CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP

I’ve got that itch again.

It often comes to me in the winter months, when I cling to works of inspiring art to carry me through the gloom. During this period, my standard for the Artist is at its highest, and so my tolerance for mere Entertainment is greatly diminished.

This is why—despite the fact that I enjoy it quite a bit, and even go through some solid bouts of obsessive listening—the itch to complain about rap has returned once again.

I’ve mentioned before that I don’t subscribe to elitism when it comes to art, but this should be distinguished from the standards that I do hold. I don’t put any intrinsic value upon the training or technical skill of the artist, so a 12-year-old R&B singer is just as capable of producing valuable art as a classically-trained pianist or a veteran guitar hero. Regardless of “pedigree,” it all depends on the effect that the final product has upon me. For me, the purpose of art is to evoke feelings, ideas, and experiences. The best of art seeks to unlock truths about the human condition and provides the audience with insight into their own lives. This is to be distinguished from entertainment, which is valued for its ability to please, to comfort, to distract, and to transport you away from the ills of your life.

After much rumination, I think I can finally elucidate on what exactly it is that bothers me about hip-hop as a whole. Specifically, there are three major failings that pervade the entire genre. I sincerely hope that future hip-hop artists eventually prove me wrong, but as it stands, things are looking bleak. None of these charges will be that surprising, but I’ve never heard or seen them seriously considered as a whole. And of course it’s possible to name artists in other genres like rock and pop who are guilty as well. But unlike any other genre of music, these failings are ubiquitous in hip-hop. Every artist or group that I can think of is at least guilty of one failing, and the vast majority is guilty of all three.

1.    Vocal Performance: Limited Emotional Range

I have written about this one before, and I still find this to be a quality that constrains the power of a lot of rap tracks. The basic problem is that the pressure to conform to “street” standards of masculinity severely limits the range of emoting that MCs can do without being labeled as gay, wussy, or weird.

The obvious exceptions are feelings that can be tied up with aggression, like paranoia and indignation. Admittedly, vocalists that tap into these emotions are often quite powerful—think of Chuck D and Ice Cube in their prime. But aside from these instances of expressive incandescence, rappers have to reign it all in, lest they appear soft. So even the quirky or pacifist types like Q-Tip, Black Thought, and Aesop Rock have to keep up muted, “laid back” personas. When important topics are broached, it’s with a calculated reserve or a cool bemusement.

I understand how this is rooted in hip-hop’s origins as party music from the slums of New York City. The original value of hip-hop culture was its ability to empower and invigorate the dispossessed kids of the ghetto, and the tradition of braggadocio in the raps of battling MCs was a crucial component of this. So, aside from the more conventional pressure to conform to street standards of masculinity, hip-hop tradition has perhaps amplified the tendency for artists to avoid surrendering to emotions that would erode their reputation as “in control.”

But just compare the vocals of MCs from 1979 to 2013 with those of any other genre. You get a much wider range, and much greater intensity of emotions in Jazz, Rock, Pop, and R&B. Hell, compare Frank Ocean with his Odd Future buddies. Sure, the O.F. rappers can sound convincingly deranged or goofy and stoned, but Frank takes on frailty, tenderness, despondency, empathy, love. And he’s not without cynicism or without ties to entertainment culture, but his comparative lack of emotional reserve feels downright audacious, more so than any rape lyric that Tyler can come up with. And part of that audacity lies in the fact that Frank has emerged from a culture that has for two decades actively discouraged honest emotional engagement for the sake of maintaining one’s “alpha” status.

There’s plenty of creativity and humanity to be found in the history of hip-hop, but I’m still hoping for MCs who can follow Frank Ocean’s lead and fully surrender their voices, reputation be damned, to the demands of their art.

2.    Lyrical Style: Convention and Entertainment Trumps Poetry

Perhaps this one sounds like snobbery on my part, but I’ll try to explain what I mean when I say that hip-hop lyrics are largely bereft of poetic power. The Ancient Greeks dissociated two types of knowledge that are respectively acquired via two modes of communication: Logos vs. Mythos. Logos is “the Word,” it’s best defined as the manifest content of speech and writing. The precision of its conveyed meaning can lead to an expansion of commonly agreed-upon descriptive knowledge. Mythos, on the other hand, pertains to latent content of communication. This can lead to multiple, sometimes overlapping layers of meaning and experience that are evoked from within the receiver. While Logos can sometimes be used to unlock Mythic Truths, e.g. Kant’s philosophical treatises on metaphysics, most mythic resonance exists outside of literal description.

This is why poets have a tendency to play with language conventions and especially with metaphors. The manifest content of Langston Hughes’ “A Dream Deferred” is meaningless. Why is he asking us about physical consequences for an abstract event like the deferment of a dream? Of course, it’s the latent content that we respond to, and part of its power comes from the subversion of conventional modes of descriptive speech in order to tap into an emotional state.  Our language is shaken up and scrambled in order to unlock felt ideas and experience, rather than to describe what’s around us.

This can’t really be said for hip-hop lyrics. In terms of style, they are primarily topical and descriptive narratives, albeit peppered with similes and metaphors used for entertainment rather than for expressive resonance. This is true even for the most lauded of tracks by the most praised MCs. For instance, Kanye West’s “Diamonds from Sierra Leone” stands out for its openly conflicted rumination on western materialism, black empowerment, and blood diamonds. The song is definitely a high point of Kanye’s career, and of the hip-hop canon. But surely a great deal of its power comes not from the lyrical evocation of its ideas, but rather from the topic itself, combined with one’s expectation of West as a huge star in a genre known for its superficiality (see #3). In terms of its poetic power, it offers roughly the same experience you would get from reading an incisive New Yorker essay on blood diamonds, but with dramatic background music to fill in the emotional cues for you. There’s value in that, but mostly as Logos.

