In the spirit of World Music Day, or because I just happened to stumble across this release in the KCRW Spotify App on World Music Day, I’ve got to journey to the highest mountain and spread the word about Curumin’s Arrocha. And by journey, I mean take a break from work for a moment. And by highest mountain, I mean my bl-g, which is more of a glorified mole hill. The Brazilian artist Curumin combines jazz, samba, bossa nova, hip-hop and bleeps and blips into something entirely unique and essential. World Music rarely excites me. In fact, the term seems like a misnomer and reeks of American ethnocentrism. It’s not worldly, it’s just “other.” You speak the anglo or you don’t. True World Music, it seems, should bridge cultures and musical genres. Thus, in the spirit of true Wordly Music, I give you São Paulo’s Curumin.
The rap concert is an unnatural phenomenon. Rap is a Frankenstein genre, cobbled together from samples and beats and lyrics culled from life, other songs, other genres. Beats are made. Rhymes are written. And then all is combined and mixed in a studio. The system is not unlike any other style of music; however, rap differs because the subsequent components of a rap record are rarely organic. Rap has more in common with the electronic- and DJ-fueled genres, yet rappers perform in traditional concert venues because they are unshackled, unpredictable and the beating heart of the Frankenstein monster. For all its posturing, rap music is less a spontaneous creation than a practice of restraint and calculated excess. Rap concerts have a tendency to take on a life of their own, for better and for worse. The Wu-Tang Clan created the most influential rap album of the last twenty years, yet I attended a concert of theirs in 1997 that I recall as perhaps the worst exhibition of “music” I’ve ever seen. The phrase herding cats might as well have been “herding stray Wu-Tang Clan members.” ODB just didn’t show up. Method Man was late and the rest treated the performance like a freestyle battle gone horribly wrong.
1 million sold, m’f’ers.
To further confuse the balance of spontaneous art and beats/production, the platform supports vanity entertainers with regularity. This introduces that final silent component of rap music, reputation and swagger. How else can you explain Shaq Diesel going Platinum? That’s one million copies sold. Allan Iverson, Chris Webber, Ron Artest, Roy Jones, Jr. have also all tested the rap game with lesser success. Therefore, at face value, it’s easy to be skeptical when Donald Glover, a comedian and notable TV actor and writer (for 30 Rock), releases a record. A quick sample of his Camp LP dispels any questions you may have had about his intentions (even more so when you learn that he’s been creating beats and writing music for more than six years, having already released three independent records prior to Camp). Glover is a capable beatsmith and MC (even if he borrows much of his style from the Kanye-school of swagger) but where he excels is his creative wordplay and rhymes. He alternates brash with hyper-sensitivity. His songs are laced with pop-culture references and cynicism regarding the genre’s predictable tropes. Personal themes of childhood bullying, alcoholism and failed relationships are littered throughout. As Childish Gambino, Glover is a self-aware artist that refuses to break the “Fourth Wall” – to borrow a term from film theory. Despite being an excellent stand-up comedian, the Renaissance man in Glover refuses the audience a campy wink-wink of acknowledgment. What he’s doing is serious business and he’s doing his damnedest to ensure that he’s accepted as an artist who excels according to the rules of each of his endeavors. He does not succeed as a rapper because he is an actor. He does not excel as an actor because he is a comedian. Each talent exists in a separate vacuum, a truly remarkable feat of career management.
Danny Brown opened. While I’m warming to Brown’s lyrical style (which seems to be a mish-mash of Das Racist and Shabazz Palaces), his strength is also his creative use of humor. The performance, however, lacked energy. Other than the moment when he pulled a fan up on stage (a hipster Chris Elliott), Brown and his DJ seemed oblivious to the crowd. Hipster Chris Elliott rapped along the entire time and Brown lent him the microphone to punctuate particular phrases. Still, the unusually attentive crowd (for an opening act) ate it up.
When the very first beat from “Outside” dropped, Glover turned the attentive but lax sold-out crowd at Stage AE into a fist-pumping party. His stage act is frantic and high-energy. “First time in Pittsburgh. We gotta do this right,” he proclaimed early on, and throughout the show Glover beckoned the audience to keep the pace. Backed by a full band, the music filled the space with more than just an obligatory distorted bassline. Two drummers, guitar, keyboards and the occasional violin. The musicianship transcended a standard hip-hop show.
I’d always wondered about the identity of the Childish Gambino fan demographic. These are things about which only those who write about music wonder. And as I nodded along with the beat appreciatively, I couldn’t help but take an unofficial and superficial survey of the demographics. Those most enraptured by the performance were A) Young; B) Twenty-something; C) Caucasian; and D) Female. Not what I had anticipated. If I’d taken a picture of the crowd you’d never have guessed the act. It was a cross-section of Pittsburgh youth culture. Glover requested a roll call of minority females in the crowd before “You See Me (UCLA)” and had to search to locate a few of them, including the one Indian girl who Glover called out for hiding from him. Welcome to Pittsburgh, Donald Glover.
