Paris - Pistol Politics (2015)

Having spent the last six months backtracking through the work of Paris one disc at a time, I've noticed both the complete absence of duds, and the fact that he's grown angrier and somehow more formidable with age. Pistol Politics is the one before the most recent album, 2020's blistering Safe Space Invader, and if it represents the lad stepping down to the release of a new one every five years - the first since 2008's Acid Reflex - it's the only aspect that's been stepped down; and this is a fucking double CD, would you believe? Never mind just rap music, you can count the number of double CDs that haven't been a complete waste of time on the testicles of one scrotal sack, and yet Pistol Politics remains fully caffeinated right to end of track twenty-seven on the second disc with not a moment wasted.

As you may be aware, Paris is a black man with things to say, and things you should probably hear regardless. You may recall certain rappers banging on about their music being edumacational back in the day, usually meaning endless bland repetition of the knowledge-wisdom-understanding mantra without truly saying anything, but Paris delivers on that ideal. You learn stuff from listening to his work. Facts I've picked up from this one, for example, being that America leads the world in just three respects - incarceration of its own people, defence spending, and grown folks who believe angels are real. There's a lot of truth that hurts here, but there's something liberating about even the shittiest news imparted in such terms.

I vaguely recall Paris once casually dismissed as also ran by one of those hairdresser magazines - Vibe, or whichever one it was - presumably meaning he'd failed to go platinum through a major label, with some half-assed analysis suggesting listeners were unable to square the hardline Black Panther politics with fat-ass street level g-funk. Of course, it depends what you call success, and never mind that he seems to have done just fine releasing artistically uncompromised material through his own label, the message delivered as funky as fuck populism being exactly why it works. It's street level communication rather than an academic treatise delivered as slogans. It's so street level that E40, the Eastsidaz and Westside Connection's WC guest on a couple of numbers proving that the common ground is a lot more expansive than purists may have realised; and sonically it spans pretty much the gamut of black music, additionally serving as a reminder of who came up with most of it - rock, blues, hip-hop, jazz, soul, p-funk, weirdy electronics, boom bap, often all jammed together on the same track, and even with a few cuts which wouldn't seem out of place on a Bill Withers album. Imagine a Public Enemy record you could slap on at a party without everyone pulling faces, or Tupac actually having done the stuff for which he's routinely credited.

As I write this, it's MLK Day here in Americaland, and somehow also the day of the presidential inauguration of the selfless multimillionaire who wants only to make America great again, even though he apparently couldn't fucking manage it first time; but listening to Paris helps, because truth is always louder and more enduring than bullshit.

The The - Ensoulment (2024)

I have a sort of knee-jerk suspicion of artists I enjoyed in my early twenties getting back in the booth all these years later, but, leaving aside that no-one wants a Flock of Seagulls reunion album, I should probably be suspicious of my suspicion as a hang-on from the punk rock programming which, for example, dictated that the Rolling Stones were fit for the knacker's yard by 1977; and while there was much fun to be had in upsetting the older generation, Miss You was unfortunately a fucking great record. In fact, even Emotional Rescue was a cracker and the revisionism now seems quaint given that they'd only been going a couple of decades; and Matt Johnson's The The are now cautiously approaching their half-century.

More crucially, The The sound as vital as ever - keeping in mind that even their early records had the quality of an extended world weary sigh set to a pounding bass drum. No-one, so far as I'm aware, ever complained about Johnny Cash or B.B. King failing to retire, and The The was never about upsetting the older generation. If it was about upsetting anyone, it was Johnson's own generation, and his focus has remained fixed even if the man himself has clocked up a few more years; and given the current state of the societal shitshow, it's amusing that you could probably characterise Ensoulment as upsetting the younger generation, at least based on the garbage to which so many of them are seen to subscribe on social media. Lyrically, Ensoulment is on target and at least as caustic as Fatima Mansions at their most blistering. Musically, it's the familiar organic blend of rock, soul, jazz, blues, country, and all the rest without fully sounding like any of them, or like the sort of worthy soundtrack to which spritely eldsters beatifically nod their heads in television commercials for prescription medication. It's pleasant but innocuous on first spin, and by the third or fourth, you can't stop playing the thing and your wife comes in from the other room to ask what you're listening to, and possibly to remind you to take your pill.

Did we ever suspect any of these people would be doing anything this good in the distant future, a quarter of the way into the next century? I had no idea myself.

Snoop Dogg - Missionary (2024)

I don't know if anyone could have foreseen a new Snoop album on Death Row given at least a couple of decades of exhausting bullshit from the label's previous owner. It's probably not such a surprise that the aforementioned former owner filed for bankruptcy in 2006 and the label has been changing hands ever since, existing mainly for the sake of collecting royalties on former glories. It could have been different - cut those losses, maybe put some effort into promoting Rage's album, maybe make something of having Kurupt, Above the Law and Crooked I on the books rather than wasting all that time on pot shots launched at former employees; but no, so never mind. Not only do we have brand new Snoop on Death Row - because he bought the label - but it's produced by Dr. Dre.

