Here are some musings on three recent artist passings.
Nate Dogg: My late friend Tom Terrell and I once spent a hilarious lunch many moons ago at the now-shuttered Acme Diner musing about all the things we would have the then-ubiquitous Nate Dogg sing. (Among the more inspired – and fit for public viewing - suggestions were the instructions on our answering machines, the introduction to every single news program on television and the usually dull explanation about the voting rules on award shows.) But that’s how pervasive his vocals - most notably on Warren G’s "Regulate" – were. If there was a hook to be sung, Nate Dogg sang the hell out of it. It was as if he treated each vocal as if it was a juicy cameo appearance in a major motion picture; it might not have been the starring role but you were sure gonna remember it.
Loleatta Holloway: Without a doubt, the best way to have experienced Loleatta Holloway was at a crowded, cavernous club. Picture being in the midst of a packed dance floor, at a time long past the witching hour, at the end of a long workweek, clothes drenched with the sweat of hours of terpsichorean delight, body close to exhaustion when the powerful gospelish vocals of this lifeforce comes blaring through the speaker system. A voice so strong it would cause the grooving throng to simultaneously let out an orgiastic moan in response, forget their physical fatigue and dance into a collective ecstasy.
Such was the gift of Loleatta Holloway. On jams like “Love Sensation,” “Hit And Run” and “Runaway” with the Salsoul Orchestra, she practically propelled her listeners to boogie on down. While she could also be a subtly soulful singer – check out “Worn Out Broken Heart” and her much-underrated duet with Bunny Sigler “Only You” - it was high energy tracks like the lengthily-titled “I May Not Be There When You Want Me (But I’m Right On Time)” that ensured her disco diva status.
Best of all was her guest appearance on Dan Hartman’s “Vertigo/Relight My Fire.” An engaging dance song with an unusual symphonic sweep is transformed into a bonafide classic about 6:35 into it when Holloway blasts onto the scene. Screaming “I’ve got to be strong enough to walk on through the night,” her full-throttle entrance kicks the tune into the stratosphere. (Mela Machinko has a similar effect on Pharoahe Monch’s “Shine.”) Amazingly, Holloway maintains the same intensity for the next 3:08 – relegating Hartman to background duties on his own song - until the track finally fades out as if happily drained by her vigorous vocalizing. And that spirited singing is what finally distinguishes Loleatta Holloway from a host of others. No matter what the inherent quality of the song – even on so-so fare like “Mama Don’t, Papa Won’t” and “Dance What Cha Wanna” – she never cheated her listeners. She always left it all on the mike.
Elizabeth Taylor: Forget the whole Cleopatra controversy – I mean, c’mon, has anyone ever expected Hollywood to be historically accurate? – the multiple illnesses and the eight marriages. What has to be remembered about Elizabeth Taylor – besides her preternatural beauty – is how many fine performances she gave throughout her career but especially in the ‘50s and ‘60s.
There was her ferocious Academy Award-winning turn – the one she deserved – as Martha in Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf which she comes close to matching as the title role in The Taming Of The Shrew. There’s her quiet strength as Rock Hudson’s patient, wise wife in Giant. Or her emotional desperation in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof and Reflections In A Golden Eye in which both of her leading men – Paul Newman and Marlon Brando respectively – deal with themes of repressed homosexuality. The skill in which she delivers her climatic haunting monologue in Suddenly, Last Summer. The tenderness between Taylor and her screen papa Spencer Tracy in Father Of The Bride and Father’s Little Dividend.
My favorite performance of hers during this period is that of the rich girl Montgomery Clift pursues in A Place In The Sun. There are few sexier poignant moments in cinematic history then when Clift – back to the camera – is verbally unburdening himself to Taylor. As directed by George Stevens, the scene is a long take, a semi-obscured - by Clift’s body – close-up of Taylor’s gorgeous face. She lets the viewer see the impact each halting word of Clift has on her so by the time she physically pulls him in for a rib-crunching hug, the effect is as emotionally wrenching and sensually satisfying as any explicit sex scene in, say, Last Tango In Paris.
Why the roll call of roles? To make a simple point. When it comes to Elizabeth Taylor, acknowledge the tabloid stuff, respect the activism, sigh at the beauty but never forget the artistry. It is that, one hopes, which will be her lasting legacy.
