual ruminations. For starters, let's look at this quote we have from 'Butcher Knife Bloodbath':
Why we in Iran if all that we want is Osama
Why we in the jam if all that we want is Obama
Bush had you thinkin we at war cuz he asked God
Then blew up to fucking buildings in our backyard
Is he saying something construed as political? Sure, but a quiet reading of the facts would posit that A) we're not in Iran B) Obama's popular margin was relatively narrow C) Bush went to war to 1) fight terrorism and 2) prevent the spread of WMD's and D) Bush didn't actually blow up the buildings in any but the most greatest theoretical stretch that posits that as the most powerful political leader on the Earth, he is in fact responsible for everything that happens. So while I can 'feel' him, he's kinda oh for four on political points.
Vinnie Paz uses the same level of research and reflection in his propagation of the Muslim faith that he does for his political points. My favorite is
I'm fast like Ramadan with a knife drawn
which utilizes some cool multi-syllabic internal rhyme while simultaneously making Vinnie seem hardcore and blissfully ignoring the spiritual importance of one of the five pillars of his faith. It's like he converted just to have an excuse to talk about killing people. Which is cool- 90% of rap is about killing someone, so it's not my place to hold that against him. But it's somewhat duplicitous to rep the virtues of Iranian Mullah's and then turn around and decry America's materialism because it hurts people. It's like he consistently failed the test they made you take when you're younger where you pick the thing that doesn't belong, and as a result has been taking out his frustration at his handicap by shoving it in his listeners brains ever since.
On a one to five scale, I rate this a purple light-saber. There's only one of them in the world- no one else sounds like JMT, even if they wanted to. But the logical fallacies and the predictive rapping pattern lead me to believe someone was culled before they could join the typical green-blue-Luke pattern that a typical padawan experiences, but because their mother was really close to someone important, they weren't kicked out, merely relegated to the lesser ranks of the metachlorian-enhanced who will one day grow up to pilot small hovercraft whose job is to clean things because they can't be entrusted with anything more important. That said, between their legitimately impressive baselines and their distinctive choice of subject matter (and because Vinnie really does sound that good, he could read Doctor Seuss and make it sound like he's about to throw down) they still bring a solid and notable album. I just wish Vinnie would actually read a book about politics or Islam.
Or, really, just learn to read probably.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Burninating the 3rd Coast
Chamillionaire’s ‘Man on Fire’ is an inspiring, episodic ballad detailing an eponymous rags-to-riches journey and the motivations empowering the ambitious titular character. Crushing and commanding vocals are laid down over the streamlined beats of DJ Smalls, no featherweight himself. The only thing more amazing than the velocity and power of this tour-de-force is its autobiographical nature. Chamillionaire truly has lived the life of the downtrodden and yet still managed to bootstrap himself to a glittering reality of guns, women, weed, and mix tapes the rest of us can only dream about.
That’s what I’d be saying if I hadn’t heard the album. Also, if I wrote for The Source.
'Man on Fire' is somewhat of an awkward call, because it’s less about the album and more about the audience’s willingness to suspend their disbelief that rappers are, in fact, making art that is supposed to either mean something, say something, or have some form of artistic merit even if it’s just comedic hyperbole. As it is, Chamillionaire’s ‘Man-on-Fire’ is just kinda fun to listen to as you’re stuck in I-10 traffic during rush-hour, which, much like happy hour, seems to have annexed that space of time between dawn and tomorrow-at-dawn. If the TXDOT would relax its standards and let the two meet, and I could finally sell liquor off a motorcycle as I swerve through, around, and over traffic in a go-go-gadgetcycle-type-gig I swear to God I’d be a millionaire tomorrow.
Or maybe a ‘Chamillionaire’.
