Issue Three

There are few people around who can always be relied on to create art in its highest form. Simply put, Bjork is one of those folks. The Icelandic pixie fronted college-radio darlings the Sugarcubes in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s. In the wake of the group’s demise she embarked on a successful solo career, producing three excellent records drenched in dance culture and sonic experimentation (1993’s Debut, 1995’s Post, and 1997’s Homogenic). Her starring role in last year’s powerful film Dancer in the Dark (and the excellent soundtrack that accompanied it) placed her directly in the spotlight, peaking with her wonderfully strange, swan-laden performance at the Academy Awards.

  Vespertine is her newest and most accomplished work to date. The ethereal grooves of her earlier records have morphed into many incarnations throughout her career; on Vespertine the production and arrangements are simpler, more lyric-focused. Now more than ever, the centerpiece of it all is Bjork’s unbelievable voice. The range and dyamics of it are truly extraordinary: it whispers painful lullabies, and soars majestically over the instrumentation, the note twisting and bellowing, on the verge of snapping in two. There has never been anything like it in music, period.

Not to say that the musicianship or production techniques are lacking in any way. The music stays true to the direction she’s been going all along, flushed with fluttering beats and loops that are constructed from an unending supply of eerie, distorted noises, the origins of which are impossible to trace. Harps and string sections flesh out the songs; choirs provide beautiful, spooky harmonies.

Bjork is credited with “music box arrangement” on a few songs; it is the focus of the instrumental “Frosti,” and the result is music that has a childlike ghostliness to it. There is great beauty in the sadness of its sound.

The focus of Vespertine is seemingly straightforward: love and everything that surrounds it. From the raw honesty of the coda to the song “Pagan Poetry” (“I love him” is repeated several times, with no music to accompany it) to the rhetorical question in “Sun In My Mouth” (“Will I complete/the mystery of my flesh?”), Bjork is discussing her most personal feelings with very little self-editing.

This outpouring of emotion is just as celebratory as it is confessional, evident in the amazing “Cocoon.” The song does not attempt to veil its intent for one second, the backing sounds reserved and stripped down, the landscape of the song filled with Bjork’s words: “He slides inside/half awake half asleep/We faint back into sleephood/When I wake up the second time in his arms/Gorgeousness/He’s still inside me.”

With Vespertine, Bjork has made an album that is her most organic and passionate yet. Fueled by emotion and dripping with sexuality, it is a major achievement in the career of one of the most immensely talented artists around.

Review:
Brian Wilson: Live At The Roxy Theatre

To the uninitiated, pop songwriter extraordinaire Brian Wilson’s new double live album Live At The Roxy Theatre is probably about as significant as the lyrics to “Fun Fun Fun.” But once one takes into account the life that the former Beach Boy has led, the record becomes an uplifting and inspiring work (that is thoroughly engaging musically as well).

He’s an artist that lived through immense label pressure to produce a steady stream of hits, an ensuing nervous breakdown, and a descent into deep depression and drug addiction that left him disillusioned and secluded from society. He has lost both of his brothers and fellow Beach Boys, Dennis and Carl Wilson (Dennis drowned in 1983, Carl died of cancer in 1998.)

  While he released a few solo albums, it seemed that Wilson would never again perform live, until he hit the road in support of his 1998 release “Imagination,” followed by the critically acclaimed “Pet Sounds” tour of 2000. Knowing all of this, it’s quite moving to hear an exuberant 58-year-old Wilson cheerfully thanking his audience on Live At The Roxy Theatre.

Then there are the songs. He’s put together an incredible band, including LA club veterans The Wondermints. By no means is this Beach Boy Mike Love’s “Wheezin’ to the Oldies” show that stops through Dunn Tire Park every summer. The harmonies are crisp, the arrangements are fantastic, and as a result, the songs are rejuvenated.

The age in his voice is apparent in a couple spots, most notably a shaky rendition of “Don’t Worry Baby” and his failure to recapture the magical boyish innocence that made “God Only Knows” such a classic.

But I’m most certainly splitting hairs. The song selection is excellent, covering everything from 1963’s “Surfer Girl” to the previously unreleased gem “The First Time.” The gorgeous “’Til I Die” has never sounded better; the same can be said for the delightful ballad “Kiss Me Baby” and the light-hearted instrumental “Pet Sounds.”

Wilson’s joyous mood throughout the concert is addictive, his sense of humor surfacing several times, especially on his cover of Barenaked Ladies’ slightly twisted tribute song “Brian Wilson.” Hearing Wilson talk about “rockin’ and rollin’” with the excitement of a child on Christmas Eve is simply a beautiful thing, and is what makes this album so precious.

Essay:
Suburban Rap-sody

Hey there. I’m a 23-year-old white male who grew up in Amherst, NY–the safest damn town in America. My parents never hit me; I’ve never broken a bone, I’ve never been arrested. Myself and my fellow recruits of the Stunted Suburban Army should be steeped in blandness, fainting and shrieking over every word that Dave Matthews utters. Instead, many of us know every word to the new Ol’ Dirty Bastard record.