Anyway, back on track. Surprised as I was by the overwhelming reception for the Childish Gambino act (as I mentioned, a large, sold-out venue), I was more surprised by the knowledge of his back catalog, all independently released. Chalk it up to an Internet-savvy generation with too much time on their hands. I don’t particularly have an excuse other than having mild OCD. Also I don’t sleep much. While Camp favorites “Bonfire” and “Heartbeat” received raucous welcomes, it was tracks from his older releases that lit a fire with the audience. Much of the crowd knew the words “Freaks and Geeks” and “Culdesac” and sang right along, prompting Glover to offer the microphone to the crowd to jump in during the chorus on a number of occasions.
While I should have just been proud of Pittsburgh for coming out and actively supporting a quality artist, hip-hop or otherwise, I was still just a little confused. Who are these people? The last notable hip-hop act to come through Pittsburgh was Shabazz Palaces and I doubt more than a handful of this crowd knew Shabazz at all. I don’t intend this as a knock on Glover or the fans of his music, just that Childish Gambino has attained a crossover appeal that’s difficult to label. Is it because Glover is unintimidating? Small in stature? That he’s “hard,” but not too “hard?” That he raps about universal human conditions rather than drug abuse, objectification of women and violence? Or is it merely that he tells jokes and plays Troy Barnes on Community?
And though the comparison lacks realistic connectivity, I couldn’t help lament that fact that if all of these people watched Community the show wouldn’t be on such tenuous ground. But, again, I digress. The only explanation for his widespread appeal is that despite Glover’s ability to maintain separation of music and television stardom, he is incapable of escaping (nor does he necessarily want to) the connectivity to the global idea of “fame.” Music and image, after all, go hand-in-hand, like beats and rhymes. And fame can be wielded in many different ways. The only way for Glover to continue to succeed independently in TV, music and comedy is to continue pretend that he is three different people, each operating freely, without the baggage of his alter egos. Fans will continue to be drawn in by the idea of his fame as long as he pretends to recognize that it doesn’t exist. But however it is you’re doing all that you’re doing, Troy Barnes/Donald Glover/Childish Gambino, don’t stop doing it because you are a true entertainer.
My daughter turns three years old today. Unbelievable, really. I find this particularly unnerving because my first concrete memory comes from my third birthday party. Up until now I’ve been living under the assumption that if I screwed something up, she wouldn’t remember it anyway. Now, I’m in danger of going on record… and while I’m sad that another year has passed and she’s developing that whole free will thing, I’m excited to finally, hopefully, start to make some lasting memories that she’ll remember when she’s 33 and reflecting upon her own childhood. Hopefully, she’ll remember this summer and maybe even the summer jams of 2012 (with some fondness), just as I remember the summer of 1981 and the timeless Hall & Oates track “Kiss On My List.” This track sticks with me and immediately recalls those early memories. Anyway, my memory, if you’re curious, is of finding a massive and wrapped box on the lawn and subsequently opening this beautiful beast:
I'm pretty sure mine was of some green variety.
…and now for the jams…
The Walkmen – Heaven
No recent album requires an open window and a cold beverage more than this one. You’re outside on the patio sipping a margarita? Pump the Walkmen through to the outside. Maybe it’s evening. You’re inside with the windows thrown open with an uncoastered mojito leaving a sweat ring on the end table? The Walkmen, on simmer in the background on repeat. More understated than prior albums, Heaven might underwhelm at first, but give it another chance to creep in under your skin and induce instant mellow. This isn’t a sad sack record for sad sack indie worshippers. This is a laid-back record with something for anyone. It’s good enough to force a pause, to take a moment so that you might listen more closely to the music.
The Quakers are a full-frontal assault. If you don’t dig the Quakers, you don’t dig hip-hop. And that’s cool, but goddamn you’re missing out on some exciting new music. The Quakers redefine the term supergroup. The collective consists of 35 different members, summoning powers and talents from artists as varied as Portishead, The Pharcyde, Aloe Blacc, Prince Po and Coin Locker Kid. These 35 artists turn 40 tracks into a brilliant and cohesive record. Impossible, you say? I thought so too. Rumor has it that the three producers of the record, Fuzzface (Portishead’s Geoff Barrow), 7-Stu-7 and Katalyst, had all grown disillusioned by the state of modern hip-hop so they set out to create a record they’d want to listen to. As it turns out, it’s a record we all want to listen to… with the windows down, hoping the kid in the back isn’t realllly paying attention to the lyrics.