Man-on-Fire’s unspectacularness starts from the ground-up. DJ Smalls (‘cuz ‘Biggie’ was taken?) hypes himself as the most notorious DJ in the South, which probably has more to do with the fact that he’s a master of self-promotion and still can’t get respect on either other coast, but even so, the vast majorities of his beats could have been easily replaced by three buttons on a drum machine. Throw in a two instrument track from Audition and a sample from a 70’s hit and you’re in business. There’s some deviation from this formula (self-aggrandizing plugs, mostly), but it’s fairly faithful to the design. I’d go so far as to say a monkey could do it, but I wouldn’t, because only tattoo-sporting Aryan racists compare black people to monkeys.
You’d be tempted to think ‘well, if the DJ-ing isn’t spectacular, then it won’t steal from the powerful and poignant lyricism of the songs’ if by ‘powerful and poignant lyricism’ you’re referring to brilliant choruses like:
“I hear you talking that talk
I heard you was talking ‘bout me
Soon as I ask who you ‘talkin to
You reply with all it’s not me”
Dude. Rhyming ‘Me’ with ‘Me’. That’s genius.
With certain exceptions, Chamillionaire’s written words leave a certain je ne sais quoi to be desired. And by ‘je ne sais quoi’, I mean thought and/or originality. There’s one thing for developing a motif in your work. I think the rap game is a little beyond the thematic virtues of shooting unregistered pistols at your enemies and making a shitload of money tax free by selling mix tapes out the back of your ’95 Pontiac Sunfire, though.
If his lyrics are judged and found wanting (and they are), his delivery is to be admired. It’s basic, but not only can I understand what he’s saying (in that his pronunciation of English words is intelligible) even if I don’t necessarily ‘feel him’, his delivery is charismatic and inclusive. Even when he’s literally telling me he’s better than me, he does it with an authority and confidence that’s really attractive. And every once in a while, he’ll throw some quotables that are hilarious;
“What do you know ‘bout a deal with a bigger cut?
Bringin money in on some wheelbarrows, fill’em up!”
Or
“You get property, you better watch for me
‘Cuz I’ll buy that land that you livin on
And sell it right back to ya like monopoly!”
Chamillionaire’s style rarely travels far from a repetitive 4/4 cadence. That said, his headline tracks ‘Realest Nigga In It’ and ‘The Truth Is Back’ (though ‘Where it Went’ and ‘Did It Have A Nice Time There’ remain undisclosed) involve a lot of metric diversity. Also deserving of note are the guest-stars who really shine, perhaps because of, not in spite of, only being on the CD for eight bars or less. In fact, my favorite line comes from ‘Lil Scrappy:
“And my nigga George Bush wanna thow me to slavery”.
I didn’t just LOL. I came.
Also, the line doesn’t make any more sense in context. It doesn’t even rhyme.
On a 1-5 scale, I’m gonna rank Man-on-Fire ‘Thowed’. The overall effect is above mediocre, and the albums legitimately fun to listen to. I hate critics who get their panties in a bunch when artists don’t bend over sideways and slobberjaw their favorite fetish, but at the same time, ‘Man on Fire’ doesn’t really bring anything new to the table. Chamillionaire’s album is a commodity hyped by an insanely over-aggressive sales pitch and probably one of the most shameless displays of self-promotion I’ve ever seen.
And by ‘Shameless displays of self-promotion’, I mean Chamillionaire has twice as many MySpace friends as Jesus, thus proving the ability to turn water to wine makes you less popular than the ability to sell a cd of solid crap like it's made of gold.
That’s what I’d be saying if I hadn’t heard the album. Also, if I wrote for The Source.
'Man on Fire' is somewhat of an awkward call, because it’s less about the album and more about the audience’s willingness to suspend their disbelief that rappers are, in fact, making art that is supposed to either mean something, say something, or have some form of artistic merit even if it’s just comedic hyperbole. As it is, Chamillionaire’s ‘Man-on-Fire’ is just kinda fun to listen to as you’re stuck in I-10 traffic during rush-hour, which, much like happy hour, seems to have annexed that space of time between dawn and tomorrow-at-dawn. If the TXDOT would relax its standards and let the two meet, and I could finally sell liquor off a motorcycle as I swerve through, around, and over traffic in a go-go-gadgetcycle-type-gig I swear to God I’d be a millionaire tomorrow.