When asked to write this piece, I thought I would try to educate the masses with my superior knowledge of the genre of hip-hop, spreading my passion to others who hadn’t given it a chance. A prophet of cultural superiority, I would open up the eyes of every closed-minded bigot in society, curing the hatred in their souls, thereby ending racism in all forms. If I could just make one of these people pick up a De La Soul record, my crusade would be a success.

I then realized that I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. The depths of my pomposity ran so deep, I spit in my father’s face, (figuratively) after he gave me a negative review of the new Outkast album.

Truthfully, I cannot relate to 99% of the myriad of topics that rappers cover in their songs, but so many of those songs are held close to my heart, and can be the source of a whole spectrum of emotions. That’s because it’s hard to find artists that are more passionate about their craft than hip-hop artists. It’s truly poetry in motion, words of unbridled honesty fueled by music that pulsates, jitters or just plain thumps. And it’s a culture that is entirely foreign to the safest towns of America, music that talks about places where real things happen to people with real problems, outside the bubble of in-ground pools and street names like Morningcastle Terrace or Whispering Rabbit Lane. It’s no mystery why the majority of hip-hop record buyers are sheltered kids from the ‘burbs’ like myself.

Every neighborhood has its own little William Bennett who would ground his kids into damnation if they were caught listening to such “hateful noise.” Sure, if the focus is solely on the idiocy of Eminem’s gay-bashing and Dr. Dre’s misogyny, rap’s message isn’t so warm and fuzzy. But it’s even more idiotic to denounce an entire genre of music because of it. The organic positivity of groups like A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, Mos Def and The Roots is hip-hop at its finest, a diverse stewpot of influences, boiling over with funk, R&B, jazz and fusion, spiced with poems of love, politics, pride, sexuality and musical bliss.

  These rappers are masters of rhythm with a sixth sense for the feel of the human voice, and their performances take the words from the lyric books and elevate them to a spiritual state. Once you embrace artists such as these and allow them to enter your psyche, you’ll realize that some of Eminem’s work really is brilliant; he can be brutally honest, painting a gritty, depressing portrait of life, and has incredible rhythmic command over his words. It’s unfortunate that his last record had to be covered in a cloak of mindless and transparent hate speech; in the end, he bought into what his critics thought he was.

Regardless, hip hop has rightfully become one of the more all-encompassing and lucrative genres of music around, practically dictating the world of fashion, people scrambling to mimic the culture in every possible way. And I am just as fascinated. While I don’t own a shred of Puff Daddy’s clothing line, I am enthralled with every aspect of the music. America’s cities are quickly becoming like foreign countries to anyone remotely affluent, and rap music is the purest representation we have of them, perhaps the only direct line that is left in popular culture. The albums play like documentaries, running the gamut from songs of celebration and joy to songs of anger, oppression and violence.

I just want to ask the William Bennetts of my life what they would deem as acceptable art in today’s society. Lawrence Welk? Jewel? Is Will Smith okay because he doesn’t curse and smiles a lot? If it’s bereft of passion, it seems to get the stamp of approval. Rap will outlive all forms of plastic pop because it’s music that’s organic, it flows naturally, and paints pictures of a world alien to bubbles and Jewel’s friggin’ hands. The more you try and hide a culture, the more we want to be a part of it.

Now that I’ve gone ahead and written this, I presume that my point was to focus on the beauty of hip-hop, and to attempt to analyze its amazing tendency to cross all societal barriers, inspiring people of all races, classes and creeds. The roots of my love for the music are impossible to define; it must spark something in my sub-conscious, most likely the area that has yet to be tainted by shopping plazas and suppressed emotions.

Feel like immersing yourself in the fertile waters of hip-hop? You may want to check out these records. Come on in, the temperature’s nice...

A Tribe Called Quest - The Low End Theory

Arguably the best rap album in history. Centered on the masterful diction of MCs Q-Tip and Phife Dog, it’s a beautiful record: addictive, positive rhymes flowing over funk and jazz soundscapes.

Mos Def - Black On Both Sides

A sprawling effort that touches on all genres of black music, Mos Def’s solo debut is politically and spiritually enlightening, at the same time sure to induce many long episodes of rump shaking.

Wu-Tang Clan - Enter The Wu-Tang (36 Chambers)

The first album from the legendary group of 9 Staten Island MCs is dark, brooding, and uncompromising in its depiction of ghetto life. The music is haunting in its simplicity; the rapping is passionate, angry and overflowing with energy.

Public Enemy - Apocalypse ‘91: The Enemy Strikes Black

Lyrically revolutionary and musically explosive, Public Enemy combines the brilliant political mind of rapper Chuck D with the scorching sounds of producers The Bomb Squad, spiced with the general wackiness of rapper Flava Flav.