Slip like Freudian, your first and last step to playing yourself like accordion

As we edge nearer to the end of another decade (and, pardon me, but how the hell did we get to 09 so damn fast!?) I have set myself the inner task of working out what has been the best hip-hop release of the decade. A ridiculous Herculean task destined to failure you may rightly surmise, the very definition of futility, the kind of rock that Sisyphus might be doomed to push up a hill for eternity. And yet I am trying. I may not reach the end, but my friends, like life itself, it is the journey that is important.

For in this autumnal retrospection I am re-appraising and rediscovering works and musical wonders afresh, returning to old favourites and over-looked classics as I go. But there is one work, from the early middle of the 2000s, which has stood out as golden from the very time it dropped. An album that is at the forefront of my thoughts as I stride out purposefully on my quest because it was a recent re-listen to this work that got me thinking in the first place. Has there been a hip-hop album since that has bettered Madvillain’s 2004 release “Madvillainy”? Well of course, you are well within your rights to point out that much of this is subjective, and depends on what criteria you are using to judge.

You may also argue, again very fairly, that “Madvillainy” may not even be the best album of 2004, a year that saw Foreign Exchange drop “Connected” for example, saw Kanye’s “College Dropout”, Masta Ace’s “A Long Hot Summer”, Wordsworth’s “Mirror Music”, Lil Wayne’s “Tha Carter”, Ghostface’s “The Pretty Toney Album”, Jadakiss’ “Kiss of Death”, “The Tipping Point” from The Roots, and “Murs 3:16 The Ninth Edition” from Murs and 9th Wonder, not to mention returns to form for Nas with “Streets Disciple”, De a with “The Grind Date” and Snoops “Rhythm & Gangsta”. All massive, and the tip of a pretty strong iceberg. Like I say, list-making is all about opinions anyway.

But if you go through this list you will be hard pressed to match “Madvillainy” on virtually any category you care to mention. First up is the fact that, as good as they undoubtedly are, the other albums I have mentioned are all pretty much straight up hip-hop. Excellent, fresh, innovative in their own ways, but displaying a style that each of the artists involved are already known for, and simply performing to excellent standards. You could argue for Masta Ace’s concept driven narrative, and Foreign Exchange’s bold expansion of the hip-hop sound, but when it comes to totally trying to kick up the game and switch it upside its head, the sheer vision and audacity of “Madvillainy” is exceptional.

Not only is the subject matter brought by the dream team of MF DOOM and Madlib different to your usual rap fare, drenched in comic book stylings and off-kilter lyrics, but the approach o the music itself is daring, dynamic and devilishly creative. No verse-chorus-verse structure for these two, more a collection of blunted beats of incredible imagination and technical finesse, of songs which at times seem to start half way through, halt too abruptly, merge into one another, or clash against comic capers and movie reel vignettes. The loops from Madlib’s crates are sublime, while MF DOOM (all caps of course) spits rhymes of raw power, sprinkled with incredible metaphor, sophisticated wordplay and stoned fluidity and cerebral expansion.

The soundscape is slightly demented, but if the above description seems scatter-gun and jarring, the truth could not be more opposite, for the album is coherently brilliant, taking a fully non-traditional route to musical greatness. Skittish syncopation is smoothed out by bass-heavy and unusual melodies, and DOOM’s slightly rasping and on-note off-note delivery somehow seems to have its edges planed into soft curves by the interplay with the music that Madlib creates. And all this from a duo who between them worked on another 8 projects that same year. Clearly these are two cats for whom writer’s block just doesn’t seem to be in their vocabulary.

“Madvillainy” is an album that just never seems to tire and each time I listen to it I am amazed by the skills of the sometime partners as individuals, the gold they make together, and also y the fact that it seems to improve with age. And this from a record that straight astonished me on release anyway. MF Doom is up there with my favourite emcees, and how can you resist couplets such as “When he at the mic you don’t go next, leaving pussycats like wild hoes need Kotex, exercise index won’t need boflex, won’t take no woman with skinny legs like Joe Tex” on the incredible “Accordian”, or “Do it like a robot to headspin to boogaloo, Took a few minutes to convince the average bug-a-boo, It's ugly, like look at you!

It's a damn shame Just remember All Caps when you spell the man name” on “All Caps”. But merely reciting the lyrics doesn’t do them justice, for it is their aural impact that is their real strength. So good that even when in a stream of consciousness or weeded out style, they still seem profound. Madvillain are never going to be top of the pops, but for sheer creative passion, and a desire to push the boundaries of hip-hop they should be feted and given maximum props. Best of the year, to my mind yes. Best of the decade, well hey, that is one bold claim. But given the right mood and setting, there are few better albums to listen to start to finish.

Call them ahead of their time, call them eccentric, call them eclectic or experimental. Call them plain crazy, but whatever you do, make sure you call them classy and classic every single time. The men behind the mask are a certain type of genius, time to face the truth.

No skinny-dipping down in Far East Mississippi

The Ohio Players are, to me, virtually the epitome of funk. Them, and maybe The Meters, but for different reasons. There may be other outfits and individuals more influential, other groups who have scaled to higher heights in the public consciousness, or who have a more impressive back catalogue in terms of hit records and significant songs and albums within the accepted canon of funk. But there is just something about the Ohio Players that just gets you every time, deep down to your funky bones. It started for me, where else, but with the record covers.

When you are a wet-behind-the-ears young pup setting out on the path of musical enlightenment, exploring the exciting new world of soul, funk and killer R'n'B imagine the scene when you happen across an Ohio Players LP while flicking through the vinyl at you local vendor's. Well, let me tell you, the covers with their intentionally erotic and racy imagery simply begged to be investigated further.

