BAD BRAINS, Hammersmith Clarendon, London
Melody Maker, May 16th 1987
by Simon Reynolds
Bad
Brains double-stun with the tidal wave of their sound and the shock of
their incongruity--imagine Burning Spear playing Anthrax. But the link
up of Rasta and speedcore is totally appropriate: both subcultures have a
total vision of the world as unremitting tribulation and slavery, both
imagine liberation in the form of apocalypse. Bad Brains’ music
similarly seems to consist in absolutes--of gravity, velocity, heat,
cold. Blacks invented rock’n’roll in the first place, so it’s fitting
that they’re here at its outer limits, presiding over its ultimate
supernova, its whitest white-out. Their singer HR slashes out the beat
with an outstretched arm, and it’s like he’s conducting the orbit of
planets.
The shows are slick, as tautly rehearsed as
The Temptations or Zapp, right down to glib intersong chat. An intensely
glamorous bunch--HR lashes the air with his dreadlocks, guitarist Dr.
Know wears a permanent gape of joy at his own brilliance, Darryl
Jennifer the bassist’s bug eyes and Clinton eyebrows say “I can’t
believe we’re doing this!”.
In a way, there’s nothing
of themselves in the music, it’s anti-authentic: Bad Brains take the
form of hardcore and perfect (exaggerate) it to the point where it’s
abstract art.
Such a fastidious assault, so exact, so
exacting. Bad Brains are about astounding musicianship crammed within
rigid parameters, and so blazing all the more brightly. HR brings an
almost scat feel to the straight-ahead melodies, throws in all manner of
swerves and dips). Similarly the emotional intensity of Bad Brains, of
hardcore in general, comes from when energy is caged, richochets off the
walls.
Bad Brains were like a visitation, a bolt from
the heavens, and the vast sexless apocalypse of their music left even
the grubbiest, most lumpen members of their congregation cleansed,
elevated, reborn.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Friday, May 3, 2013
PUBLIC ENEMY, Fear of A Black Planet
Melody Maker, 1990
by Simon Reynolds
Over the past three years, Public Enemy have made the single most concerted attempt to take rap's inchoate fury and sonic insurgency, and commandeer it for political ends. But there's only so far you can tamper with rap. The hip hop mindset is essentially paranoid: it flits between triumphalism and survivalism, invincibility and siege mentality. Public Enemy have successfully replaced rap's dictatorial "I" with the "we" of political discourse, but in the process they've collectivised rap's intrinsic paranoia. The result, we all know: delusions of grandeur and an
unsightly rash of conspiracy theories.
The first album rubbed our faces in some unpleasant racial truths about America. But by the time of It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back, Public Enemy's subject matter seemed to have contracted to the shock waves generated by their impact. At this point, they were reminiscent of nothing so much as Morrissey in his late Smiths phase of paranoiac pseudo-statesmanship. Public Enemy just seemed to be announcing themselves over and over again, reiterating the urgency of their mission without explicating it further.
None of this would have mattered if they'd expanded on the musical avant-gardism of the first album. But the self-righteous self-referentiality seemed to have a deleterious effect on their sound, which ossified around the formula established by the brilliant "Rebel Without A Pause": a siren shriek of shrill, sampled sound, endlessly looped over a hyped-up R&B beat.
For a while, I thought they'd lost the plot completely. Then, the magnificently ominous "Welcome To The Terrordrome" restored faith. And the latest bout of furore over their alleged Anti-Semitism has made them a public phenomenon, worthy of the severest scrutiny.
The best way to understand Public Enemy is to realise that they're chaos theoreticians. Their loopy racial and historical theories may seem risible and offensive, but for Public Enemy they're steel handrails in the hour of chaos, a way of mapping the confusion of the contemporary political landscape and forcing it to make "sense". The plight of Black America demands simple, drastic explanations and simple, drastic solutions. It's this that makes Public Enemy more than a little fascistic (not to mention their partiality for paramilitary style, gestures, etc..)