March 24, 2011
March 17, 2011
Renegades
For many of us who grew up during rap’s nascent age, there’s a tendency to automatically dismiss much of modern hip-hop. The litany of contemptuous comments can range from complaining that the music isn’t danceable enough – or too danceable for the rhythmically challenged – to a lack of, well, pick one, spiritual, political, social or topical context. In many ways, we of hip-hop’s first generation – the true Generation X – have mirrored the advances in musical technology. As rap’s delivery system transitioned from black wax to cassette tape to encoded shiny silver discs to digital downloads, we evolved from acolytes to record buyers to occasional concertgoers to unofficial music historians.
(The latter’s duties usually include identifying samples for barely patient teenagers, complaining that today’s rappers lack the flow of fill-in-the-blank and occasionally tossing out a slang term like “dope” and “da joint” while opining about life back-in-da-day. Speaking of which, I recently stopped in my tracks while overhearing two gray-haired brothers discussing on a Manhattan street corner how one of them ‘cold rocked a party.’)
But as bombastic as our hip-hop proclamations may seem to the younger set, we come by these edicts honestly. See, our love for this musical form was a tactile one. We knew we were a part of a movement we felt as deeply as the stacks of ebony vinyl we carried in our knapsacks or in the plastic milk crates we’d liberated from the local supermarket to house basement parties. The heat generated from our fellow denim-clad revelers was only matched by the rhythms emanating from the two Technics turntables carefully set in the center of a corrugated steel picnic table. Much as the jazz generation prior to ours had heard in bebop the sounds of intellectual and emotional liberation, so too did we hear a similar rush of freedom in hip-hop. (The major difference being, of course, unlike the jagged arrangements of bop, you could still dance to rap.)
It was that sense of exhilaration and discovery – of being part of something - that comforted us as we made our way home through darkened streets, deserted subway platforms – always preferable during late hours to the alternative – and on local trains which offered nightly seminars on the art of the ice grill. While the journeys may have been somewhat sketchy, it was the power of music that always made the trip a worthwhile one.
As we aged and made the transition from token buyers to SUV and hybrid owners with EZ-passes, so to did some of our heroes. We watched with equal parts bemusement and horror as the firebrands we once admired for their rebellious nature become slowly acclimated into American mainstream culture: Flavor Flav as a VH1 reality show star. Snoop Dogg flinging zingers at a Comedy Central roast of Donald Trump. LL Cool J defending our country’s liberty on NCIS: Los Angeles. Ice Cube hawking a sitcom on TBS with a smile and the tagline: “Very funny.”
For some of us, this made feel older than our whitening or thinning hair, thickening bellies and liver spots. For some of us, this pandering parade reminded us more of what hip-hop’s lost than what it still possessed. For some of us, the power of the music seemed to be muted if not forever lost.
See, as Yoda-like – or should I say Gandalf-ish? – as we might appear to our younger brethren, that doesn’t mean our passion for the musical form has diminished. Much as a seasoned NBA fan who grew up on Dr. J, Bird, Magic and Jordan – and heard from his elders about the wonders of Oscar Robertson and Elgin Baylor – can get excited at the exploits of LeBron James, Derrick Rose and Kevin Durant, an elder hip-hop head who grew up debating about Public Enemy and NWA or Tupac and Biggie can still exult upon first listen of a Reasonable Doubt or a College Dropout. We still possess that sense of exhilaration and discovery when we hear something special, something real.
Such a work is Pharoahe Monch’s latest disc: W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). A visionary – in the truest sense of the word – album, W.A.R. begins with Idris Elba – yes, ladies, that Idris Elba – as a soldier in Afghanistan who on the date July 27, 2023 has unearthed classified information which ‘changes everything.’ Uploading said info to the military satellite Horace, Elba cautions his listeners that ‘what you are hearing is a warning.’
Actually, it’s more than that. What we are hearing is Monch’s manifesto, the platform of a verbally dexterous veteran of over a decade and a half in the rap game who from his mid-‘90s debut as part of Organized Konfusion has maintained and mollycoddled a fiercely idiosyncratic vision. On W.A.R. Monch lays out our present and near-future with the perceptive, confident voiceover of a dystopian Raymond Chandler. This is neo-noir of the highest order.
“Get used to wisdom,” Monch implores on “Evolve.” Part of that sagacity includes raising ‘a middle finger to mass media,” he states on “W.A.R.” which ‘mutes the news’ to maintain a ‘psychological dictatorship.’ The insurgency of intellect is a pervasive theme throughout W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). Monch regularly reminds his listeners that he is on the battle front lines with each successive track being a plea to join him.