And then you buy the LP, it might be "Honey", "Skin Tight" or "Fire".
For me it was 1976's "Contradiction". And then you play it. And you find music that is so damn tight, so damn rhythmical, expressive and downright funkadelic, that you wonder how on earth you have never heard the Ohio Players before. They throw down layer after layer of complex rhythm and melody, building up music of intensity and yet a somehow laconic urgency if that is not itself a contradiction. Lyrically inventive, instrumentally innovative and simply incredible, the music, whether full on funk jam or a sensual ballad, all seems to be dripping in the sweetest treacle, a sticky mingling of desire, sensuality and animal energy.

"Contradiction" was their last great album, but is the bookend of a run of absolute classics. My favourite tune, aside from the massive "Who'd She Coo?" is the irresistable "Far East Mississippi" a slow burner of whacked out guitar and some kind of social incantation.
The vocals are relatively minimal in their inclusion, but still add grease to the track. Sexual promiscuity runs throughout, of course, but it is the rootsyness of the tune that stands out, some dirty essence that is represented best by the bluesy harmonica that emerges part way through to take it down to the Mississippi delta From Ohio to the deep south, the Players funked the whole damn lot.

Me and Mrs Jones

The career of Mrs Nasir Jones, aka Kelis, is an interesting one indeed, littered with outstanding slices of innovative R’n’B pop with a hip-hop sensibility, and the odd monster hit. And yet Kelis rarely seems to do more than flirt with the mainstream. Each time that she produces a chart hit and seems to be destined for a more household name kind of fame, she produces a record that confuses critics and seemingly the record-buying public as well.

I’m not saying that she is not a big star because clearly she is, and has a recognition and status cemented in the music firmament. And yet despite having all of the ingredients, to my mind, to become a huge worldwide star she seems to dip in and out of public consciousness somewhat, and momentum that she has built up somehow dissipates at the crucial moment. Perhaps this is by design and the fame game that the likes of Britney or Rhianna play has never been to her liking. Perhaps it is nothing more than the vagaries of the commercial record industry and not something worthy of over-analysis.

Whatever the case, I have always been a big fan, and from the moment that Kelis burst onto the scene as the colourful muse of the then relatively green Neptunes, screaming her anthem of defiance and post-relationship fury, I have been fascinated by her music. It’s difficult to say that she is under-rated as such, but I do think that there are elements of her output that just haven’t been rated enough, nor given the full props they deserve. Does that even make sense? What I mean, I suppose, is that there have been times when I feel that Kelis, and by definition much of her early work as collaborations with the Neptunes, has been truly ahead of the game.

Take her second album, 2001’s “Wanderland” as an example. When she first announced her musical blueprint on 1999 debut “Kaleidoscope” the Neptunes were still relatively unknown, and their trademark synth-led stop-start production style even less so outside of niche circles. By the time of “Wanderland” the world was much more aware of the Neptunes’ sound, particularly the way it was shaping the crossover hip-hop market and making inroads into straight up pop through work with Britney. And so you can argue that “Wanderland”, which was a critical hit and yet commercial flop, sounded somehow dated, even though it actually took the original blueprint and polished it to electronic funk perfection.

Seriously, it is an incredible album. Achieving moderate success in various spots around the globe, the record bombed in the key market of the US however, and as a result Kelis’ momentum was halted once more. But she returned with arguably a greater statement, once again riding the Neptune train, through the absolutely next-level “Milkshake” from 2003’s “Tasty”. As a hit single it is once again without any real precedent, a dirty funk jam that simply oozes sex from its fuzzed out bass-line to its off-kilter porter bell full-stops and lascivious double-entendre lyrics. “Tasty” was also a key move as it moved away from almost sole sculpturing by the Neptunes, and into the realms of wider production input.

Sales were decent, but again largely off the back of the single success. But the depth and versatility of the album somehow never got its due recognition. The Andre 3000 produced “Millionaire” is too good for words, while the two Raphael Saadiq produced tunes “Glow” and “Attention” establish a blessed out modern soul that has been the subject of much imitation since, while Chad and Pharrell up their game and diversify their sound whenever called on. And most recent offering, 2006’s “Kelis Was Here”, instead of building on the chart renown and fame of her marriage to Nas, similarly stuttered and wobbled to only moderate sales, resulting in her being dropped by Virgin.

And yet, once more the album is fresh, original, interesting, full of savvy beats and creative lyricism, and all showcasing Kelis’ flexibility and relatively unique vocal style. She is never going to be the greatest singer alive, and yet there is more nuance and crucially expression than many contemporaries.

I don’t know, and maybe I am the one who is misguided, but she is far too good, in the words of her husband’s one time nemesis, to have a one hot album every ten year average. As motherhood beckons, perhaps we have even seen the last of her recording output. It wouldn’t surprise me. And if we have then I am certain that her work will be the subject of some future reappraisal and critical acclaim, certainly more than it has generally received so far. Like she demanded in her own forthright way right back at the beginning, you don’t know this is that good stuff. Damn right, it’s better than yours.

I’m a little better than dope is

Readers of this blog will need no convincing of the lyrical skills of The Roots frontman Black Thought. Quite when the man is going to get the widespread props he deserves, however, is something that straight-up baffles me. Is it because his band are live instrument maestros that so-called real heads fail to connect with it? Does it offend their hip-hop sensibilities somehow? Does having incredible live backing somehow diminish Black Thought’s emcee skills? Is it the fact that his subject matter is thoughtful, complex and riddled with social consciousness, diversity, political opinion, dashes of thuggery and a flow that bites and bristles with raw energy that somehow threatens fans of the music? I don’t know, but to me the man is up there with the very best. For consistency of quality there are few hip-hop bands that come close to The Roots, and as I have stated before, live and on stage they are simply a sight to behold, never failing to please and get the party started.