Or maybe a ‘Chamillionaire’.
Man-on-Fire’s unspectacularness starts from the ground-up. DJ Smalls (‘cuz ‘Biggie’ was taken?) hypes himself as the most notorious DJ in the South, which probably has more to do with the fact that he’s a master of self-promotion and still can’t get respect on either other coast, but even so, the vast majorities of his beats could have been easily replaced by three buttons on a drum machine. Throw in a two instrument track from Audition and a sample from a 70’s hit and you’re in business. There’s some deviation from this formula (self-aggrandizing plugs, mostly), but it’s fairly faithful to the design. I’d go so far as to say a monkey could do it, but I wouldn’t, because only tattoo-sporting Aryan racists compare black people to monkeys.
You’d be tempted to think ‘well, if the DJ-ing isn’t spectacular, then it won’t steal from the powerful and poignant lyricism of the songs’ if by ‘powerful and poignant lyricism’ you’re referring to brilliant choruses like:
“I hear you talking that talk
I heard you was talking ‘bout me
Soon as I ask who you ‘talkin to
You reply with all it’s not me”
Dude. Rhyming ‘Me’ with ‘Me’. That’s genius.
With certain exceptions, Chamillionaire’s written words leave a certain je ne sais quoi to be desired. And by ‘je ne sais quoi’, I mean thought and/or originality. There’s one thing for developing a motif in your work. I think the rap game is a little beyond the thematic virtues of shooting unregistered pistols at your enemies and making a shitload of money tax free by selling mix tapes out the back of your ’95 Pontiac Sunfire, though.
If his lyrics are judged and found wanting (and they are), his delivery is to be admired. It’s basic, but not only can I understand what he’s saying (in that his pronunciation of English words is intelligible) even if I don’t necessarily ‘feel him’, his delivery is charismatic and inclusive. Even when he’s literally telling me he’s better than me, he does it with an authority and confidence that’s really attractive. And every once in a while, he’ll throw some quotables that are hilarious;
“What do you know ‘bout a deal with a bigger cut?
Bringin money in on some wheelbarrows, fill’em up!”
Or
“You get property, you better watch for me
‘Cuz I’ll buy that land that you livin on
And sell it right back to ya like monopoly!”
Chamillionaire’s style rarely travels far from a repetitive 4/4 cadence. That said, his headline tracks ‘Realest Nigga In It’ and ‘The Truth Is Back’ (though ‘Where it Went’ and ‘Did It Have A Nice Time There’ remain undisclosed) involve a lot of metric diversity. Also deserving of note are the guest-stars who really shine, perhaps because of, not in spite of, only being on the CD for eight bars or less. In fact, my favorite line comes from ‘Lil Scrappy:
“And my nigga George Bush wanna thow me to slavery”.
I didn’t just LOL. I came.
Also, the line doesn’t make any more sense in context. It doesn’t even rhyme.
On a 1-5 scale, I’m gonna rank Man-on-Fire ‘Thowed’. The overall effect is above mediocre, and the albums legitimately fun to listen to. I hate critics who get their panties in a bunch when artists don’t bend over sideways and slobberjaw their favorite fetish, but at the same time, ‘Man on Fire’ doesn’t really bring anything new to the table. Chamillionaire’s album is a commodity hyped by an insanely over-aggressive sales pitch and probably one of the most shameless displays of self-promotion I’ve ever seen.
And by ‘Shameless displays of self-promotion’, I mean Chamillionaire has twice as many MySpace friends as Jesus, thus proving the ability to turn water to wine makes you less popular than the ability to sell a cd of solid crap like it's made of gold.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Testing? One, Two...