What keeps W.A.R. from being a straight-up polemic – besides Monch’s humanistic wit - are the exquisite instrumentation and production by such gifted folk as M-Phazes, Mike Loe, Samiyam, Diamond D and Marco Polo among others. Each track provides a perfect musical backdrop to Monch’s skillfully incisive lyrics. On “Calculated Amalgamation,” there’s the use of the drum cymbal as a symbol for a call if not to arms to awakening. The vibe loop – and Mela Machinko’s anguished vocal – propels a confidently laconic Monch through “Shine.” There are the choral voices on “Evolve” and the swirling strings on the R & B infused “Black Hand Side.” (The latter track invigorated by the contributions of Styles P and Phonte.) The propulsive bass of “Hit Man” perfectly echoing Monch’s corrosive view of the music biz. (A jaundiced view replete with artists releasing sex tapes for publicity and the greatest Radiohead pun ever.) There’s the anthemic rock of “The Grand Illusion (circa 1973)” - with promises of a ‘lyrical revolution’ – the gospel call & response juxtaposed with Monch’s fire & brimstone sermon on “Let My People Go” and Vernon Reid’s searing fretwork on “W.A.R.” All outstanding, all unforgettable.
Reid, Machinko, Styles P and Phonte are some of Monch’s many gifted collaborators on W.A.R. “Assassins” features Royce da 5’9” and a fierce Jean Grae – who, along with Monch are the last three freethinkers left in his Shangri-Nah - while the joyous “Clap” contains terrific contributions by Showtyme and D.J. Boogie Blind. Best of all is the album closer “Still Standing” with an impassioned Jill Scott - singing with a wounded world weariness - ferociously testifying while Monch at his most convivial raps about overcoming a ‘lung disease’ and refusing to leading a life destined to becoming just another statistic. “I have no dead bodies to claim,” he asserts while reminding his listeners to celebrate – if only momentarily - their survival as strangers in this strange land.
And, in turn, his listeners should celebrate Monch for a true musical tour-de-force. With a wide ranging fusion of soul, gospel, rock and jazz mixed into his rhythmic brew, Monch and company have practically provided a mini-treatise on the history of Black music in this country. Not to mention his ever dazzling dexterous verbosity. (My fave – for far too many reasons to list here - is his rhyming of “Steve Rifkin” with “Snake Plissen”) By casting a prophetic glance into the near-future and combining it with a loving respect for his musical past, Pharoahe Monch has provided us with the present-day’s best album. With W.A.R., he touches the renegade - and revitalizes the hip-hop rebel - in all of us.
(The latter’s duties usually include identifying samples for barely patient teenagers, complaining that today’s rappers lack the flow of fill-in-the-blank and occasionally tossing out a slang term like “dope” and “da joint” while opining about life back-in-da-day. Speaking of which, I recently stopped in my tracks while overhearing two gray-haired brothers discussing on a Manhattan street corner how one of them ‘cold rocked a party.’)
But as bombastic as our hip-hop proclamations may seem to the younger set, we come by these edicts honestly. See, our love for this musical form was a tactile one. We knew we were a part of a movement we felt as deeply as the stacks of ebony vinyl we carried in our knapsacks or in the plastic milk crates we’d liberated from the local supermarket to house basement parties. The heat generated from our fellow denim-clad revelers was only matched by the rhythms emanating from the two Technics turntables carefully set in the center of a corrugated steel picnic table. Much as the jazz generation prior to ours had heard in bebop the sounds of intellectual and emotional liberation, so too did we hear a similar rush of freedom in hip-hop. (The major difference being, of course, unlike the jagged arrangements of bop, you could still dance to rap.)
It was that sense of exhilaration and discovery – of being part of something - that comforted us as we made our way home through darkened streets, deserted subway platforms – always preferable during late hours to the alternative – and on local trains which offered nightly seminars on the art of the ice grill. While the journeys may have been somewhat sketchy, it was the power of music that always made the trip a worthwhile one.
As we aged and made the transition from token buyers to SUV and hybrid owners with EZ-passes, so to did some of our heroes. We watched with equal parts bemusement and horror as the firebrands we once admired for their rebellious nature become slowly acclimated into American mainstream culture: Flavor Flav as a VH1 reality show star. Snoop Dogg flinging zingers at a Comedy Central roast of Donald Trump. LL Cool J defending our country’s liberty on NCIS: Los Angeles. Ice Cube hawking a sitcom on TBS with a smile and the tagline: “Very funny.”
For some of us, this made feel older than our whitening or thinning hair, thickening bellies and liver spots. For some of us, this pandering parade reminded us more of what hip-hop’s lost than what it still possessed. For some of us, the power of the music seemed to be muted if not forever lost.