And I was listening to 2004’s “The Tipping Point” the other day and apart from the fact that I was thinking how under-rated that album is, happened across one of my favourite tunes that The Roots have put out, and one which for me sums up much about the group that is great, but also the same about their rapping spearhead. The song in question is the dynamite brilliance that is “Boom!”, the tune where Thought simply rips the mic apart all over a beat of rippling energy and skittering b-boy bravado. It is also the tune that Black Thought drops two verses that are truly astonishing, first mimicking Big Daddy Kane, and then giving the same treatment to Kool G Rap.

Now first of all, if imitation is the greatest form of flattery, then Black Thought flatters these two great emcees to the utmost. And could he have chosen two greater rhymers to flatter, because make no mistakes, Kane and G Rap are themselves amongst the very, very best around. But I digress lightly, because it is the fact that Black Though carries off these impressions with such style and aplomb that is really the point here. What other rapper would even attempt this, let alone make it work so as to construct a tune that sounds like it could genuinely be a brilliant lost posse cut. There is no danger that his attempts at honouring two emcees who he clearly has taken inspiration from will end in embarrassment.

And this is down to his technical skills, his ability to not only deliver rhymes in the styles of his heroes, but also write them in the first place and hit their flow so accurately. I think it is audaciously brilliant, and as I say is heightened only by the fact that in the background ?uestlove is simply ripping the drum beat to shreds. I mean totally killing it, while the bass of Hub rides its understated and yet often quite brilliant lone furrow throughout. The track is like jumping into a Juice Crew jam from 1988 and giving them a shot of mid-2000s production. But despite all of this excellence, and despite the fact that Black Thought mimics his heroes to such an adept standard, ultimately it is Black Thought being himself that shines brightest.

The opening verse is a straight-up stormer of an introduction and owns the track even before the two slabs of lyrical mimicry that follow. Every time he opens his mouth it is to say something worth listening to. I’m not sure how many other emcees could say the same.

It would be a dreary life, without you by my side

London, like any large city, is a multi-cultural melting pot and as such has bred some interesting musical sub-genres. Modern examples such as the drum’n’bass scene of the early to mid 1990s, jungle, and even more recent offerings such as UK Garage, 2-step, Grime or dubstep are usually a reflection of a more mainstream musical movement being filtered through the underground of London’s nightlife. They are frequently the sound of communities and amalgamations of social groups taking a musical style and imprinting upon it their own identities, beliefs and cultural references.

But few perhaps reflect such a specific strata of society, and reflect a definite London characteristic, as much as Lover’s Rock, that smooth appropriation of reggae sentimentality and romance that emerged particularly from south London’s Caribbean community in the 1970s, in direct contrast to the move towards strident roots and Rastafarianism evident in Jamaican reggae at that time. It’s lilting tempo and sweet harmonies, undercut by some of the greatest basslines around, just seem to sum up a feeling still synonymous with parts of London today, particularly hazy summer days, lazy long warm nights, and early morning dances. It is where soul meets reggae head on, and the records that fit into this genre are simply some of the best and most heart-warming around.

And while the popularity of Lover’s Rock soon expanded to capture the attentions of huge stars such as Gregory Isaacs, Dennis Brown, Sugar Minott, it was actually dominated in early years by the emergence of female stars. And amongst these stars was the dreamy, beautiful sound of singer Jean Adebambo, who sadly passed away at the beginning of 2009 aged just 45. Adebambo’s most famous song is the incredible “Paradise”, a record which to me sums up everything that is great about Lover’s Rock. Written by the singer herself, it is a slow-burner of delicate beauty, the song guaranteed to finish the dance with its intimate seductive charms and responsible I am sure for more than a handful of London’s 1980s babies.

Just astonishing. The tune itself, comes from the hard-to-find yet brilliant 1983 album “Feelings”, and if you can track them down singles such as “Reaching for a Goal”, “Pipe Dreams” and “Hardships of Life” continue the winning aesthetic of soulful, almost Gospel, vocals set against percussive and expressive tracks of sun-drenched, romantic groove. Adebambo’s passing is even sadder given her recent triumphant return to performance following over 20 years retirement from the music business, and also the confirmation that her passing was suicide. But the focus of her death should be on the wonderful, if brief, musical legacy that she left behind, a fantastically under-rated voice from a true daughter of the London music scene, and a provider of one of the most beautiful records in any collection. Paradise, in fact.

Mocha-chocco-latta Ya Ya

Here at A Story To tell, as you well know, we veer wildly between the obscure and the familiar, between the lauded and the cruelly ignored. But more often than not, whichever way we swing, the aim is to bring to you examples of songs or musical works that really make us tick. And there is really nothing that can make a dance floor tick like the 1974 disco funk classic that is Labelle’s “Lady Marmalade”. Now simply because this tune is a radio staple and a favourite of 70s themed discos and party nights across the globe does not mean that we can’t stop for a second and marvel at its brilliance.

There have been numerous covers of course, many worthy of mention themselves including the all-star cast of modern R’n’B sass-meisters led by Missy in 2001, but for the true essence of why this song is so great the original is truly unbeatable. Well, I say the original loosely, because the tune was actually first performed by co-composer Kenny Nolan’s obscure band Eleventh Hour before being turned over to Labelle, but it is so unknown and obscure as to hardly count. And besides, Labelle stamped it with such authority that to describe it as anything other than their song would be tantamount to treason.

And so where to begin with this absolute monster of a tune? Well the obvious place is at the beginning, and I say this partly because from the off this record simply explodes into life. A single piano note is displaced by an eight second sustained Hammond squeal as the piano returns to set the funky tone for what follows, admirably supported by a drum beat that seems to suggest that things are about to get live. I have a particular weakness for the clang of a cowbell, and here it taps out the rhythm over the snare with dangerous intent. Labelle, or to give them their proper dues as brilliant harmony trio Patti Labelle, Nona Hendryx and Sarah Dash, quickly enter the fray with the now familiar clarion call to sisters everywhere, and the ingredients are established for a sexy swirl of female empowerment.