I somehow lost track of Snoop, the most recent one I own being Ego Trippin' which came out in (cough) 2008 because apparently I haven't had my finger on anything resembling a pulse for some time. I don't know that he's ever done a bad album, but the last few I heard didn't particularly grab me in a major way - nothing I regret buying, but sometimes you have to be in the right mood. So I'm hearing Missionary as a comeback by virtue of my having failed to notice the hundred or so albums he's squeezed out since I've been living in the same country. Musically it's more traditional than Dre's Compton, taking the perfectionist excess in an entirely different direction so it's almost like big band music of the sixties through a hip-hop filter, a big, brassy sound built from an entire orchestra's worth of high-definition instrumentation conveying the full range of jazzy moods. It wouldn't work were it not conducted with such an expert hand, and so the blend of John Barry scale with street level lyricism and all the funky electronics you would hope for, is honestly breathtaking. Also, Snoop himself is more lyrical than I've heard him in a while - which admittedly may be my failing to pay attention - but here he reminds us why we've heard of him in the first place, beyond his sharing a cell with Martha Stewart or mugging to the camera during the Olympics. Even 50 Cent sounds decent on this record.

First the bee population of the UK is proven to be on the increase, then Snoop releases a new album on Death Row, and I'm taking both of these as signs. Perhaps things are looking up at long fucking last, despite some unusually shitty elephants in the room.

New Order - Power, Corruption and Lies (1983)

As I explained back in 2022, myself and my little group of pals were Joy Division obsessives up until this came out, or at least I was. I'm not sure whether the other two kept going. Blue Monday was fucking terrific and then somehow I became distracted and forgot to buy this, despite all that was promised by the associated Peel session. Years passed and I heard the occasional thing on the radio, but not much that grabbed me as had Ceremony and Everything's Gone Green, and I liked True Faith well enough but it sounded like an impersonation of New Order to my ears. I bought this album, almost certainly because it was in a bargain bin, but have no idea as to where, when, or even whether I actually listened to it. Surprised to find it in my collection a couple of years ago, I gave it a spin and recognised only the tracks they had already recorded for Peel. It's bollocks, and very, very boring, I decided, as you may possibly recall.

Well, I've given it another shot and have to conclude I was either wrong, or listening far too hard, or with the wrong ears. It's not a patch on the glacial intensity of Movement, which I still hold to be the finest thing ever committed to wax by any of those involved, but I realise had I not heard anything by any of those involved before this one, I probably would have given it more of a chance. The production is efficient, but inevitably leaves the songs sounding like a top of the range demo compared to what Martin Hannett did, and even compared to the efforts of whoever produced the Peel session for that matter. Also, having presumably laid the ghost of Joy Division to rest on the first one, this was a band giving it another go and finding their feet all over again, hence the slightly schizophrenic mix of material - almost like the work of two different groups, a much happier version of Joy Division, and some New York disco act who couldn't leave their sequencer alone, thus obliging the bass player to impersonate a lead guitarist on half of the tracks.

So it's an odd one, a transitional affair, I suppose, but there's a pleasantly breezy quality to it, possibly informed by the giddy delirium of a brand new day knowing you won't have to play songs where Nazi war atrocities serve as a metaphor for feeling a bit glum because your bird just found out you've been knobbing Sharon from the chippy; and I've honestly always preferred Bernard Sumner's vocal to that of his predecessor, even when he can't quite reach the note, or the lyric sounds like it needed more work.

This time last year, or possibly the year before that, I'd developed the impression of post-Movement New Order as arguably the most boring band in the world. It's strangely comforting to know that I can reach my age and still be wrong about something.

We Be Echo - The Guestlist (2024)

 

Somehow this one wasn't quite clicking for me, which was puzzling given that it sounded like it should be doing something, at which point I realised I nearly always listen to We Be Echo on headphones - as we used to say in the olden days - where I'd been playing The Guestlist over speakers, almost as background. I don't know why this should make a difference but it does, and listening by my traditional means was a very different kettle of fish, specifically involving those terrifying things found at the bottom of the sea.

The Guestlist forms a wall of rhythmic sound, much like previous albums, but there's so much going on here that you really need to immerse yourself to get the full benefit. It does too much to be limited to the term industrial, although that's as good a reference point as any and is earned in this case. Where the last few albums focussed on stretching a particular formula limited mostly to bass, percussion and vocals, The Guestlist sees an expansion of the familiar palette bringing in a wider range of electronic and treated sounds, notably in the rhythm section, building up the sort of pensive moodscape in which Gristle excelled back in the day, and which is sonically descended from Kevin Thorne's work with Third Door from the Left; so, as with Third Door, if it goes places you may recognise from Throbbing Gristle (particularly the live material) it nevertheless manages to sound very much its own thing. The major progression from previous albums, given that the general mood remains more or less the same, is in the vocals, with some tracks allowed to stand as instrumental, others with vocals treated or the voice howling away beneath a fog of reverb. Somehow this gives the impression of a more rounded whole, something with a beginning and an end rather than just the latest selection of songs.

Where Do Not Switch On seemed to be the best of the reformed We Be Echo* so far, The Guestlist has gone one better, which is as it should be.