Textually, Fear Of A Black Planet provides a fair amount of ammunition for the prosection. "Meet The G That Killed Me" sees Chuck D blaming AIDS on the "unnatural practices" of homosexuals. It's strange that for all their Afro-centrism, Public Enemy don't seem to be aware that in North Africa, AIDS is a heterosexual plague. But what's really exposed by lyrics like "man to man/I don't know if they can/From what I know/The parts don't fit" is a pathological fear of being penetrated and passive. This terror of the loss of male bodily integrity, plus the paradoxical combination of homophobia with homo-erotic male bonding, is something that rap shares with the military in general, and Fascism in particular.
But as well as "Meet The G", and other dodgy bits like the alledgedly Anti-Semitic lyric in "Terrordrome" concerning Chuck D's media crucifixion ("they got me like Jesus"), there's also a fair amount of acute finger-pointing. "911 Is A Joke" attacks the tardy response of hospitals and police to black emergency calls. "Burn Hollywood Burn" rages against the movie industry's presentation of only injuriously stereotypical images of blacks. And "Revolutionary Generation" is both a tirade against chauvinistic attitudes towards Black Women and a slightly dubious paean to the "sisters" ("it takes a man to make a stand/Understand it takes a/Woman to make a stronger man").
The lyrical bulk of Fear Of A Black Planet, though, consists of a livid, febrile jumble of self-aggrandisement ("Final Count Of The Collision Between Us And The Damned"), rallying cries, and turbid stream of consciousness. Fear Of A Black Planet shows that while Public Enemy on one level theorise as a bulwark against chaos, on another level their real forte is sculpting chaos. On Side A-90 in particular, Chuck D struggles to be heard through the clamour of garbled voices (excerpts from radio interviews with the group, political rhetoric, and random slices of uproar from funk records) and the blare of pulverised horn samples and shredded acid rock licks.
Fear Of A Black Planet is a work of unprecedented density for hip hop, its claustrophobic, backs-against-the- wall feel harking back to Sly Stone's There's A Riot Goin' On or even Miles Davis' On The Corner. For all its street-funk bustle, it's not joyous or liberating to listen to, but it does sustain a terrific pitch of stark, staring dread, something exacerbated by the lack of gaps between tracks.Particularly stunning are the eerie, futuristic "Pollywannacraka", with its backwards cymbals, and the evil-eyed funk of "Anti-Nigger Machine".
Side B-91 is more uptempo: "Who Stole The Soul", "Revolutionary Generation" and "Can't Do Nuthin For Ya Man" are propelled by much the same hyper-tense, hair-trigger beat, almost as fast as House. "War at 33-and-a-third" is another hectic trajectory, interrupted only by a "middle eight" that's a calamitous trough of free jazz bedlam and raised voices. And "Fight The Power" makes for a superb, clenched fist finale.
But overall, what we learn from Fear Of A Black Planet is not how singleminded Public Enemy are, but how fucking confused they are. Public Enemy are important, not because of the thoroughly dubious "answers" they propound in interview, but because of the angry questions that seethe in their music, in the very fabric of their sound; the bewilderment and rage that, in this case, have made for one hell of strong, scary album.
Melody Maker, 1990
by Simon Reynolds
Over the past three years, Public Enemy have made the single most concerted attempt to take rap's inchoate fury and sonic insurgency, and commandeer it for political ends. But there's only so far you can tamper with rap. The hip hop mindset is essentially paranoid: it flits between triumphalism and survivalism, invincibility and siege mentality. Public Enemy have successfully replaced rap's dictatorial "I" with the "we" of political discourse, but in the process they've collectivised rap's intrinsic paranoia. The result, we all know: delusions of grandeur and an
unsightly rash of conspiracy theories.
The first album rubbed our faces in some unpleasant racial truths about America. But by the time of It Takes A Nation Of Millions To Hold Us Back, Public Enemy's subject matter seemed to have contracted to the shock waves generated by their impact. At this point, they were reminiscent of nothing so much as Morrissey in his late Smiths phase of paranoiac pseudo-statesmanship. Public Enemy just seemed to be announcing themselves over and over again, reiterating the urgency of their mission without explicating it further.
None of this would have mattered if they'd expanded on the musical avant-gardism of the first album. But the self-righteous self-referentiality seemed to have a deleterious effect on their sound, which ossified around the formula established by the brilliant "Rebel Without A Pause": a siren shriek of shrill, sampled sound, endlessly looped over a hyped-up R&B beat.