And like an essay printed in a newspaper or magazine, rap lyrics tend to become dated and less relevant as the years pass. Especially the similes and metaphors. These do exhibit some playful irreverence with speech conventions, but rappers too often rely on hip-hop’s own conventions for lyrics: references to pop & entertainment culture of the day (or, post-Wu Tang, of one’s youth). Good for a chuckle or an insider’s nod of approval, but impotent as far as mythic resonance goes. Not to mention that, as time goes by, those sly references to Napoleon Dynamite and Kim Kardashian will be completely irrelevant even as an in-joke. It’s as if the artists themselves are insisting that they have the shortest shelf life possible.

The issue of shelf life itself probably reflects cultural differences to some extent. A song can intentionally be made for the moment, especially to function as part of a community ritual (like for play at a dance club). So the classicist notion of the Eternal quality of art doesn’t always apply. But while the importance of community can’t be understated, let’s be honest: it’s our market driven entertainment culture that has largely encouraged this mentality of rapid consumption and disposal. Our desire to feel good Right Now has trumped our respect for artists and their ability to edify us.

Actually, taken as a package, a hip-hop track is much closer to a Sci-Fi/Fantasy story than an essay or newspaper article.  The lyrical narrative and music serve to construct the impression of a desired persona. And it offers the listener his or her own empowerment through fantasy. Instead of imagining oneself as a formidable wizard to distract from the pain of social rejection, a listener can find strength and confidence in the idealized and exaggerated personas of the MCs, whether it’s the cool insouciance of Rakim or the cinematic crime narratives of Jay-Z and Raekwon. There’s nothing wrong with this per se, and I myself have used the empowering fantasies of rap to conjure my own confidence when feeling down. But in the long term, this indulgence in fantasy just distracts us from our problems. And in those moments when I need an artist to challenge me and offer me insight into difficult truths, I find such obvious escapism to be deeply unsatisfying.

Heck, if it were still just for the sake of fantasy, some more inspired and evocative use of language might be enough for me. As it stands, rap lyrics, even at their best, simply fail as poetry. They rely too much on Logos, and the only Mythos used is for cheap nostalgia and fealty to Entertainment Culture.

3.    Lyrical Content: Shallow at Best, Hateful at Worst

If it was just the first two failings that permeated hip-hop, I wouldn’t get so frustrated with it. After all, it would basically be close to most contemporary pop music: enjoyable, disposable entertainment that nonetheless can sometimes hit on topical or (limited) emotional poignancy. But this last one really is the killer, and it’s very sad that this is not discussed more often among its fans. Why do we all actively ignore the fact that the content of hip-hop and rap reflects the worst of our society? Let’s go through the list:

Violence, Misogyny, and Bigotry. This is the most obvious one, but do we really think about it enough? There used to be more outrage against this kind of stuff, even from within the hip-hop community in the early 90’s, but it has since completely dominated the genre. As mentioned earlier, when MCs channel burning hot rage, it can be utterly thrilling stuff. But if you want to appreciate Ice Cube’s masterful evocation of paranoia and righteous anger, you have to numb yourself to a barrage of lines that glorify murder, others that put down women in deplorable ways, and still others that are openly hostile to Jews, Koreans, and gays. While Cube was exceptionally offensive for his time, he (along with N.W.A. , etc.) unfortunately provided the blueprint for most hardcore rap today. It even found it’s way into R&B, thanks to “pioneers” like R. Kelly. It’s a simple fact that the rap genre houses some of the most hateful and contemptible lyrics in all of popular music. And this is not coming from a prude. When masculinity is worshipped to such a great extent, it’s no surprise that aggression, intolerance, and male chauvinism would run rampant. Yes, sometimes it’s just for shocks and giggles, like with Tyler the Creator. But even then it reflects the extremes that cynical, emotionally stunted youths have to reach for just for a thrill these days. Alec Empire once said that a collectively bored culture is a breeding ground for fascism. Looking at the rabidly anti-social fan base that Odd Future has picked up, I’m thinking that Alec may have been on to something. And what does it say about us everyday music fans that we totally let all of this poison persist in our culture, and pretend like it’s not there?

Egotism. Narcissism is to some extent inevitable when fame is involved, but it doesn’t find its way into the music in most cases, thank God. Obviously, though, the braggadocio element of hip-hop tradition has cemented a focus on self-love into its music. But is it not wearying to have a genre full of people who are full of themselves? Artists are supposed to evoke emotions and truths relevant to your life, and yet we have these assholes who get rich by talking about themselves. Sure, the audience feeds on that charisma, and conjures their own vicarious power. That’s the fantasy that I mentioned earlier. But the reality is that we’re all listening to these guys talk about how important they are: how great their successes are, how fucked up their childhood was, and how everyone wants to take them down. Perhaps my breaking point for self-aggrandizement was Eminem.  An artist wants me to pay him so that I can listen to him rage and complain about every single problem in his life? It’s stunning that we so eagerly feed the egos of these completely shameless vampires for attention. Again, not reflective of a healthy culture.

Materialism & Hedonism. When I first listened to Andree 3000’s album “The Love Below,” I distinctly remember feeling great disappointment. Despite its promise of transcending the conventions of hip-hop, there’s an important component that made it very much of a piece with most of the genre: it’s all about material pleasure. Same goes for Big Boi, who recently made a song with the chorus: Let me see your titties, let me see your titties, She said Okay / Let me see your pussy, let me see your pussy, She said Okay…” Similarly, A$AP Rocky has a new track that goes “Pussy, money, weed, it’s all a nigga need.” And none of this is new. It goes all the way back to Rapper’s Delight, with Big Bank Hank bragging about his Super Sperm, and Run DMC sporting Adidas. It’s just grown more pervasive and more crass. Hip-hop used to be mostly about community building through shared activities, but now it’s just about money, cash, hoes, and purple swag. You’d think that the more sophisticated guys like Phife Dogg and Q-Tip would be above such base pleasures, but no: they don’t care about much beyond pussy and hip-hop. Of course, no one artist is required or expected to advocate a more fulfilling lifestyle, but the problem is that this emptiness is everywhere in the genre, and has made the crass materialism of pop and R&B even worse.