Today’s review cover’s Aesop Rock’s None Shall Pass. It’s a tricky one- Ace Rock requires the wit of Conan O’Brien, the vocabulary of Toni Morrison, and a peculiar fixation on death, drugs, and the nerd culture of the 80’s and early 90’s to truly appreciate, which makes it difficult to believe he’s got an audience at all. The only people that fit that description would be me and maybe some hipster kids at NYU.
This is my favorite CD of the Ace Rock collection, for a couple of reasons. Over half the songs have both an engine and a steering wheel- there’s energy and drive and push that doesn’t fall into the typical Ace Rock mental masturbation trap like he's taking your brain and rubbing it erogenously between two pads of firm tofu until you drip milky lymph in forced satisfaction. ‘Keep off the lawn’, ‘Catacomb Kids’, and ‘Citronella’ have a pounding and unforgiving baseline that push the song until its caustic conclusion. They end with a punch, too, unlike the current practice of alerting the audience the song is over by abruptly shutting your mouth and letting the instrumental hang out on the corner smoking a cigarette alone for a couple of bars before it too disappears from the scene and heads inside for a couple of beers.
However, despite it’s hooves, stirrups, and curiously heavy testicles made out of fuzzy dice, this horse-drawn stagecoach suffers from the same problem Aesop intentionally loads into all his mind-splooging work; sure it sounds good, but what the fuck does it mean? Take this excerpt from ‘Citronella’, for instance:
No harps, no delusions of losing with something prettier
Than ash around the metacarpal still clutching the teddy bears
But we can run with scissors through the city fair
Or situate the nuzzle with the subtle art of splitting hairs!
Hands down, it sounds badass. Badder than baddass. Like, ‘badass’ affixed with twelve extra S’s. But while I can find nouns, verbs, and objects, I’m still looking for the cohesive thought I was taught back in grammar school flits in between the words of every sentence not penned by Faulkner or Joyce.
What highlights his incredibly simultaneously confusing and yet almost maddeningly-near-enlightening work is that the few moments of lucidity are almost embarrassingly cogent. ‘The Harbor is Yours’ involves nautical jargon alongside a modern fable that marries the fantastical with gritty realism (This dude either got two glass eyes or he’s wearing his patch on the wrong side!). ‘Fumes’ made me stop in my tracks once I realized he was telling a story in a language that wasn’t lost when the tower of Babylon fell. His punch lines are taut, the suspense is delicately built and no conclusions are drawn on behalf of the listener. Ace condenses an O’Henry novel into 32 lines. For that, he deserves the five dollars it would have cost me to get my middle-school homeboy to burn it for me way back when.
I really, really want to hate on Ace because he talks so much, so well, with so many adjectives, and yet remains so incredibly difficult to understand. But judging from his vague digressions into a more plebian mode of storytelling (THIS happened, and then THIS happened, and then THIS happened), I’m guessing this aspect of his style is more feature than bug. Go figure.
What I do hate are his music videos. Both ‘None Shall Pass’ and 'Coffee’ entail badass, new-wave digital shooting techniques that have more in common with Tool’s cinematography than the rest of the hip-hop genre.
That’s not nearly as wonderful as it sounds.
Though novel and different, they don’t hold your attention, don’t elucidate the song’s arc, and often confuse the listener. Because I saw the videos before I listened to the songs by themselves, I skipped over both songs in rotation until I couldn't anymore. It was great afterwards. The video just ruined it for me.
My official ranking of this album is that of crunchy peanut-butter mixed with honey, oats, and sweet cream. Listen too much and you’ll go blind and lose a leg from diabeetus, thus preventing you from doing more than drag your flat, useless carcass towards the sound and smell of day old road kill for sustenance. And yet, it’s a delightfully homey snack nonetheless. Pick up the CD, and learn a couple phrases – use them to impress hot chicks with fiery hair and mean tattoos that only go home with a particular clan of hipsters. Convince her you’re from another tribe, whose music is far superior to anything she’s ever heard precisely because she’s never heard it.