*: I realise the idea that a musical act comprised of a single individual can reform is basically fucking ridiculous, but it was the easiest way to write the sentence.

The Wurzels Are Scrumptious! (1975)

Following my reviewing a number of seventies novelty records a while back - and enjoying them - my famous friend Stan Batcow of Howl in the Typewriter dared me to tackle the Wurzels. I'll do it! I barked at the screen of my PC, partially because I'd been meaning to get around to the Wurzels for some time - not, as you might suspect, for the sake of sneering at The Combine Harvester or any of the others which regularly clogged the upper reaches of the charts in my youth, but because I remember my pal at junior school making me a tape of early Wurzels - or Wurzels rarities if you will, the Wurzels you were referring to when you told those other kids at the Blitz in Covent Garden in 1979, I only liked their first album. I'm talking about Down in Nempnett Thrubwell, Twice Daily, Cheddar Cheese and others - this had been a different Wurzels, a comedy turn for sure but with a softer, more wistful side to their music meaning even the inevitable numbers about rumpy-pumpy in the hay loft had a certain charm beyond the obligatory succession of cow pat gags. Subsequent research has revealed that I didn't imagine there having been a better Wurzels, and this line-up significantly featured one Adge Cutler who obviously left a massive hole in the group when he tragically lost his life in a road accident in 1974.

So I hunted around for anything featuring those songs I'd once loved, but a few of them didn't even seem to have been recorded by the Adge Cutler line-up, and the rest were scattered hither and thither across the back catalogue, and The Wurzels Are Scrumptious! seemed like the best bet given that I had no plans to buy more than one record. In its favour, the Wurzels play well and it sounds as though they had a shitload of fun; but really, I just fucking can't…

I'd forgotten about that seventies thing where albums purchased from your local WHSmith might turn out to be live albums if that's where the band were most at home, usually recorded in some working men's club complete with rambling introduction comprising gags and comic asides which were hopefully funnier at the time. I guess the whole point of the Wurzels was the live performance and how much cider you could knock back before passing out in someone else's field. I don't know if it's really fair for me to offer comment on this one, because even if it leaves me wishing to cancel the subscription to my own ears, this was the record they made after their most talented member had just pegged it, so it's arguably the Wurzels' equivalent of the first New Order album.

The problem is partially that this sort of thing is very much woven into my childhood mythology, and as NWA were to South Central Los Angeles, so the Wurzels were to the farms and villages of my youth; and it's significant that I moved to somewhere a bit less rustic as soon as I was able. Sometimes there's nothing funnier than comparing a cucumber to a penis, or the other way round, but the comparison is arguably funnier in the moment and probably doesn't work so well in song, and a song on an album which mostly seems to be about drinking, shagging, and then laughing about it at such length that the laughter ends up sounding a bit weird. It feels akin to an episode of Esther Rantzen's That's Life* but with accordion, and a hilarious chorus of ooh arr following each alleged zinger, and maybe with the more highbrow jokes left backstage so as not to confuse anyone from that neighbouring village with which we've had an amusing rivalry since 1687; until the music stops and we get another long-winded and deeply unfunny introduction reaffirming those rustic credentials, except one of them clearly isn't from Somerset, and another really doesn't have the accent of a man whose economic status ever obliged him to wade through cow shit at 5AM on a freezing November morning. Quibbling over authenticity is usually a mug's game, but it's nice to know that whatever you're getting at least has one foot in the paddock it's milking for chuckles, even if the chuckles aren't so great as they may have been on the evening.

Somehow, I expected better.

*: One for the kids there.

Ice Cube - Man Down (2024)

 
I'm not sure if Cube's eleventh solo album - assuming I've counted right - is his greatest, but there's a chance it might be, my only doubts arising from the possible absurdity of narrowing it down to just one record given that no two of them sound like quite the same deal. Man Down expands on the sound of Everythangs Corrupt in certain respects yet the overall impression is of something like an old school soul album - and soul as in Al Green, Stevie Wonder, even Luther Vandross and those guys with the synth-bass funk, electric piano and so on; and I mean soul as something predating R&B in the modern sense, except it's soul with rapping as the main feature, a natural blend rather than a hybrid. Of course, this shouldn't be a surprise given quite a lot of the man's back catalogue, but the emphasis of the album as a whole is slightly different, a little breezier, a little more uptempo even when he's lyrically angry as fuck. More than anything, this is the sound of a man who enjoys what he does and doesn't feel any obligations towards whatever the rest of us might expect. It's grown man music.

You'll be familiar with the subject matter from the back catalogue, and because some of that shit is even worse than last time we were all here, but the undiminished punch of righteous anger is carried with maturity, better understanding, and an emotional depth you may not have noticed on previous albums. Other MCs may deliver greater lyrical acrobatics, but no-one tells a story or draws you in like Ice Cube, to the point of his almost occupying a field of one. It's still angry, still funny, but this time it could make a grown man cry - as the saying goes - in addition to anything else.

I don't know if he'll get to the point where he feels like he's said everything he has to say, or how many more of these we can look forward to. I hope there'll be more, but if there isn't, this is a fucking amazing finale.