Superficiality. Not everyone basks in the glories of material wealth, but they reveal their shallowness in other ways, such as an obsession with pop and entertainment culture. This was mentioned when discussing the use of similes and metaphors, but it’s worth revisiting. So many important things happen around the world: political unrest and scientific breakthroughs at the broadest level; religious revelation and relationship struggles on a smaller level. And yet, if he’s not talking about how important he is, how rich he is, how big his dick is, or how tough he is, an MC will spend most of his time referencing things like Quarter Pounders, Sega Genesis, Marvin the Martian, Wheel of Fortune, and Chia pets. Basically, he dons the icons of pop culture like Run DMC flaunted those Adidas. At times, this can be charming, but as a whole it reflects a musical culture that is almost completely vacuous. A culture that rewards and creates hoards of boring, shallow people obsessed with labels, nostalgia, and creature comforts.

I’m really waiting for the day when some charismatic MC has the courage to break out from this apathetic bubble of conformity and use hip-hop as a force for positive cultural change. To be fair, acts like Public Enemy, KRS-One, Arrested Development, the Roots, and Dead Prez have aimed for a more respectable cultural impact. But of course, even if they’re not also guilty of bigotry and misogyny (Public Enemy) or egotism (KRS-One), please see #1 and #2.

As mentioned before, art is designed to evoke feeling, and the best art forces its audience to confront aspects of life that are difficult, yet need to be acknowledged before insight and consolation can be cultivated. Good art is therefore like a form of physical therapy (meta-physical therapy!): it’s not always easy or enjoyable, but it’s necessary for the healing the wounds of existential stress. Entertainment, on the other hand, merely numbs our pain. It can be quite useful in moderation, but it only distracts us from our symptoms, and leaves our larger problems unaddressed. This is hip-hop in a nutshell. It’s entertainment in the form of matter-of-fact narratives of a desired persona, filled with either lurid, hateful, or just banal and superficial esoteric details.

Maybe now you’re thinking stuff like: Well, what about the Rolling Stones? They were misogynistic, hedonistic, and egotistic too! Yes, it is true that certain songs of the Stones are all of those things, but they at least make up for those failings with some great displays of naked emotion or poetic musings on morality. So even if I ignore some of their stuff, I can feel enriched by Wild Horses or Sympathy for the Devil. And, as I mentioned, this is not a charge against any particular artist, but a diagnoses of hip-hop as a genre and culture.

I really think that hip-hop is perfectly suited to be the highest kind of Art. In fact, the style lends itself well to intense emotional states, with hypnotic rhythms and otherworldly sounds that could transport the listener to unexplored planes of consciousness. But right now, hip-hop is stunted: mostly by its ties to entertainment culture (but also to macho culture). The same could be said for a lot of other aspects of our culture today: movies, TV shows, video games, books, internet sites: these media are largely regarded as sources of entertainment. We want to be soothed and distracted. We want empowering fantasies rather than uncomfortable realities. And I myself indulge in these creature comforts, probably much more than I should.

But I do certainly know the value of a good artist, and can distinguish art from entertainment, even if it’s more in terms of a ratio of the two rather than a blanket label. Right now is a time where I have been clinging to powerful, inspiring works of art. And right now is when the artistic impotence of the hip-hop artists I typically enjoy seems most apparent. This isn’t an elitist or Rockist criticism. Perhaps it’s a religious criticism. In any event, I’m praying for a change…

So Apalled

The past year or so, at least in the pop world, has been all about feeling good. Whether by fantastical theatrics, brain-dead escapism, manufactured nostalgia, or direct salutes to vapid hedonism, this has been a good time for the “me me me” mentality. Not totally surprising. We are in a recession, plus the internet has encouraged listeners to be less faithful patrons. So they want the quick fix, the easy escape.

But insularity due to internet and otherwise can also be the focus of an artist’s work. Interestingly, two albums of 2010 that took similar approaches and dealt with similar themes—willfully difficult, confessional albums that grapple with one’s success and image—were received by the music press quite differently: one was instantly panned or ignored, while the other was almost unanimously praised without qualification.

When M.I.A. released Kala in 2007, she was a critic’s darling, and not for nothing. The album took risks with its junk-chic appropriation of disparate styles, but its dance-floor accessibility hinted at the possibility that its follow-up album would send M.I.A. into the mainstream spotlight. Then, in 2008, Slumdog Millionaire introduced the mainstream to “Paper Planes,” and so a breakthrough follow-up seemed inevitable to many.

But then, once famous, the artist’s trademark taste for the provocative was shaped by the press as bratty and hypocritical. Lynn Hirschberg’s now infamous hit piece on M.I.A. seemed to seal the artist’s doom, even after it was revealed that Hirschberg herself was being a bit bratty, and was not being completely honest about the details of the article.

Weeks later, M.I.A.’s paranoid and defiant third album, MAYA, was released, and critics were no longer charmed by the Sri Lankan provocateur’s willful ways. Like Hirschberg, they characterized her as petulant and ungrateful. I’ll admit that M.I.A. does sometimes come off as a prima donna, but she’s hardly the only musician guilty of that charge, and yet she seemed to get shit for every little thing she did or said.

Contrast that with Kanye West. This man can do or say almost anything, and though he gets some initial criticism, all of the shit he pulls seems to work in his favor.