And then the song somehow finds another gear and really gets going, and yet we are only seventeen seconds in! And what a song it is. I mean have you actually listened to it closely recently? It is totally next level. This is partly because of the sensual thrust that Labelle bring to the vocal performance, not to mention the downright sauciness of the tale being told, but also because production was from New Orleans legend Allen Toussaint, and backing from the funkiest of the funky, none other than The Meters. An incredible combination and one which simply catches fire on this song.

We all know the lyrics, and we all sing along, particularly to the dual chorus of flirtatious French rudeness and incoherent scatting. But the story being told is what really makes the song stand out. Uncomplicated in its lyrical structure, and yet weaving a tale of sexual debauchery and abandon, questionable morals, regret and solicitous empowerment, all sprinkled somehow with an essence of New Orleans magic and voodoo. Listen again to how each verse seems to amp up the funk levels a little more each time, and focus also on the interweaving of rhythms, melodies and instrumentation. The beat, surprisingly for a disco staple, is actually quite slow, and the rhythm is hard. Spaces and off-beats litter the song, mirroring the looseness of the morals within, and the overall result is of a musical jam of pure fun and pure funk.

The album that spawned this massive hit single, 1974’s “Nightbirds” is, unlike the single itself, a little slept on. A hit at the time it has slipped out of consciousness a little. This is a crying shame, because it is an absolute belter. Toussaint ensures stellar production, while Nona Hendryx’s compositions are testament to the talent lying within the group aside from their impeccable harmonic talents. Sassy, funky, soulful, and punchy in all the right places, it deserves to be rated amongst the best of that decade. Like Lady Marmalade herself, it will have you crying More, More, More.

Got the Blues about Miss So-and-So

For a service such as A Story To Tell to never have spoken about Robert Johnson, the King of the Delta Blues, is something of a travesty. We’re from the Twelve Bar stable for goodness sake. But Johnson is one of those artists who is so astounding as to render this author relatively lost for words, lost for a starting point, lost for the vocabulary to describe this music which, while rooted in the simplicity of the Blues chord structure, seems to take on an other-worldly power. The story of Johnson’s life is told in many places, digressing and diverting as the biographical details become entwined in myth and legend, losing clarity through repetition and soaking in folklore, the true narrative destined forever to be murky like the swampland of the Mississippi Delta.

The so-called dance with the devil down at the crossroads, the mythical pact that gave Johnson his incredible guitar-picking ability, is perhaps the most famous, but many elements of his life remain shrouded in mystery, glimpsed only through three existing photographs, anecdotal tales from fellow bluesmen, few official documents and the 29 recordings that he left behind (30 if you believe the myths, a final lost song still potentially floating out there somewhere). And of course, were the music not so captivating, the mysteries of the story would be far less arresting. But as it is the music is simply jaw-dropping, both for its lyrical prowess, raw energy, technical accomplishment, melodic and rhythmical style, grace and power. It just breathes life and the essence of the blues through its subversions of what remains a relatively simple chord structure.
There is so much that is interesting about Johnson’s work that one mere posting will never do it justice. But one thing commented on frequently is his influence, not on the Blues itself, but on more modern examples of rock’n’roll. The rock’n’roll that includes the Rolling Stones, The Who, Led Zeppelin, Hendrix, Cream, and on and on it goes. It is said that had Johnson’s memory not been kept alive by a small group of enthusiasts who were more interested in jazz and blues and their folklore traditions.

White enthusiasts, incidentally, who helped preserve his recordings in the incredibly important Library of Congress archives, scholars who feted his work for its technical ability less than its commercial success or cultural or musical impact. For Blues musicians themselves in the 20-plus years following his death in 1938 the work of Robert Johnson and his influence will have been lucky to have been a mere footnote. For it was the release of his recordings in the 1961 album “King of the Delta Blues Singers” that began the honouring by the cream of 1960s rock, and the assessment of his work and importance. 16 mono tracks of incredible blues music, and the first modern commercial example of the musical style which has come to be so well-regarded. And including also Johnson’s virtuoso guitar work.

Forgetting about the impact and brilliance of his vocal work, Johnson’s guitar playing is just breath-taking. Sounding like two, sometimes even three, players at once, we provides bass and rhythm with just one instrument, he run’s tangential riffs and licks while chugging out his pattern, he experiments with maverick harmonics and stylings. Put bluntly he plays like a man who sold his soul to the devil. And that, my dear friends, is close to where we started.

So control your hormones and keep your drawers on

It is perhaps not an argument that you will find yourself having too often, as you debate the merits of favourite rappers, tunes, albums, whatever it might be. But I was musing the other day, just who is the funniest wordsmith on the scene? I mean, who has that turn of phrase that makes you laugh out loud and a delivery that could see them on Saturday Night Live as well as getting live on a Saturday night? I’m not talking about novelty rappers like Afroman here, I mean real respected Emcees who just happen to have a way with incredible flows laced with humorous quips, immaculate timing and punch lines and metaphors to die for.

The Pharcyde’s “Bizarre Ride” is of course a weed-addled jaunt through a soft-lined LA and has many a highlight, and Fatlip deserves mention for his ways with a story. Biz Markie of course. Lil Wayne has an interesting turn of phrase, and Chicago’s Rhymefest and even Kanye can raise a tickle, though the latter’s is usually based on his sheer arrogance of phrase. Redman is a contender to my mind, and so, of course, is the mighty Eminem, the man who I would describe as the Lenny Bruce of rap for sheer outrageousness and comedic description. But the king for sheer consistency I think is Ludacris. Now Luda appeals on many levels, and has been my desired subject of discussion for some time such, I think, is his pedigree.