For a while, I thought they'd lost the plot completely. Then, the magnificently ominous "Welcome To The Terrordrome" restored faith. And the latest bout of furore over their alleged Anti-Semitism has made them a public phenomenon, worthy of the severest scrutiny.
The best way to understand Public Enemy is to realise that they're chaos theoreticians. Their loopy racial and historical theories may seem risible and offensive, but for Public Enemy they're steel handrails in the hour of chaos, a way of mapping the confusion of the contemporary political landscape and forcing it to make "sense". The plight of Black America demands simple, drastic explanations and simple, drastic solutions. It's this that makes Public Enemy more than a little fascistic (not to mention their partiality for paramilitary style, gestures, etc..)
Textually, Fear Of A Black Planet provides a fair amount of ammunition for the prosection. "Meet The G That Killed Me" sees Chuck D blaming AIDS on the "unnatural practices" of homosexuals. It's strange that for all their Afro-centrism, Public Enemy don't seem to be aware that in North Africa, AIDS is a heterosexual plague. But what's really exposed by lyrics like "man to man/I don't know if they can/From what I know/The parts don't fit" is a pathological fear of being penetrated and passive. This terror of the loss of male bodily integrity, plus the paradoxical combination of homophobia with homo-erotic male bonding, is something that rap shares with the military in general, and Fascism in particular.
But as well as "Meet The G", and other dodgy bits like the alledgedly Anti-Semitic lyric in "Terrordrome" concerning Chuck D's media crucifixion ("they got me like Jesus"), there's also a fair amount of acute finger-pointing. "911 Is A Joke" attacks the tardy response of hospitals and police to black emergency calls. "Burn Hollywood Burn" rages against the movie industry's presentation of only injuriously stereotypical images of blacks. And "Revolutionary Generation" is both a tirade against chauvinistic attitudes towards Black Women and a slightly dubious paean to the "sisters" ("it takes a man to make a stand/Understand it takes a/Woman to make a stronger man").
The lyrical bulk of Fear Of A Black Planet, though, consists of a livid, febrile jumble of self-aggrandisement ("Final Count Of The Collision Between Us And The Damned"), rallying cries, and turbid stream of consciousness. Fear Of A Black Planet shows that while Public Enemy on one level theorise as a bulwark against chaos, on another level their real forte is sculpting chaos. On Side A-90 in particular, Chuck D struggles to be heard through the clamour of garbled voices (excerpts from radio interviews with the group, political rhetoric, and random slices of uproar from funk records) and the blare of pulverised horn samples and shredded acid rock licks.
Fear Of A Black Planet is a work of unprecedented density for hip hop, its claustrophobic, backs-against-the- wall feel harking back to Sly Stone's There's A Riot Goin' On or even Miles Davis' On The Corner. For all its street-funk bustle, it's not joyous or liberating to listen to, but it does sustain a terrific pitch of stark, staring dread, something exacerbated by the lack of gaps between tracks.Particularly stunning are the eerie, futuristic "Pollywannacraka", with its backwards cymbals, and the evil-eyed funk of "Anti-Nigger Machine".
Side B-91 is more uptempo: "Who Stole The Soul", "Revolutionary Generation" and "Can't Do Nuthin For Ya Man" are propelled by much the same hyper-tense, hair-trigger beat, almost as fast as House. "War at 33-and-a-third" is another hectic trajectory, interrupted only by a "middle eight" that's a calamitous trough of free jazz bedlam and raised voices. And "Fight The Power" makes for a superb, clenched fist finale.
But overall, what we learn from Fear Of A Black Planet is not how singleminded Public Enemy are, but how fucking confused they are. Public Enemy are important, not because of the thoroughly dubious "answers" they propound in interview, but because of the angry questions that seethe in their music, in the very fabric of their sound; the bewilderment and rage that, in this case, have made for one hell of strong, scary album.