I am still almost utterly confused as to why Kanye West is worshipped by the music press, especially since his praise seems to increase with every album. His early stuff had a clunky charm to it, so I can see the appeal, but as his ambitions increase, his limitations as a performer become more and more apparent, so I’m baffled as to why no one seems to care.

On his new album, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, the everyman appeal of his early albums is completely gone, and the egomaniacal superstar is in full effect. This is his own willfully difficult album that seeks to explore the less savory aspects of his psyche, a reaction to his latest peak in popularity and infamy. And, surprise surprise, everyone LOVES this album!

Now, I'm not surprised that Kanye has a bigger fanbase than M.I.A., or that his new album is selling a hell of a lot more than hers. After all, Kanye wants everyone's adulation, and practically expects it with this new album. M.I.A.'s new album was clearly designed as a reaction against her fame, and so it shouldn't surprise that it doesn't have mass appeal. Plus, the opinion of the larger public depends more than anything on promotion and exposure, something Kanye's got in spades, while M.I.A. only got a spotlight from Paper Planes due to its inclusion on the soundtrack to a popular film.

I'm not talking about popularity. What I don't get is the reaction from people who should know better: The music press. I’ve listened to MAYA and Dark Fantasy quite a bit, and I am just totally incredulous as to why M.I.A. got bashed and Kanye got blown, both nearly unanimously, by music critics.

MAYA isn’t as brilliant or exciting as Kala, but it’s great for what it is: a lo-fi mood piece for the underground clubs. Dark Fantasy is far from anything that should be considered for Album of the Year; it’s got some good moments, but largely showcases Kanye’s lack of true pop star chops. A review from AllMusic argued that even the less savory aspects of Dark Fantasy made it fascinating. A comment like that is perfectly valid, since at least it openly acknowledges the album's flaws, and its polarizing appeal. To me, anyone who says it's perfect or majestic or important just sounds like they are ignorant of a lot of other music, both past and present, and simply lack a proper context for this music.

This entry was written to set the record straight.

For those who are interested, here’s a track by track rundown of both albums:

1. Kanye – Dark Fantasy: From the first few seconds (after Nikki Minaj’s poor attempt at a British accent, that is), you already know that Kanye is going for BIG on this album, but the yearning gospel choir wailing throughout makes the track sound more like an embarrassing throwaway demo from the Soft Bulletin sessions than anything actually moving or gripping. Like the album itself, the song wants to be important, but doesn’t try too hard to reach this goal. Cringe-worthy Moment: “Too Many Urkles on Your Team, that’s Why You’re Winslow”

M.I.A. – The Message: Not really a song, but a decent intro track. It doesn’t overstay its welcome, and sets the tone of technoparanoia that permeates the rest of the album.

2. Kanye – Gorgeous: The wank-fest continues, this time with some electric blues guitar noodling through the whole track. Raekwon has a good verse, and Kanye pops out a clever line (“What’s a Black Beatle anyway? A Fuckin Roach!”), but the raps are buried in that repetitive guitar sample, which plods through with no force or rhythmic pull, making this a stagnant second track.

M.I.A. – Steppin’ Up: The first proper song starts things off with the shrieks of power drills, and the beat builds from there. M.I.A.’s vocals are icy and ominous, and the use of autotune accentuates the robotic detachment of her delivery. The lyrics are silly compared to her verses in Kala, but still, this is a totally bad-ass way to get the album started.

3. Kanye- Power: The main sample here is pretty cool, and adds an energy that is absent from the preceding tracks. Things get less impressive when the song veers into arena rock territory, with King Crimson’s “21st Century Schizoid Man” providing a clunky refrain. A decent party track overall, but certainly not brilliant.

M.I.A. – XXXO: As a single, this was underwhelming, but as a smooth chaser to the caustic Steppin Up, it works nicely. The rapid switch from aggressive cacophony to melodic pop accurately sums up the schizophrenic mood of “MAYA,” and also teases listeners who wanted M.I.A. to assimilate into the pop pantheon. Not for nothing is the refrain of the song “You want me to be somebody who I’m really not.”

4. Kanye – All of the Lights (Intro): A fine instrumental prelude to the next song.

M.I.A. – Teqkilla: Here’s a proper club anthem, in the vein of “10” and “Bamboo Banga,” but it revives the abrasive edge of Steppin Up, with M.I.A.’s vocals buried under booming claps and braying analogue synths. Although not immediately obvious, the lyrics here reveal a much more intimate side of the artist; the fierce woman who famously aimed to speak for dispossessed people around the world now trapped in a haze of hedonistic inebriation. Seen in this light, and taken in context with the rest of the album, the overpowering sugar rush of the beats and synths take on an oppressive, claustrophobic quality, adding a layer of irony that is almost certainly intentional, but no less tragic for that.

5. Kanye – All Of the Lights: Finally, something to be excited about! This is a killer tune, and I’ve been playing it a lot. It’s not unqualified genius here—tellingly, Kanye still gives a delivery that is eaten up by his own production, this time resembling a strange fusion of Lil’ Wayne and Eminem—and so the track doesn’t stand up to his earlier successes like “Jesus Walks.” Still, the gestalt really works despite some lackluster components. This is what the rest of the album should sound like: grand, sweeping, larger-than-life stuff that is moving and yet makes bodies move.

M.I.A. – Lovalot: Another dramatic switch in sound from the previous number, yet Lovalot’s quiet ambience is no relaxing escape; it uses space to create tension, sounding akin to the early works of Suicide (an obvious influence on this album). Describing the brutal determination of the wife of a freedom fighter, the song also serves as a statement of purpose for M.I.A. herself. And nowhere is the album’s uncanny mix of confessional tenderness and defensive ferocity more deftly blended than here.