But I was actually having a Nate Dogg moment the other day and reminding myself of some of his greatest choruses, when up popped “Area Codes” from Luda’s incredible “Word of Mouf” album. And instantly I was reminded, not only of why I love Nate, but more just how amusing I find Luda’s wordplay. Partly it is his southern drawl, his lazy rhymestyle that somehow becomes something of a forthright flow, and a voice that is just brimming with energy and purpose. Obviously the tunes are massive, particularly on this 2001 LP which to my mind is a classic, no question. Maybe one or two fillers that you could happily lose, but on the whole it is sheer quality. But the main thing is the lyrics, the quick quip, the bawdy metaphor, the punchy gags which just come at an incredible speed and delivered with pro timing.

I mean, seriously, who the hell comes up with a song like “Area Codes”? Seriously?! Production by Jazzy Pha is huge, simply bumping, and the choice of sample in BT Express’ “Do It (Til You’re Satisfied)” is inspired. Nate, as I say, kills it. But it is the concept that slays me. The joke may be juvenile, and the sentiment questionable, but it is somehow no worse off for it. Even the ladies love singing along. Search hard enough and you’ll even find the map of his conquests laid out online by a Geography major.

And then you consider that half of the song is just the mere recital of numbers and you realise that genius really can come in all sorts of surprise packages. Rap should make you think, make you move, make you happy, make you angry, make you question things. But it should also entertain. And when all is said and done, raising a smile isn’t a bad way to set about your day. That way, every day seems like a hoe-liday.

All the players came, from far and wide

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. It is my opinion, and one I am sure shared by numerous heads out there, that Outkast is simply the greatest hip-hop group of all time. Pound for pound I just can’t see that anyone can truly measure up, whatever the criteria. From recorded output to lyrical invention, impact on the game to live reputation, consistency of output to musical invention, there are few that can really hold a torch to these southern playas.

Many come close, and perhaps even edge them in some categories (perhaps!) but overall I think there can be few arguments. Just incredible. However, the foundations of this phenomenal career are not often explored in detail. While the brilliance of commercial and critical monster “Stankonia” is of course a key reference and perhaps obvious starting point, and double album “Speakerboxxx/The Love Below” itself set new standards for hip-hop excellence, the works that preceded them are also certified, stone cold classics and deservedly feted. But I am going back beyond “Aquemini” and even “ATLiens”, back to the very beginning.

For it was debut album “Southernplayalisticadillacmusik”, released in 1994, that truly set the standard that has never even looked like dropping (well, okay, “Idlewild” may be an aberration of sorts, but to my ears still worthy of acclaim). It is also the album that announced the true emergence of the south as a heavyweight force in the rap game. Goodie Mob coined the phrase “Dirty South” on their equally impressive “Soul Food” album of 1995, but it was Outkast who provided the introductions. We need to pause, of course, to also mention the production team of Organized Noize at this point, the third spear in this trident of funky power and themselves hugely significant in this rise of the southern forces. But full exploration must wait for another time, because it is the invitation to the players’ ball that we must now accept.

Now to claim an album that went platinum as an under-appreciated classic is perhaps something of an odd thing to do, and yet as stated previously it is not an album that you hear many people shout about. And certainly not in terms of its long-term sustainability and legacy as a classic LP that outshines its initial moment. And yet to me “Southernplayalisticadillacmusik” more than stands the test of time. Like all of OutKast’s offerings it is full of a music that seems to defy easy categorisation, expertly produced, but so full of catchy licks, funky soul inflections, blazed out melodies, as to form part of a wonderfully coherent and yet ever-improving whole.

I always get the feeling that despite significant developments, advancements in style, diversions of interest and reactions to trends, that you could take virtually any Outkast song and place it with virtually any combination of others from their oeuvre , and still produce an album of note, and one that sounds together. And this combination of the outlandishly inventive with a trademark solid and unchanging underpinning is truly the sign of genius. And the album that kicked it off is where the funkiest of underlays to their shag carpet of delight first took shape.
I can remember when this album first emerged, just being blown away, almost to the point of not knowing what to do with myself.

I mean I was falling in love with the music of Nas, Biggie, Jeru, the Wu, Black Moon, Masta Ace. I was loving “The Chronic”, “Doggystyle”, “Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde”. There simply was no template to this sound. And yet I feel like I recognised at once the brilliance that this new duo provided, and instantly fell for the album, becoming evangelical in its promotion to friends. And it still gives me the same thrills, but it is only now that I can see that in many ways it took all of the other influences I had at the time, and combined them into a referential and reverential new sound. It married them also with some southern hospitality and soul, blessing my love of hip-hop with a 1970s soul and blues sensibility that harked back to the other types of older music I was also exploring at full throttle.

As such it has always been something of a personal watershed album, one of those moments when music seems to transcend being a mere interest, to something to escape into, to immerse yourself in, to obsess over and be fully inspired by.And so when I want to relive elements of my youth, there is no better soundtrack. From the blissed out elegance, soulful mystique and fuzzy bass of “Crumblin Erb”, “Funky Ride”, “Players’ Ball” (both original and the incredible reprise) and the title track, to the lyrical gymnastics of “DEEP” and “Ain’t No Thang”, and the mellow bump of “Git up Git Out” and “Hootie Hoo”, the quality is stunning.

Listening to the album is a bit like watching a great movie, and it is so easy to just lose yourself in it. And this from a pair of chancers still at high school. That is the final nail of inspiration in the case for appreciation. It’s that southerplayalisticcaddilac funky music, now players if you choose it, you better make sure you don't abuse it.

Mine or yours

There are numerous great funk songs, we know this obvious statement to be true, but I wonder if there have been any that have been as heavily covered as the Isley Brother’s solid gold 1969 classic “It’s Your Thing”. I for one have about 8 versions that I know of on various albums and compilations, all of which perhaps bizarrely have their own merits. Even relatively straightforward and faithful interpretations have slight nuances that make them worth a listen, and it is surely the downright fundamental funkiness of the tune itself which gives rise to its evergreen status whomever has a crack at it. And beyond straight cover versions, of which there are easily over 50, there are also the numerous times that hip-hop has chosen to sample its beats, licks, chorus, drum pattern or vocals.