YOUNG BLACK TEENAGERS
Melody Maker, 1990
by Simon Reynolds
These are crazily racially mixed up times in the US of A. While politically and economically the plight of black people is much the same as ever, culturally African-Americans have never been more visible or audible. Oldtimer chatshow host and American icon Johnny Carson has been overtaken in the ratings by his younger, funkier and indelibly black rival Arsenio Hall. Hall has brought rap braggadochio and street slang into the living rooms of ordinary folks across Middle America. And he's not alone: there's ex-rapper the Young Fresh Prince's successful sitcom and the feisty black comedy show "In Living Colour". In pop, the wholesome MC Hammer has taken rap into the heart of teenage shopping mall culture. Then you've got the Caucasian parasites like Vanilla Ice and New Kids On The Block with their castrated version of rap menace.
The rap community is confused by its own overground success. Some applaud the likes of Hammer for representing the positive face of rap all the way to the Grammys; others bemoan the way the new media-friendly rap has distanced itself from street reality and become just another form of Uncle Tom entertainment for the white mainstream. In reaction, there's arisen a blacker-than-thou ethos in hip hop, whether it's the ultra-realism of ganster rappers (NWA, Geto Boys) or the righteous Afro-centrist groups (Brand Nubian, Poor Righteous Teachers).
And now, adding fuel to the flames, here's the provocatively named Young Black Teenagers, whose gimmick is that they're all white. "Black is a not a colour to us," they aver. "Blackness is a state of mind."
YBT are proteges of producer Hank Shocklee (reknowned along with his 'Bomb Squad' cohorts for sculpting Public Enemy's wall of noise). YBT's imminent debut album is also the debut LP for Shocklee's new label SOUL.
"We aint tryna say we're black," says Kamron (one of the group's three rappers) defensively. "Our song 'Proud To Be Black' is all about growing up in a black culture, then coming home and catching hell for being into black style and black slang."
Some would say that it's all very well aligning yourself with black culture, but you have a choice, black people don't. They'd say that there's a history of oppression behind 'black' identity that African-Americans live every minute of their lives, and it's presumptuous to imagine you can simply simply buy into that.
"We're not saying we're black," retorts Tommy Never (another rapper). "It's just that growing up the way we did, you develop a state of mind that's perceived by white people as 'black'. 'Black' relates to different people in different ways. So there's gonna be some clashes. We're not trying to tell anybody we're black, and we're not trying to tell anybody what 'black' means."
"We're members of a new race," continues Kamron. "A race without a colour. There's a lot of Hispanic and white kids growing up whose models and inspirations are from black culture. Rap is a whole culture that relates to the way you talk, the way you dress, the way you think, even the way you eat and hang out."
Those-in-the-know generally agree that you and 3rd Bass have an "authentic" and respectful relationship to rap, whereas Vanilla Ice is dissed as a phoney opportunist.
"There's a difference between capitalising on something, and doing it cos you're part of it. We're part of the rap culture. Vanilla Ice came up through commercial radio, we're coming from a street angle. We ain't nothing but another rap group."
Nonetheless YBT don't quite fit in the current rap scheme: they don't peddle a thug's eye view of ghetto hell, they're not post-daisy age peaceniks, and they're not into consciousness- raising "edutainment" either. Instead they talk of bringing back "the oldschool sound, the roots of rap that we grew up on but a lot of people today don't know about". Their two singles to date typify this oldschool style, with their raw, grainy sound and sleazy, faintly misogynistic subject matter. The debut, "Knowbody Knows Kelli" was inspired by Kelly Bundy, the slutty, air-headed teenager from the brilliant and hugely sucessful US sitcom "Married With Children". YBT's fantasy is that Kelly is a hooker being pimped by Bart Simpson. Their new single, "To My Donna", is a lewd invitation to Ms Ciccone "to come get it/it's heated". Yuk!
Kamron explains. "See, Madonna and Lenny Kravitz took a Public Enemy beat and turned it into 'Justify My Love'. Chuck D and Hank Shocklee were upset about it, and suggested to us that we write a answer record. They felt that it was their beat, and that they shoulda had credit for it. It wasn't a sampled beat, it was something they'd programmed. And all Madonna did was add some moans over the top. There's a difference between taking a small sample and switching it around until it's something original, and what Madonna and Kravitz did, which was just taking the beat outright. So what we're saying to Madonna is 'you want it, come get it, babeee'"
Melody Maker, 1990
by Simon Reynolds
These are crazily racially mixed up times in the US of A. While politically and economically the plight of black people is much the same as ever, culturally African-Americans have never been more visible or audible. Oldtimer chatshow host and American icon Johnny Carson has been overtaken in the ratings by his younger, funkier and indelibly black rival Arsenio Hall. Hall has brought rap braggadochio and street slang into the living rooms of ordinary folks across Middle America. And he's not alone: there's ex-rapper the Young Fresh Prince's successful sitcom and the feisty black comedy show "In Living Colour". In pop, the wholesome MC Hammer has taken rap into the heart of teenage shopping mall culture. Then you've got the Caucasian parasites like Vanilla Ice and New Kids On The Block with their castrated version of rap menace.