6. Kanye – Monster: This is another attempt at a banger, and it works reasonably well, despite being long and fairly monotonous. Yet again, though, Kanye as an MC is upstaged, this time by guests Jay-Z and Nikki Minaj. He does make an effort to stand out, with exaggerated phrasings of his verse and some ear-grabbingly inscrutable lines (“Ever had sex with a Pharoah? I put the pussy in a sarcophagus!”), but he just doesn’t have a gift for vocal command. I don’t worship Jay-Z, and think Minaj’s verse here to be all affectation/no feeling, but both guests clearly dominate the track. This one’s not bad, but the whole approach, along with some other tracks on the album, sounds like a lesser version of what the Roots did on their last three LPs.

M.I.A.-Story To Be Told: A relatively minor song, which isn’t the strongest on its own, but fits rather well within the album. Its murky mixing and repetitive mantra make for a thoroughly hypnotic mood piece, albeit one that keeps the heads nodding and sounds great at high volumes.

7. Kanye-So Appalled: Taken on its own, So Appalled is enjoyable, especially in that rap tracks rarely bask in noisy melancholy as much as this one does. Listening to the album as a whole, though, this is where the momentum starts to putter out. Plus, the backing track may be unique for mainstream rap (see Dalek for a purer version), but it’s not unique in and of itself; it actually recalls late 90’s electronica (think movies like the Matrix), which is hardly earth-shattering.

M.I.A.—It Takes a Muscle: A cover of the obscure 1981 tune by Dutch synth pop group Spectral Display. M.I.A.’s version has more feel-good vibes than the haunting and glacial original, but there’s a weariness in her delivery that may or may not be related to the topic of the song, but is nonetheless quite affecting.

8. Kanye—Devil In a New Dress: This starts out nicely enough, with a RZA homage of cooing R&B vocals lending a sensuous and mysterious air to the proceedings, but it just doesn’t go anywhere. Kanye has no problem turning various found sounds into interesting hooks; but he really seems to falter when it comes to shaping the hooks into something more substantial. Like so much of the album, this is a decent idea that is stretched into nearly six minutes of nothing, save for his puzzling/charming nasal chant of “Satan, Satan, Satan.” I’m officially bored here.

M.I.A.—It Iz What It Iz: My description of Story to Be Told pretty much fits here as well, except the sound isn’t as murky or spooky, and also not as interesting. Still, it keeps a decent groove, and works fine within the album.

9. Kanye—Runaway: A spare, dramatic solo piano intro erupts into a seemingly earnest “Toast for the Douchebags/A Toasts for the Assholes,” an anthem of blatant, cliché-ridden crudity that would make R. Kelly proud. Then, once the song proper fizzles out, we get four whole minutes of…autotune solo! Pointless note wanking that exists only to establish some rock-centered notion of artistic credibility and ambition, and to take the run time to nine minutes. What a joke of a song. Kudos for lifting my boredom, I guess, but irritation isn’t the cure I was hoping for.

M.I.A.—Born Free: This relies heavily on Suicide’s “Ghostrider,” but it turns that spooky churner into a full-on rocker. This is a perfect example of how purely electronic sample-based music can be as exciting and dangerous as punk was. Gritty, snarling, sardonic, and unapologetically lo-fi, Born Free is one more gleeful middle-finger to the crowd that just wanted another “Paper Planes.”

10. Kanye—Hell Of a Life: The dirty analogue bass riff here is a nice start (furthering the later-period Roots connection) but the Black Sabbath interpolation is both too obvious a sample and too wayward a mutation of it. If you want a huge rock sound, Iron Man is the song to take from, but this doesn’t go for caveman thomping metal riffs; it goes, once again, into noodling territory, so the Sabbath reference just reinforces Kanye’s desire to be a 70’s arena rock dinosaur. Hell of a Life Dream. For a genius, that is.

M.I.A.—Meds & Feds: Taking the snarl of Born Free up a couple of notches, Meds & Feds borrows a fragment of the guitar from Sleigh Bells’ “Treats” for its amped-up mayhem. Where the original song was a blissed-out amplification of Sabbath-grade monster riffs, this a club stomper that’s as psychedelic as it is vicious.

11. Kanye—Blame Game: With Kanye’s touch, even John Legend’s velvety voice can be made hard to listen to. More R.Kelly-esque fusions of earnest R&B sound and cheap smutty “honesty.” Then, instead of another aimless solo, we get three minutes of Chris Rock bantering away at how great Kanye made some girl’s pussy. That probably sounds more interesting than it actually is, though; the real thing is almost impossible to get through without advancing to the next track.

M.I.A.—Tell Me Why: This doesn’t work too well for me. It sounds like it could have been a stomping pop anthem, but was released before it was completed. Most of the songs on MAYA benefit from a murky, moody production style, but this just sounds confused.

12. Kanye-Lost in the World: This owes a lot to the Bon Iver song it samples, but it’s a good track, and thankfully resurrects my interest in the album. This and the proper outro are an effective way to end the album.

M.I.A.—Space: To me, this is an improved version of Tell me Why. They share similar melodies and tempos, but this is much better realized. Sweet, psychedelic, and…spacy. In a way, it also makes Tell Me Why more relevant, since these two similar tracks make for a nice closing medley. Intentional? Probably not, but it solidifies the sonic consistency of the album, and bows out gracefully.

13. Kanye – Who Will Survive in America: A fine outro that makes extensive use of Gil Scott-Heron’s poetry. Perhaps not so wise to showcase someone whose work is so obviously superior to everything on this album that precedes this homage, but hey, it sounds nice.

.....