The version that usually gets pressed into service for such tunes, as far as I am aware, is actually quite an obscure one. Jazz alto saxophone legend Lou Donaldson (he of famed collaborations with Thelonious Monk, Art Blakey and Jimmy Smith) recorded “It’s Your Thing” on his 1969 album “Hot Dog”, and it is this that you will have heard excerpts from in Brand Nubian’s massive “Punks Jump Up To Get Beat Down”, De La Soul’s “Bitties in the BK Lounge” and The Lox “Get This $”.

Hell, even Madonna sampled it on her Bedtime Stories album from 1994, but let’s not hold that against it as even that isn’t a bad album (seriously, it isn’t). Sometimes the original song is even just lifted wholesale, as with Salt’n’Pepa’s 1988 offering “Shake Your Thang”. Again, the point here is that when you are looking for an archetypal funk groove, whether to incorporate in your sound, or just refine in your own fashion, “It’s Your Thing” is the tune you turn to.

And it is no surprise as the tune is effortless in its appropriation of the essence of funkiness. The Isley Brothers recorded it soon after leaving Motown in 1968, and former boss Berry Gordy was so convinced of its star status that he spent 18 years pursuing a lawsuit claiming Motown’s ownership, a claim that he ultimately lost. What is amazing is that the song was recorded in just two takes, and with no real template to follow s what we have come to define as funk was really only emerging as a sound in itself. Incredible vision and creativity from the Isleys.

My own favourite version, and the one I hoped to focus on here is actually a stripped down Hammond led cover by Stax house band Booker T & the MGs, from their quite brilliant 1969 cover album “The Booker T Set” whereupon they funked the ass out of 11 contemporary pop tunes. Amazing. Unfortunately I couldn’t find a video to accompany it, and so instead I would like to finish with another take on the tune, this time from the super bad-ass funktress that is Marva Whitney. Whitney also jumped on the bandwagon quickly, with her own 1969 cover, but swapped up the ownership with her powerful statement “It’s My Thing” on the album release of the same name.

The song when written by the Isleys was already intended as something of a feminist statement, alluding to the power of female artists to stand up to Berry Gordy and Motown’s control of their creativity and output. But Whitney took it a stage further, issuing a clarion call to her own empowerment. Whitney’s career is another worthy of great attention anyway, but for now allow this version of a stone cold classic to serve as an introduction for the uninitiated. Massive. Who knew that one song could prove such a circuitous route around some great music, all within the same broad parameters. But then I suppose that the sentiment of the song to “do whatcha wanna do” means it makes absolutely perfect sense.

clothes, bank rolls and hos

Now here is not the place to get all righteous, even though A Story To Tell is as free and easy with its opinions as any self-respecting blog out in the world wide webosphere should be. But today I have been prompted to write about a question which I'm sure that many enlightened fellas who love and adore hip-hop have often asked themselves. Namely, how can I love a music which is, well, how to put this, um, so demeaning in so many ways.

Demeaning to women, for sure, but also demeaning to its listeners with the glorification of violence, championing of bling and nude, crude capitalism, worshipping of money and thuggery, celebratory of drug and female abuse, and all the other ills that the music we love has served over the years. Of course this is far from the full picture, and of course a multitude of positive role models also abound, and conscientiousness is available for those that seek it, not to mention moral guidance and uplifting empowerment. But it is not the norm. For every KRS-One there are 50 Cents, if you get my meaning.

Now I am not suggesting that I have an answer to this quandary, far from it. I'm just saying that I think about it at times, and that it is something that has troubled me in the past. Do I dismiss it as mere entertainment, like a gangster movie I've watched and enjoyed but discarded its message. Or is it more important to me than that. Is it like a great piece of literature that has nurtured and helped form my own thoughts. Does music have a moral duty to uphold. Well, yes and no, and music, like life, is full of contradictions. Should I celebrate Snoop's entrance at the 2003 MTV awards with two women in dog collars and leashes? Clearly no.

Do I storm the barricades of South Central burning a female colleague’s bra and demanding equality because of it? Well, no. Do I like expensive sneakers? Yes. Do I campaign against Asian sweat shops and corporate exploitation? Not as much as I should. You see, contradictions everywhere, but still worth taking the time to at least muse on it. And what has prompted this soul-searching episode. Well in this case a recent documentary which is provocative and important in equal measure, and which asks questions which for too long have not really been addressed. It doesn't change the world, but it does make you think and that is what much good art should do. The film in question is “Beyond Beats and Rhymes” by Byron Hurt and it addresses specifically the justification within the genre of violence and misogyny, much of it extreme.

And in doing so it questions some pretty big names, from Mos Def to Busta Rhymes and many in between. With hip-hop arguably never bigger than now it is a debate which deserves attention, hence my posting here. Does it offer up answers? Yes, in part, but like I say the point is in the debate, and for that the film-maker should be congratulated. And as with many good studies, Hurt is clearly a massive fan also which, to my mind, only further serves to increase the impact of the work. Like I say I’m not being righteous because I can be as narrow-minded as the next man, but next time you're listening, take a moment to hear what is actually being said.

Doesn't mean you can't sing along, but just be accepting, as I am sure you are, that just because a message is the norm doesn't mean it can't be challenged and forced to rationalise itself. On the other hand, just as a teenage subject of the film states as he looks at some scantily clad ladies across the way, "You gotta understand, some women ARE bitches and hos". There's logic in there somewhere I swear it.