My classic jams list could never be complete without a rediscovered classic sneaking into the countdown. I’d always been a fan of the Foxx-fronted Ultravox. “Reap the Wild Wind” is a timeless charmer. But rarely had I ever heard any solo work by John Foxx. During my regular record-crate diving, I came across a sealed copy of John Foxx’s Garden for $4. An easy purchase. A pristine, unheard solo LP from an 80’s (near) icon. I expected to enjoy it, but holy hell was I surprised. John Foxx deserves more respect. Garden is more smooth Ultravox than John Foxx’s prior release: Metamatic (a stiff, cold offering). If you don’t know John Foxx and/or Ultravox, there’s never been a better time to discover one of the 80’s forgotten gems.
Somehow, Hot Chip has merely skirted big-time recognition. In Our Heads represents their fifth full-length album, and if this doesn’t strike a chord this summer, I’m not sure there’s any hope for civilization. Hot Chip creates electro-lounge-pop with a beat. And if you get caught up in the bounce, it’s very danceable. My now 3-year old can attest. The album drops next week but after having heard the album stream online, I believe quite strongly that there are a few tracks on this record that are among their most infectious. Hot Chip just understand the groove. No more self-conscious use of the world jam regarding this record. It’s a legitimate jam at the intersection of dancehall, indie and electronic music. Indiepoptronica, perhaps.
Named after a specific moment in the Melvins’ “A History of Bad Men,” this sister-duo made a splash with the Scarlet LP and have carried that promise into their full-length, self-titled debut. They’ve been dubbed nu-gaze (a sub-genre of my favorite non-genre “shoe-gaze), but if you’re looking for a definition that means something they’re PJ Harvey and Warpaint with an extra dash of 90’s-era guitar fuzz. Frankly, I shouldn’t like this… but it works. And I can’t stop listening to their radio-friendly single “You’re Early.” Plus the band has still got that anonymous quality that makes you feel like you’re one of the first in on the ground floor of something big.
I didn’t know I needed another St. Etienne record but there it was and I had to listen after catching a few tracks on XM. Sure it’s vintage St. Etienne, bouncy, synth-laden electro-pop with pristine Sarah Cracknell vocals. Words and Music is a return of sorts. Though I’d never taken a moment to wonder: Saint Etienne where have you been for seven long years? That begs the question: did we even miss them? Yes. I guess. I dunno. I’m so conflicted. I always thought they were cheesy. Did I change or did they? Because I like this album. I like it in the way that I can leave it on and not notice it’s there. In and out of the house, here and there, pick up where I left off. Did I miss something? It’ll come back around. So if these albums are the soundtrack of my summer, Saint Etienne must therefore be the score because I don’t see Danny Elfman around anywhere.
If you listen to one new band this month, make it Dry the River. I’ve been plugging this band on Twitter and I just can’t help but give the UK quintet another chance to win over one, maybe two new fans. I have serious pull. What can I say? Think Mumford & Sons, but distinctly British. Though they have energy in their repertoire, Dry the River’s ballads display remarkably lush musicality (given depth by a pervasive violin) and restraint. There’s nary a pinch to be found on the entire record. And even though Shallow Bed has been out for awhile now I still keep going back to it. The sign of jams that aim to set the mood for the coming season.
This band always reminds me of summer. Every year I seem to put Pylon on the speakers and let it ride. I have no reason to associate it with summer any more than the next fellow. But something about these post-punkers reeks of warm weather, beer and doing stupid shit that one might possibly do during the summer and regret during the winter. Is it just me or does Pylon not get a lot of buzz anymore for just being a great rock band? People think Athens, GA, they think R.E.M. Not me. I’d rather have a beat, some creative shredding and Vanessa Briscoe Hay. The albums have all been remastered with extra, previously unreleased tracks that are actually very good. Bonus bucks.
In the spirit of World Music Day, or because I just happened to stumble across this release in the KCRW Spotify App on World Music Day, I’ve got to journey to the highest mountain and spread the word about Curumin’s Arrocha. And by journey, I mean take a break from work for a moment. And by highest mountain, I mean my bl-g, which is more of a glorified mole hill. The Brazilian artist Curumin combines jazz, samba, bossa nova, hip-hop and bleeps and blips into something entirely unique and essential. World Music rarely excites me. In fact, the term seems like a misnomer and reeks of American ethnocentrism. It’s not worldly, it’s just “other.” You speak the anglo or you don’t. True World Music, it seems, should bridge cultures and musical genres. Thus, in the spirit of true Wordly Music, I give you São Paulo’s Curumin.