To reiterate: I'm not faulting Kanye for making this album, or anyone for liking it. I'm also not faulting anyone for disliking any M.I.A. Taste is subjective, and everyone's entitled to an opinion. What is troublesome to me is that people frame Kanye as what I call a musical Shaman: a figure who can do things that normal people cannot do (or at least have never done before). And this just isn't true. Kanye has some gifts as a producer, but his sound is largely derivative of other more innovative producers (most notably RZA), and there are others who make far more impressive music, both performed (the Roots) and sampled (Big Boi/Outkast). It's as if there's a tendency to rely upon the more traditional requirement of worshiping a musical genius (like a Beethoven, a Miles Davis, or a Jimi Hendrix), while having no real criteria for their talent except for the fact that they are popular. Without the magical ether of press hype and internet gossip to frame Kanye as this generation’s troubled genius, he’s only a mediocre producer and performer. It's fine to like music from someone who's just okay, but do we have to act as if they are some sort of God?

And why this difference between MAYA and Dark Fantasy? Maybe it's an issue of contrast from past albums: people were excited by the diplo-matic promise of Kala, and so were disappointed when MAYA was so damn negative. As for Kanye, people were puzzled and divided by his synth pop/autotune/emo experiment "808s & Heartbreak," and so were positively joyous to get a good ol' fashioned hip hop release with Dark Fantasy. But even Kanye's polarizing Metal Machine Music-album got better reviews than MAYA! "808s" has a 75 on Metacritic, while MAYA has a 68.

And sure, MAYA may have been intended to shed fans simply wanting another Paper Planes, but that doesn't justify the critics belittling her efforts as whiny or cheap. Why are Kanye's whining and cheap quips written off as "fascinating?" Is it Sexism? Ethnic or political xenophobia? Simply the fact that some writers have a critical narrative they had already invested in Kanye (particularly his Importance), and perhaps can afford to be more fickle with their treatment of M.I.A.? There may be a bit of all involved. But I'm still largely at a loss to explain these two divergent critical reactions.

All I know is that I gave both albums a chance. With MAYA, my perseverance paid off, and I was pleasantly surprised. With MBDTF, I mostly got bored and frustrated.

Here's hoping next year will see more integrity in our music press.

2010 Shows Me Its Stuff

It was suggested in the comments section of the last post that I make an End of the Year list of songs that represented "Good Music That I Came to Know in 2010" rather than the more puritanically objective "Albums Of Note that Were Released in 2010" kind of list that, especially given the advent of the internet, is becoming increasingly less representative of how we actually soak up music.

I thought it was a good idea, and so this post has a list of songs that represent my experience of 2010. There are a whole bunch of other songs not listed I could have put on, but this isn't meant to be definitive or anything. It just gives a flavor of the stuff, old and new, that caught my ear throughout the year. The fact that I'm not including already-established favorites on here does mean that my seasonal infatuations with afrobeat (spring), 70's dub (summer), melancholy folk (autumn), Penderecki & Diamanda Galas (late fall), and 90's hardcore rap (very recently), among others, are not represented.

But you can still get a pretty good idea of my year from this list, especially from the prominent presence of synths. It was just a synthy kind of year: from my mining of classic early synth pop, to Vince Clarke & Depeche Mode serving as the soundtrack to my adventures in Japan last May, to the dark, crystalline textures that perfectly accent the colder months.

Here's the list, with links for your listening pleasure.

Dalek – Blessed Are They Who Bash Your Children’s Heads Against a Rock (2009)
Mars – Helen Forsdale (1978)
M.I.A. – Steppin Up (2010)
Depeche Mode – Nothing’s Impossible (2005)
Crystal Castles - Year of Silence (2010)
The Knife – Geology (2010)
Spectral Display – It Takes a Muscle (1981)
Avey Tare – Cemeteries (2010)
Yazoo - I Before E Except After C (1982)

Jorge Ben – Errare Humanum Est (1974)
Kraftwerk – Numbers (1981)
Soulja Boy Tellem – Pretty Boy Swag (2010)
Whodini – Friends (1984)
Osvaldo Golijov – Lua Descolorida (2006)
Janelle Monae – Come Alive (2010)
Big Boi – Daddy Fat Sax (2010)
Diamond Rings – Show Me Your Stuff (2010)
Patrick Wolf – Time of My Life (2010)

Anything crucial that I should know about? Show me that stuff!

No Year of Silence

Oh, the written word. So rigid, so unyielding. When committed to writing, ones’ capricious fancies are frozen in time, never to escape or change. When I wrote earlier to complain the death of the indie music boom, I was simply voicing some concerns over the artistic trajectories of musicians whose earlier works mean a lot to me. Thinking about it, I was just ranting. But typing it out seemed to make my thoughts so much more dramatic, my conviction of a downward trend in musical creativity so much deeper. Even by the end of the post, I seemed to backpedal, for fear of appearing too definitive in my assessment.

This caution has turned out to be well-founded, at least for now. Many of the artists who had me worried or disappointed (e.g., M.I.A., Antony, Avey Tare, and even Sufjan Stevens) have provided some pleasant surprises for 2010, and the year has yielded a nice crop of great music as a whole. From exciting newcomers (Janelle Monae, Twin Shadow, etc), to impressive solo debuts (Big Boi, Jonsi), to welcome revivals of classic sounds (Bryan Ferry, Brian Eno), there’s a lot to enjoy from this year.

For almost as long as it’s been out, I ranked the Knife’s “Tomorrow, In a Year” as my favorite album of 2010. And it’s still way up there among my favorites, still haunting and beautiful. But an unlikely contender has since creeped up the ranks, gaining my attention and eventually my heart. I think--at least in this current state, with this current exposure to the albums I’ve heard--I would actually say that the (phenomenal!) second album of Crystal Castles is the best thing to come out this year.

When I first heard this one, my instant reaction was that it was a dilution of what made their debut LP appealing. Admittedly, though, when I first heard that first LP, I found it more grating and gimmicky than appealing, but those punk mutations of video game sounds were too damn charming for me to gripe about for long. I had to admit, as should everyone by now, that songs like "Crimewave" and "Love & Caring" are among the cream of the crop of music from the past few years.