Super fly super people

I have written numerous times, some quite recently in fact, about the incredible output from the Curtom label in the 1970s. The label, founded in 1968 and closed in 1980 (and now under the Universal stable), was co-owned by Curtis Mayfield and Impressions manager Eddie Thomas, and put quite simply was the source of some of the greatest soul and funk cuts of that decade. Its roster is like a who’s who of brilliance, many of whom however, sadly still sit under many people’s radar. But if you have any funk or soul compilation worthy of note from that period, any collections that claims to be superfly, or ghetto funky, or blaxploitation-influenced then chances are that the prime cuts are from Curtom or one of its subsidiaries.

Readers of this blog will not need reminding of the genius of artists such as Leroy Hutson, Linda Clifford, Mavis Staples, Donny Hathaway, to name a few, but it is the fleeting artists who really fascinate. For Curtom seemed to house artists or groups who produced a handful of absolutely outstanding tracks, one-off great albums, even solitary cuts, before disappearing from view once more. Even the huge amount of information available on the internet is not sufficient to find out what became of these shooting stars, and the knowledge appears to be confined to those that were there, or the secret cabals of fervid collectors of the original vinyl. You can often find glimpses of references, half-mentions, but never the full story. In a way I quite like that actually for it means that the magic of the music remains something of a mystery, and this seems somehow appropriate.

We can, and no doubt will, spend many a paragraph detailing some of these seemingly short-lived careers through the music they left us, but for now the spotlight of attention must fall on a group who, if their one available album is anything to go by, surely burnt all too briefly. Avid listeners to the Twelve Bar Sessions will have had The Notations’ 1975 cut “Superpeople” on heavy rotation I am sure. Released on Curtom subsidiary Gemigo this monster deep soul slice of Chicago funkiness is but a taster however of what was also available on the group’s one long player, the self-titled “The Notations” of the same year.

A four piece vocal harmony group, they recorded for around a decade from the late 1960s. Indeed before joining Curtom they had enjoyed moderate success with their soulful ballad “I’m Still Here”, still an absolute favourite amongst aficionados, but it was their mid-decade long-player which really deserves closer attention. For it really is a lost classic. There is an element of Philly soul production in the swirling string arrangements and horn blasts, but it is the group’s harmonies that elevate the music to its higher plane. The touch of Mayfield itself is evident in the near falsetto moments, but the combination of four voices in unison gives the vocal style an even greater depth and penetration. Plus the lyrical content itself is often some of the finest examples of the uplifting but very real social messages that Mayfield was contemporaneously engaged with, a further element of note in much of Curtom’s output.

Trying to get hold of this album, however, is virtually impossible. The odd cut exists here and there, on compilations and download sites, but while I have seen it offered on collectors vinyl at astronomical prices a full re-release shows no signs of surfacing. I have managed to piece together by means nearly the entire album, but in a way I am writing half-blind. What I have seen, or heard, is truly fantastic, but what still remains obscured promises true greatness. As Curtis might have said, right on for the darkness.

Sippin’ Wishing Well Water Imported from Pluto

We don’t need much encouragement here on A Story To tell, to praise the virtues of Talib Kweli, simply one of the best emcees around. But it is always worth a reminder of just where this fantastic lyricist first burst into our consciousness, and usefully this coincides with a number of other elements worthy of attention. It might have been different for cats more in tune with the mid-1990s NYC underground scene of course, but for me the first introduction to Kweli was on the absolutely huge “Fortified Live” cut, recording as Reflection Eternal alongside Hi-Tek, and rapping alongside sidekick Mos Def and underground hero Mr. Man. Now, let’s be clear, this tune is simply ridiculous, a relentless flow of the most inventive and melodic raps over a beat that is plainly next level, soaked in Tek’s trademark static, and with a piano lick bumping like an epileptic in a dodgem car.

Released in 1997 as a truly independently pressed 12”, “Fortified Live” (and indeed the equally memorable “2000 Seasons”) was raw, direct and announced the arrival of not one but three new talents into the hip-hop firmament. HiTek is a beat-master supreme, to my mind one of the best around, and whether alongside Talib in Reflection Eternal, or just as provider to a range of diverse projects including his own “Hi-Teknology” series and the best of Black Star’s offers among numerous others, he always provides soundtracks of invention and freshness.

Mos Def is of course the other element of the trio to emerge (Mr. Man having his own longer history for those who know Da Bush Babees story) and again his guesting on this track provided an introduction to a rapper of grace, depth and intricacy. The mighty Mos may still divide opinion somewhat, including in my own head, but there is no doubting that the man is talent and if he stuck to a solo path of rapping may well be hailed as one of the very greatest. You can’t knock a man too much for spreading his wings however (though the hard rock of Jack Johnson may have been a spread too far). But what remains clear is that Kweli and Mos def, as well as the afore-mentioned Mr. Man, truly bring their A-game to the table on this cut, the sound of three emcees who know their shit is solid gold, jostling with each other for top-dog status all on one track.

The other element of the story to mention is of course the “Soundbombing” compilation that gave a wider release to this tune, and it is no surprise that “Fortified Live” still stands out amongst what was an incredibly strong cast. It is one of those tracks that just sums up everything that was good about the late 1990s Rawkus revival, and the emergence of a new crop of thoughtful rappers. I was going to post here about the Black Star album itself, but got sidetracked into this project instead and so that one will have to wait. But for now, the time is here to remind yourself of the period when you fell back in love with hip-hop. As Talib himself states, it was the time that the new skool stepped up cold-crushin MC's that's gold-rushin for the cheese. A welcome return to the true essence.

You’re bugging what, you’re buggin who?

Before Jay-Z. Before “Single Ladies”. Before “Dreamgirls” and being crazy in love. Before becoming one of the biggest stars on the planet, Ms Beyonce Knowles was of course part of a female R&B group. Still is in fact, although whether or not the power trio that Destiny’s Child have become will ever record together again is almost obsolete. They came they saw and they conquered the planet with their sassy polished look and sound, mixing some street edge with girl power anthems and the funk in their collective trunks. But we’re going further back than the emergence, post-faction, of the group as a trio. Back even before they became too bootylicious for you baby, and back before they even needed to strut their independent women or their status as survivors.