See, as Yoda-like – or should I say Gandalf-ish? – as we might appear to our younger brethren, that doesn’t mean our passion for the musical form has diminished. Much as a seasoned NBA fan who grew up on Dr. J, Bird, Magic and Jordan – and heard from his elders about the wonders of Oscar Robertson and Elgin Baylor – can get excited at the exploits of LeBron James, Derrick Rose and Kevin Durant, an elder hip-hop head who grew up debating about Public Enemy and NWA or Tupac and Biggie can still exult upon first listen of a Reasonable Doubt or a College Dropout. We still possess that sense of exhilaration and discovery when we hear something special, something real.
Such a work is Pharoahe Monch’s latest disc: W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). A visionary – in the truest sense of the word – album, W.A.R. begins with Idris Elba – yes, ladies, that Idris Elba – as a soldier in Afghanistan who on the date July 27, 2023 has unearthed classified information which ‘changes everything.’ Uploading said info to the military satellite Horace, Elba cautions his listeners that ‘what you are hearing is a warning.’
Actually, it’s more than that. What we are hearing is Monch’s manifesto, the platform of a verbally dexterous veteran of over a decade and a half in the rap game who from his mid-‘90s debut as part of Organized Konfusion has maintained and mollycoddled a fiercely idiosyncratic vision. On W.A.R. Monch lays out our present and near-future with the perceptive, confident voiceover of a dystopian Raymond Chandler. This is neo-noir of the highest order.
“Get used to wisdom,” Monch implores on “Evolve.” Part of that sagacity includes raising ‘a middle finger to mass media,” he states on “W.A.R.” which ‘mutes the news’ to maintain a ‘psychological dictatorship.’ The insurgency of intellect is a pervasive theme throughout W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). Monch regularly reminds his listeners that he is on the battle front lines with each successive track being a plea to join him.
What keeps W.A.R. from being a straight-up polemic – besides Monch’s humanistic wit - are the exquisite instrumentation and production by such gifted folk as M-Phazes, Mike Loe, Samiyam, Diamond D and Marco Polo among others. Each track provides a perfect musical backdrop to Monch’s skillfully incisive lyrics. On “Calculated Amalgamation,” there’s the use of the drum cymbal as a symbol for a call if not to arms to awakening. The vibe loop – and Mela Machinko’s anguished vocal – propels a confidently laconic Monch through “Shine.” There are the choral voices on “Evolve” and the swirling strings on the R & B infused “Black Hand Side.” (The latter track invigorated by the contributions of Styles P and Phonte.) The propulsive bass of “Hit Man” perfectly echoing Monch’s corrosive view of the music biz. (A jaundiced view replete with artists releasing sex tapes for publicity and the greatest Radiohead pun ever.) There’s the anthemic rock of “The Grand Illusion (circa 1973)” - with promises of a ‘lyrical revolution’ – the gospel call & response juxtaposed with Monch’s fire & brimstone sermon on “Let My People Go” and Vernon Reid’s searing fretwork on “W.A.R.” All outstanding, all unforgettable.
Reid, Machinko, Styles P and Phonte are some of Monch’s many gifted collaborators on W.A.R. “Assassins” features Royce da 5’9” and a fierce Jean Grae – who, along with Monch are the last three freethinkers left in his Shangri-Nah - while the joyous “Clap” contains terrific contributions by Showtyme and D.J. Boogie Blind. Best of all is the album closer “Still Standing” with an impassioned Jill Scott - singing with a wounded world weariness - ferociously testifying while Monch at his most convivial raps about overcoming a ‘lung disease’ and refusing to leading a life destined to becoming just another statistic. “I have no dead bodies to claim,” he asserts while reminding his listeners to celebrate – if only momentarily - their survival as strangers in this strange land.
And, in turn, his listeners should celebrate Monch for a true musical tour-de-force. With a wide ranging fusion of soul, gospel, rock and jazz mixed into his rhythmic brew, Monch and company have practically provided a mini-treatise on the history of Black music in this country. Not to mention his ever dazzling dexterous verbosity. (My fave – for far too many reasons to list here - is his rhyming of “Steve Rifkin” with “Snake Plissen”) By casting a prophetic glance into the near-future and combining it with a loving respect for his musical past, Pharoahe Monch has provided us with the present-day’s best album. With W.A.R., he touches the renegade - and revitalizes the hip-hop rebel - in all of us.
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