While the debut was punchy and immediate, its sequel introduces a depth to the CC sound that many (including myself, at first) mistook for unnecessary polish. It’s true that the new one’s not as sonically jagged as the first, but polished it surely isn’t, and necessary it is (note: this particular definitive commitment of thoughts to the typed word is likely influenced by the cold, dark winter nights that currently plague me). “II” might lack the novel edge of its predecessor, but it trades that novelty for much better things. First, it’s got variety, which will almost always win me over. The best moments of Castles I are still fucking exciting stuff, but let’s admit it: it’s tough to get through the whole thing without skipping a bunch of lesser tracks. This second one though is very nicely balanced and consistent. And while the band’s brilliance was previously only exemplified by their rave-ups, this has a lot of quieter moments that are just as powerful as the club stompers (e.g., “Violent Dreams”).

In addition to pure listenability, the Castles have added so much to their trademark sound: a dark, murky sensuality; a psychedelic paranoia; an ineffable frailty lurking within their washes of distortion and vocal treatments. To me, it’s almost like a fusion of the Knife’s Silent Shout with the second half of Sung Tongs by Animal Collective, which probably explains why I love it so much. All of these albums are fresh and exciting in sound, and yet all are singularly and profoundly expressive as well (and I must say that they all make me wish they were around when I was still doing drugs—it’d be so great to hear their twisted soundscapes in various altered states, but that’s neither here nor there). I’m hoping that others who were initially underwhelmed by the band’s tweaking of their sound will eventually come to appreciate this as being the better effort. Slow-growers like this demonstrate why professional reviews of music just don’t have a grip on the way music works. And this is especially problematic for tastemakers who are constantly on the hunt for the next new sound, or next big act. It’s very likely that there’s music to be enjoyed every year, it just sometimes takes time to reveal itself.

So, with all that in mind, let me finish by crowning Crystal Castles (II) as “The Greatest Fucking Album of 2010 In Any Genre! No Question About It!”

Next week, a post complaining about how music will likely suck in 2011.

That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore

As mentioned earlier, my music taste in high school was a mixed bag. Some stuff I’ve always loved, some stuff I fell out of and later revisited, and some stuff I’ll probably never touch again. One sub-population of those last bands could perhaps be lumped and labeled as “comedy rock.” I don’t think I’ll ever be able to come to terms with that crap.

But ten or twelve years ago, I was a fan. I loved Adam Sandler’s “They’re All Gonna Laugh At You!,” The Bloodhound Gang, and the President of the United States of America. Eventually, though, it got old. I mean, how many times can you hear a joke before it’s not funny anymore? Not much. Music is at its best when it’s expressive, so if the only point of a song is to get a chuckle, it’s not going to have much staying power once the laughter subsides.

When you compare the extreme highs and lows of the Funny spectrum, like “Amish Paradise” vs. “Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima,” the distinction is obvious: one is dripping with intense feeling, and the other is….a slightly amusing reworking of an older hit song (try to guess which one is which). But there is a good deal of bands situated in the murky middle of that spectrum, and my reactions to them grow more complex.

Take the Darkness. I really, really wanted to dislike them when I first read about them in music mags. Their cheeky embrace of 80’s hair metal stylings just seemed to reek of cynicism. But upon hearing their stuff, I was impressed. It may all have been a joke, but the efforts they made to take that joke to its fullest were apparent. The songs have admittedly limited repeat value, but they’re damn fun pop music. They almost convinced me to check out some authentic 80’s hair metal. Almost…but not quite.

A harder one to judge is Robyn Hitchcock. Musically, he’s a seamless blend of Syd Barrett and John Lennon, but his lyrics are even more odd than those two points of reference. He’s at his best when his words balance his rabid paranoia with surreal whimsy. But his songs are all over the map in terms of Funniness, from dreamily expressive, to almost-joke territory (somewhat close to the Darkness), to unbearably comedic. I can say that I generally like him, but I always have to approach with caution, since any album is likely to have at least two or three joke mines lurking within.

Then there’s Frank Zappa, who I’m pretty sure I hate. Worshiped by almost everyone I know (though I was happy to read that Lester Bangs, Lou Reed, and John Cale all shared my distaste), Zapp crapped on all of his creative ideas with crass, sardonic humor and a flat vocal delivery that lets you know that he could care about these songs if he wanted to, but he just doesn’t have time for such trifles. This approach stands apart from that of his friend and contemporary, Captain Beefheart. Both shared a fondness for novelty songs and toilet humor, but Beefheart was totally committed to his craft. You could tell that he loved the music he made; he lived it and breathed it, jokes and all. Zappa just wanted to demonstrate how above pop music he was. His use of jokes was at the expense of the music he parodied.

In my opinion, the Residents are a more successful incarnation of what Zappa was trying to do. They can be overly jokey, and also overly preachy about the evils of pop music, but they actually make stuff that they like making. If you hate pop songs so much, and you ambitiously call upon muses like Stravinsky and Varese, then why spend your whole career making doo wop songs about poop? The Residents hate pop music, so they make delightfully weird soundscapes that provide an alternative to the music they satirize. Zappa thought that being funny was enough, but without any real ties to the music he made, he’s only slightly more respectable than Weird Al.

Again, for me, it’s a ratio that determines whether I tolerate or loathe these middle points on the humor scale. And this forces the continuum into a binary distribution. Either it’s a good song tarnished by cheap cheek, or shitty comedy rock with little or no redeeming musical qualities. The Tiger Lilies, the Dead Milkmen, and Senor Coconut are on one side; The Decemberists, They Might Be Giants, and Tenacious D are on the other.

Try to guess which one is which.