Because it was as a foursome that Destiny’s Child came to prominence, and as a foursome that they first unleashed the sound which was to take them to the very top of the pops. And it is always worth reminding ourselves of quite how the story unfolded, because whether you are into the pop aesthetic or not, there is no disputing that when Destiny’s Child came to grab their moment, they grabbed with both hands. And the sound was straight up bumping, classic R&B, taking the momentum of already massive sounds such as TLC’s “No Scrubs”, and finding a fifth gear to ramp it up even higher.

The group had already made waves with their self-titled debut album, and particularly the Wyclef produced “No, No, No” single smash, but interestingly the sound was perhaps more mature, more neo-soul, than the style that would really catapult them to full stardom. With follow-up “The Writing’s On The Wall”, released in 1999, the results of going for the dance floor jugular were soon apparent, resulting in a multi-platinum record, and the path to glory lit up with bright stars. And the planks upon which this stellar success were built, it is worth reminding ourselves, are some of the greatest pop R&B cuts around, a reference point for this frenetic beat-heavy style at the turn of the new millennium.

And of course, behind the boards and driving this success were none other than two of the genre-defining producers of that moment, Kevin “She’kspere” Briggs and the mighty Rodney “Darkchild” Jerkins. Their individual but somehow intertwined styles were everywhere at that time, clashing minor chords with a polished and crisp skittering beat style and almost metallic synth melodies, but it was when combined with the newly unleashed power of the Destiny’s quartet that the sound perhaps found its natural outlet. Four songs, of course, stand out as hits from this album, Jerkin’s huge “Say My Name” with its insane off-kilter chorus hook, and the She’kspere follow up scrubs anthem “Bills, Bills, Bills”, club smash “Jumpin’ Jumpin’”, and my particular favourite “Bug-a-boo”.

This latter is not perhaps an obvious choice, and certainly did not have the chart success of the other three choices, but for me is a great example of the Destiny’s Child sound at this time. Almost frantic, the beat just hits hard. And at the forefront is of course the voice of Beyonce Knowles. No disrespect to the other girls at all, but this lady had true star potential from the get-go, shining like a rugged amethyst. And that, I believe, is where we came in. All my ladies who truly feel me throw your hands up at me.

Move like cagey tigers

You will be familiar enough by now with the meanderings of A Story To Tell to know that our musical tastes are broad. Real broad. Yes we may let our pants sag a little, and obsess over limited edition sneakers to an unhealthy degree, but we don’t limit ourselves to a narrow one track sound track, for that way madness lies dear reader. We may listen to freakin rap music all day, but at night our more eclectic tastes emerge, like silky cats on the solo creep, prowling for meeces. I mention this only briefly as this post is another of those that veers perhaps slightly off the track of what might be expected by your average Twelve Bar admirer. But then, you are a discerning lot also, so I’m guessing there is no need to be so coy.

And if you are indeed as discerning as we know you to be then the title of this blog will have already pricked your ears to the tone to follow. For this week it was a case of another day, another musical dream fulfilled. For I was lucky enough to finally see live in action one of my favourite bands of all time, and if I can be so bold, one of the best of all time, period. That band is the semi-psychedelic, poetic, hard-rocking, delicately melodic, post-punk, proto gothic brilliance that is The Cure. First of all, these guys are still amazing live. I mean amazing, filling London’s cavernous O2 arena with their huge sound, and yet also producing music of subtle charm, finesse and almost ethereal earthly transcendence. A reference point of my teenage years is a recording (now criminally only available on VHS) of the band at ancient ruins in Orange, France. This show, filmed in 1987, displays the brilliance of the group, and their material, in a large almost mythical setting, and has always struck with me as an archetype of the power of live music. The O2 isn’t anywhere near as picturesque or magical, but the effect is still startling.

Robert Smith may be the only member to have remained throughout the band’s whole career, but long-standing stalwarts Porl Thompson and Simon Gallup are also in the current line-up, giving them what to me is an almost ideal personnel. But this matters little as it is the music that remains the key to their appeal. Smith is of course an iconic frontman, and to me a genius of music, but their back catalogue is the thing that persists and shapes their deserved status. It is incredible to think that their recording career now dates back just over 30 years, and one of the things that struck me as I listened, pogoed, and swirled around, was the fact that it doesn’t seem to have dated at all. Familiarity may be a part of this, but also it is a hallmark of great music that it transcends any chronological or cultural context that gave rise to it.

It has always amazed me that non-fans dismiss The Cure’s music as definitive of so-called Goth, or that they are characterised as morose, depressing or even macabre. In the same way as The Smiths seem to be dismissed by some as miserable shoe-gazers, these lazy descriptions miss the point entirely. Yes lyrical content, and even tone of the music may at times be introspective, may deal with the darker sides of the psyche, and may even wantonly explore them, the effect is one of enlightenment as opposed to darkened corridors. I love the spook factor, the gothic fairytale poetry of some of Smith’s lyrics, the whole image, for it is underlined by an equal amount of witticism, of joy, of the splendour of life. And all underpinned also by true musical innovation and accomplishment.

Smith himself is something of a multi-instrumental virtuoso, and the trademark heavy but melodic bass lines, the explosive drums, the plaintive vocal style, the soaring star-spangled guitar, the experimentation with the Solina ARP String Ensemble Synth all add up to a marvellous whole. And this last instrument is a great place to finish because it forms an interesting bridge back to our more musical subject matter. For it was this synth, so championed by The Cure, which is also the key sound in Rick James’ “Mary Jane”, or Herbie Hancock’s Headhunters and other key jazz-funk offers of the 1970s and 80s. And what could be funkier than that. If music is your medicine, then you should always be interested in The Cure.