The rap community is confused by its own overground success. Some applaud the likes of Hammer for representing the positive face of rap all the way to the Grammys; others bemoan the way the new media-friendly rap has distanced itself from street reality and become just another form of Uncle Tom entertainment for the white mainstream. In reaction, there's arisen a blacker-than-thou ethos in hip hop, whether it's the ultra-realism of ganster rappers (NWA, Geto Boys) or the righteous Afro-centrist groups (Brand Nubian, Poor Righteous Teachers).
And now, adding fuel to the flames, here's the provocatively named Young Black Teenagers, whose gimmick is that they're all white. "Black is a not a colour to us," they aver. "Blackness is a state of mind."
YBT are proteges of producer Hank Shocklee (reknowned along with his 'Bomb Squad' cohorts for sculpting Public Enemy's wall of noise). YBT's imminent debut album is also the debut LP for Shocklee's new label SOUL.
"We aint tryna say we're black," says Kamron (one of the group's three rappers) defensively. "Our song 'Proud To Be Black' is all about growing up in a black culture, then coming home and catching hell for being into black style and black slang."
Some would say that it's all very well aligning yourself with black culture, but you have a choice, black people don't. They'd say that there's a history of oppression behind 'black' identity that African-Americans live every minute of their lives, and it's presumptuous to imagine you can simply simply buy into that.
"We're not saying we're black," retorts Tommy Never (another rapper). "It's just that growing up the way we did, you develop a state of mind that's perceived by white people as 'black'. 'Black' relates to different people in different ways. So there's gonna be some clashes. We're not trying to tell anybody we're black, and we're not trying to tell anybody what 'black' means."
"We're members of a new race," continues Kamron. "A race without a colour. There's a lot of Hispanic and white kids growing up whose models and inspirations are from black culture. Rap is a whole culture that relates to the way you talk, the way you dress, the way you think, even the way you eat and hang out."
Those-in-the-know generally agree that you and 3rd Bass have an "authentic" and respectful relationship to rap, whereas Vanilla Ice is dissed as a phoney opportunist.
"There's a difference between capitalising on something, and doing it cos you're part of it. We're part of the rap culture. Vanilla Ice came up through commercial radio, we're coming from a street angle. We ain't nothing but another rap group."
Nonetheless YBT don't quite fit in the current rap scheme: they don't peddle a thug's eye view of ghetto hell, they're not post-daisy age peaceniks, and they're not into consciousness- raising "edutainment" either. Instead they talk of bringing back "the oldschool sound, the roots of rap that we grew up on but a lot of people today don't know about". Their two singles to date typify this oldschool style, with their raw, grainy sound and sleazy, faintly misogynistic subject matter. The debut, "Knowbody Knows Kelli" was inspired by Kelly Bundy, the slutty, air-headed teenager from the brilliant and hugely sucessful US sitcom "Married With Children". YBT's fantasy is that Kelly is a hooker being pimped by Bart Simpson. Their new single, "To My Donna", is a lewd invitation to Ms Ciccone "to come get it/it's heated". Yuk!
Kamron explains. "See, Madonna and Lenny Kravitz took a Public Enemy beat and turned it into 'Justify My Love'. Chuck D and Hank Shocklee were upset about it, and suggested to us that we write a answer record. They felt that it was their beat, and that they shoulda had credit for it. It wasn't a sampled beat, it was something they'd programmed. And all Madonna did was add some moans over the top. There's a difference between taking a small sample and switching it around until it's something original, and what Madonna and Kravitz did, which was just taking the beat outright. So what we're saying to Madonna is 'you want it, come get it, babeee'"
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