I'm a Lil' Mad At Cha

I’ve been listening to 2pac recently. His ties to the Death Row crew always made me hesitant to get into his albums, since I can only take so much of their G-Funk sounds and their violence-as-pornography philosophy. But I can’t deny his talent as a performer, especially his commanding delivery. Most MCs use a producer’s beats to accentuate the force or emotional sentiment of their raps, which is usually true for 2pac as well. But his style also has the effect of accentuating the power of his backing tracks, making an otherwise forgettable beat into something intensely rhythmic, almost tribal.

Add to this a reflective, sensitive side to provide some interesting internal conflicts and contradictions, not to mention a high-profile death—which, along with the shooting of rival Notorious B.I.G., ushered the end of a long reign of hardcore gangsta rap—and you have the makings of music legend.

I’m not surprised that he has such passionate fans and followers (though I’m a bigger fan of Biggie’s work), but I can’t help feeling that he also established a trend in rap superstars that’s less admirable: that of the narcissist thug.

He wasn’t the first, of course. Chuck D’s paranoid, insular rants likely set a significant precedent, and Ice Cube’s solo work is perhaps just as conflicted, just as polarizing, and just as self-righteous in its wounded ego stroking as 2pac’s albums. But 2pac was so huge in the mid 90’s, arguably a bigger star than Ice Cube ever was, and his legacy has now exploded into the realm of myth. He is considered a poet, a philosopher, a saint to contemplate and adore. His ego-centric navel gazing just seems much more powerful a symbol than any previous candidate.

I also realize that megalomania and martyr complexes are not unique to rap stars; from Elvis to Axl to Fred Durst, these poisonous traits have long been part of the rock world. A key difference to me, though (and perhaps I’m wrong on this) is that most idiots who rock out to G’n’R or Limp Bizkit don’t obsess over the personas of their favorite frontmen; they just like the catchy, aggressive music. This is quite different for rap stars: it almost seems as if the artists’ overblown regard for themselves is a large part of their appeal. Think about the big rap stars of the past 15 years: Jay-Z, DMX, Eminem, Kanye West, Lil’ Wayne. Each successive star seems as if they’re trying to outdo each other in their narcissism. Each of these artists frames the trials of their life as moments as grand and massive as Moby Dick.

What is the appeal? I realize that braggadocio has been an important component of hip hop culture since its very beginning, but this is an ugly mutation of that tradition. To me, it seems much closer to the cult leaders who command their devoted followers through the sheer force of their charisma and sense of grandiosity. Biggie over-romanticized violence as well, but at least he knew the merits of humor and self-deprecation. He comes off as charmingly human, while these other artists, talented though they may be, can’t help but seem like cartoons by comparison.

I like some of Kanye’s songs (and some of his antics are unintentional comedic gems), but I can’t sit through a whole album of his prima donna bullshit. Simply telling me that you’re God doesn’t make it so (though it seems that a large portion of the world begs to differ). And Eminem may just be the “Bob Dylan of Hip Hop” (whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean), but he’s also a bitter, whiny asshole; an eternal victim who wants to tell you why it’s not his fault he’s an asshole. Some people may like an artist wanking all over them like that, but I like at least a little foreplay before I commit to that kind of relationship.

So while I tip my 40 to the memory of Mr. Shakur and his undeniable talents, I take the rest of that shit to my head, to drown out the cries of the shrill, privileged martyrs he’s unleashed upon the world.

Many Drug Memories Ago...

...I was at an outlaw party in an abandoned warehouse in West Philly, whacked out of my mind on some really strong E and acid (a practice known as "candy flipping"). Everything was so epic to me. I felt as if the world was ending that moment, and it was beautiful. Suddenly, my hazy thoughts are interrupted by a burst of noise from the speakers: it's a thunderous boom of what sounded like horns used in battle. The sound was so powerful and strident, it enveloped everything in its path. Whatever the DJ (Scott Henry) was playing, it was simply magic stuff.

I tried for a few weeks after that to get a hold of that showstopping horn track. I scoured the new releases racks in the dance record shops, and asked around. Finally, it ended up on a Scott Henry mix tape that I bought, and I got to hear that magic track whenever I wanted. Only, the thing is, the track wasn't so magic after all. You may remember this one.

Yeah.

...Maybe a year later, I was in a club, again soaring high on some really good E. I was thoroughly enjoying the set, which was some pretty high energy dream house and trance (I can't recall the DJ though). Suddenly, the beats stopped, and everything was silent, save for some lovely synth washes. Eventually, I could hear an angelic voice emerging from the swathes of silken melody, kissing my ears with words that I could barely make out. Something about "a better one." Was it "Are you the better one?" Or "In a better world?" I had to know what this song was, it was so fucking beautiful to me. So fragile, almost sad. So special and majestic. And the fact that I had no idea what this mystery woman was saying to me was perhaps part of the appeal. I heard the track couple more times in clubs, again on drugs, and always I got this same feeling; that warm, inviting voice slowly emerging from the ether and tugging my heartstrings before the surging beat returned to carry the song to anthemic heights.

I also tried my darndest to find this track, and this one was more elusive than the first. A good deal later, my friend mentioned that she bought some new tracks and asked if I wanted to hear her spin them. We went to her place, and she pulled out her first record. She said she was ultra excited to get this, that this was a track that everyone loved, and that I'd know it right away when I heard it. And, lo and behold, as soon as I heard it, I realized that this was my cherished song! Only, this time, the magic was completely gone, and my angel-soft mystery anthem was replaced with this!

Pretty embarrassing.

So, yeah, I guess the moral of the story is:


Do drugs.


Do a lot of drugs. Because if drugs have the power to turn these pieces of shit into the glorious crescendos of feeling that I've experienced, into profound emotional moments, then there's no telling what other wonders they can do.

The End.