Wait for it.
Wait for it.
BOOM! Make out.
This is my favorite CD of the Ace Rock collection, for a couple of reasons. Over half the songs have both an engine and a steering wheel- there’s energy and drive and push that doesn’t fall into the typical Ace Rock mental masturbation trap like he's taking your brain and rubbing it erogenously between two pads of firm tofu until you drip milky lymph in forced satisfaction. ‘Keep off the lawn’, ‘Catacomb Kids’, and ‘Citronella’ have a pounding and unforgiving baseline that push the song until its caustic conclusion. They end with a punch, too, unlike the current practice of alerting the audience the song is over by abruptly shutting your mouth and letting the instrumental hang out on the corner smoking a cigarette alone for a couple of bars before it too disappears from the scene and heads inside for a couple of beers.
However, despite it’s hooves, stirrups, and curiously heavy testicles made out of fuzzy dice, this horse-drawn stagecoach suffers from the same problem Aesop intentionally loads into all his mind-splooging work; sure it sounds good, but what the fuck does it mean? Take this excerpt from ‘Citronella’, for instance:
No harps, no delusions of losing with something prettier
Than ash around the metacarpal still clutching the teddy bears
But we can run with scissors through the city fair
Or situate the nuzzle with the subtle art of splitting hairs!
Hands down, it sounds badass. Badder than baddass. Like, ‘badass’ affixed with twelve extra S’s. But while I can find nouns, verbs, and objects, I’m still looking for the cohesive thought I was taught back in grammar school flits in between the words of every sentence not penned by Faulkner or Joyce.
What highlights his incredibly simultaneously confusing and yet almost maddeningly-near-enlightening work is that the few moments of lucidity are almost embarrassingly cogent. ‘The Harbor is Yours’ involves nautical jargon alongside a modern fable that marries the fantastical with gritty realism (This dude either got two glass eyes or he’s wearing his patch on the wrong side!). ‘Fumes’ made me stop in my tracks once I realized he was telling a story in a language that wasn’t lost when the tower of Babylon fell. His punch lines are taut, the suspense is delicately built and no conclusions are drawn on behalf of the listener. Ace condenses an O’Henry novel into 32 lines. For that, he deserves the five dollars it would have cost me to get my middle-school homeboy to burn it for me way back when.
I really, really want to hate on Ace because he talks so much, so well, with so many adjectives, and yet remains so incredibly difficult to understand. But judging from his vague digressions into a more plebian mode of storytelling (THIS happened, and then THIS happened, and then THIS happened), I’m guessing this aspect of his style is more feature than bug. Go figure.
What I do hate are his music videos. Both ‘None Shall Pass’ and 'Coffee’ entail badass, new-wave digital shooting techniques that have more in common with Tool’s cinematography than the rest of the hip-hop genre.
That’s not nearly as wonderful as it sounds.
Though novel and different, they don’t hold your attention, don’t elucidate the song’s arc, and often confuse the listener. Because I saw the videos before I listened to the songs by themselves, I skipped over both songs in rotation until I couldn't anymore. It was great afterwards. The video just ruined it for me.
My official ranking of this album is that of crunchy peanut-butter mixed with honey, oats, and sweet cream. Listen too much and you’ll go blind and lose a leg from diabeetus, thus preventing you from doing more than drag your flat, useless carcass towards the sound and smell of day old road kill for sustenance. And yet, it’s a delightfully homey snack nonetheless. Pick up the CD, and learn a couple phrases – use them to impress hot chicks with fiery hair and mean tattoos that only go home with a particular clan of hipsters. Convince her you’re from another tribe, whose music is far superior to anything she’s ever heard precisely because she’s never heard it.
Wait for it.
Wait for it.
BOOM! Make out.
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