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Hiphop
Hooey
 D-12
D-12 World (Shady/Interscope)
So we’re told that Eminem is “just another group member” when
he’s rapping with D-12. That’s not necessarily incorrect,
but every group has an overachiever, and let’s be honest:
D-12 wouldn’t be anywhere without their old buddy Marshall.
Without his talent and, apparently, guidance—he’s given a
prominent executive-producer credit, and the record was released
on his Shady imprint—these guys would be just another bunch
of foul-mouthed jackasses shooting playground insults back
and forth at each other.
That said—and this should be obvious by now, if you’ve spun
through the radio dial at any point in the last few months—“My
Band” is one of the best singles of the year. It displays
a self-effacing sense of humor that belies the brutish machismo
so common in the rap game. Obviously, these guys aren’t taking
themselves too seriously; they realize why people are paying
attention to them in the first place and they’re willing to
make themselves the punchline. And anytime a Roxanne Shanté
reference comes along, you can’t help but smirk. Otherwise,
there’s little to suggest D-12 as anything more than a gangsta
version of 2 Live Crew.
Perhaps that’s not a completely valid statement. To be fair,
there is a little substance: Surely, anytime Slim Shady’s
involved, this is hot stuff. The opening salvo, “Git Up,”
finds Em spinning a children’s word game into a “don’t fuck
with us” anthem, and there’s some mean club-style battling
on “How Come.” Key guest appearances from Cypress Hill’s B-Real
and Eminem protégé Obie Trice pad some lean stretches, and
most of the tracks are tight and hooky (sounds like Marshall’s
picked up some tricks from his own mentor, Dr. Dre).
Unfortunately, when the rest of the “band” are allowed free
of the coattails, the quality suffers severely. Swift and
Proof have some bright spots, especially on “Loyalty” and
“Good Die Young,” but the whole thing is weighed down significantly
by the presence of the none-too-special rhymes of Kon Artis
and Kuniva. Then there’s the just-plain-untalented Bizarre,
whose “Just Like U” might be the one of most foul tracks made
available to the public en masse in a dog’s age; so vulgar,
in fact, that certain lyrics and phrases had to be deleted
prior to the album’s release (and rightfully so—even the most
liberal listener should take offense to lines like “You’re
eight years old, it’s time to start fuckin’ ”).
It’s a shame that D-12 World is such a disappointment,
because you get the impression that they could be capable
of more if it weren’t for a childish preoccupation with the
f-bomb. There are 139 of them on this record, and that’s not
counting the “skits,” which brings up another point: Is this
supposed to be hiphop or comedy? These inane skits are only
funny on the first listen, if at all; after that, they’re
just needless filler. If these guys could pull their heads
out of the gutter long enough to put together a few more tracks
as clever as “My Band,” they would be onto something. Instead,
this album is, for the most part, a 70-minute-plus assault
of empty-headed misogyny and violent imagery.
—John
Brodeur
 Glenn
Tilbrook
Transatlantic Ping Pong
(Compass)
It’s impossible not to compare Glenn Tilbrook to his former
band, Squeeze. Though co-leader and co- songwriter with Chris
Difford, it was Tilbrook’s voice that established a large
part of their identity. His vocals possess perfect pop-rock
sonority plus an additional quality that lends a mysterious
emotive presence to the songs. Even lyrics of good cheer are
compellingly undercut by the subtly powerful force of melancholy.
For his second solo outing, Tilbrook’s identity remains as
it has been, with thoughtful arrangements built around carefully
wrought songs, half of which were written alone, the others
in tandem with a few collaborators. Notable among the latter
is the appearance of his erstwhile writing partner. The pair’s
first new song in six years, “Where I Can Be Your Friend,”
finds wordsmith Difford rather clearly addressing the unraveling
of Squeeze. Elsewhere, the songs stick to the familiar terrain
of domestic dysfunction, interpersonal distances, social discomfort,
and hope held in check. The set closes with an instrumental
that shows how Tilbrook’s musical inclinations mirror the
small private dramas played out in the other songs: “One for
the Road” dances along with the infectious propulsion of a
surf ditty, but as its melody gently dances atop a chord change
elevating the minor, it resonates with a reality borne of
fleeting sadness, warm and sweet.
—David
Greenberger
Burning
Brides
Leave No Ashes (V2)
With their debut album, Fall of the Plastic Empire,
Philly’s Burning Brides seemed positioned to capitalize
on the garage-rock renaissance that occurred around the time
of its release, and might have done so had they been willing
to fence in their sound. Instead, on Empire, and now
on their latest, Leave No Ashes, we’re given witness
to a band that’s forming its own identity by raiding their
old gatefolds and boiling them down into a stamping, stammering
reduction. While Empire showed that lead Bride Dmitri
Coats has a strong flair for melody and songcraft, with more
than a little love for late ’60s psychedelica (the drugs,
mostly), it also kicked rock & roll ass, and had its share
of seriously awesome metal moments (check out the Slayerrific
coda to “Arctic Snow”). With Ashes (due July 2nd on
V2 Records), the band picks up where it left off, and then
some.
Right out of the gate, “Heart Full of Black” is a swift kick
in the pouch, adding fuel to the argument that AC/DC might
well be the most influential band of the last 30 years. “Alternative
Teenage Suicide” burns the barn and bulldozes the remains,
while “Dance With the Devil” sounds like the Strokes jamming
on a late-period Screaming Trees tune jamming on Blue Cheer’s
version of “Summertime Blues.” “This is the sound of a rockin’
band,” Coats dutifully informs on the roaring title track,
kicking off Ashes’ second half—bonus points awarded
for making a record that divides comfortably into classic
LP format—as a canned audience goes wild behind him. He knows
it and he knows we know it. “To Kill a Swan” ambles along
on a riff that would make Tony Iommi kowtow, as Coats strings
threats/promises like “I’ll see you at the crime before I
see you at the fuckin’ trial” through the head of a one-note
melody that’s eventually woven into one of the album’s best
hooks (even if it’s only for five seconds at a time).
The mood comes down considerably for the album’s final third,
which is almost startling in the wake of the preceding mayhem.
“Pleasure in the Pain” and “Last Man Standing” are well-constructed
Oasis power ballads; “From You” is a compact pop-rocker with
a Tom Petty bent (perhaps a side-effect of their collaboration
with Petty’s producer, George Drakoulias). A cheesy farfisa
organ and a team of rejects from a Nick Cave sound-alike contest
garnish the closer “Vampire Waltz,” or, if you will, “Haunted
House of the Rising Sun.” It’s deep, dark, moody, and bloodthirsty,
much like the rest of Leave No Ashes.
—John
Brodeur
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