KRS-What?
Wednesday, September 30th, 2009Since KRS-One lives in Atlanta these days (I believe), he’s fair game for this blog’s criticism. In any case, his recent comments about Def Jam deserve a dissection.
“Def Jam is the dopest label in hip-hop, in the culture of hip-hop,” he said. “There really would be no hip-hop as we know it today if it wasn’t for Def Jam. But you don’t get that respect without also being the label that single-handedly destroyed hip-hop.”
Not surprisingly, he goes on to blame that great hip-hop boogeyman of commercialization for ruining things, as if that’s something that can or should be controlled. (If hip-hop weren’t commercial he would be out of a job and — his worst nightmare — no one would be listening to him.)
Before vocalist Jeremy Enigk found God, and before Nate Mendel (bass) and William Goldsmith (drums) found the Foo Fighters, Sunny Day Real Estate’s second album, LP2 (aka the Pink Album) hit alternating highs and lows for the harbingers of emo. From the onset of “Friday,” there’s more girth in the guitars, drums and bass — everything but Enigk’s whiney ruminations. Where his piercing wail gave ’94’s Diary character, here, his dramatic pronunciations of such words as “Matrimo oh nay” are just plain annoying. Enigk’s cheese factor was previously tempered with palatable, rainy day longing. But on LP2, a certain rasp in “Theo B” and “5/4″ grates the ears. “Waffle” finds Mendel, Goldsmith and guitarist Dan Hoerner congealing with chemistry like never before. Regardless, Slint did this sort of thing so much better. (Sub Pop) 3 stars out of 5
Blame Sunny Day Real Estate for emo’s rise to commercial accessibility. With its 1994 debut Diary, the Seattle foursome gave a pretty boy makeover to a genre that previously resided in the tortured noise and obscurity of hardcore. From the passionate swoon of “Song About an Angel” to the shadowy piano waltz of “Phuerton Skuerto,” SDRE spills its guts in an outpouring of everything but rage, creating a sound where the emotionally victimized could relate with their conflicted sentiments. “Round” and two untitled and previously unreleased tracks show some viscera through Hüsker Dü-like crunching guitar melodies; and it’s the terse, distressed melodies unraveling over vocalist Jeremy Enigk’s high-end wail that create the album’s tension. But Diary is a release for those who would rather commit suicide than homicide. Fifteen years later, it’s still a compelling album, despite the procession of sad sacks for whom it paved the way. (Sub Pop) 4 stars out of 5
This isn’t the career overview the late Atlanta blues guitarist deserves, and might still get in the future. It is, however, a terrific recap of Sean Costello’s earliest years, from his 1996 debut at the age of 16 until 2002. That makes it of particular interest to those in the Atlanta blues community who followed him during these years as he was finding his voice, style and stage presence while holding court at Northside Tavern and other local clubs. More than half of the 20 tracks are previously unreleased and every one is a worthy addition to Costello’s existing catalog. Label owner Michael Rothchild’s informative liner notes are tinged with bittersweet memories of the personal and professional relationship he and Costello shared. But it’s the music included here that backs up his claim that the guitarist was one of the country’s finest, most talented and committed contemporary bluesmen. (Landslide) 4 stars out of 5
Remember that scene from “Chappelle’s Show” when Charlie Murphy recalls the time when the late Rick James came to his brother Eddie’s pad and started jumping up and down all over the leather sofa with his muddy platform boots on, yelling “Fuck yo’ couch, nigga!” Well, that’s HOLLYWEERD to the nth degree. Take the lineup: a self-styled savant who goes by “the Dreamer,” two full-time tat artists (Tuki Carter and Chris “the Love Crusader” McAdoo) from City of Ink, and a jazz-sax journeyman who calls himself the mythical Stagolee. That ain’t no rap group, it’s a band of gypsies. Since materializing out of thin air nearly two years ago, the four-man crew has busily crafted its own unruly narrative. The three mixtapes released in the past 12 months showcase the group’s penchant for combining sweet indie-pop incarnations with self-indulgent fantasy funk. It’s a nutty mix. Yet somehow they’ve managed to turn their wild inconsistencies — from constantly evolving musical influences including OutKast and the Doors to hit-or-miss live performances — into the main attraction. Like a traveling freak show, Hollyweerd piques our curiosity. No matter how odd, we can’t turn away for fear of missing what might happen next. 
