ABK - Hatchet Warrior (2003)

 

Here's a late submission because I assumed I'd already written about it on the basis of its top shelf status. ABK, or Anybody Killa, was an affiliate of the Insane Clown Posse and this was his first album released through their Psychopathic label. Anyone already rolling their eyes should probably fuck off now.

Those rolling their eyes were most likely doing so due to the Juggalo association. Juggalos dress as nightmare versions of circus clowns and make regular pilgrimages to massive events, mostly ignored by mainstream media, drawn by the music of ICP and others which might be characterised as gangsta rap with custard pies. I'm not into clown paint, tattoos, piercings, or stage diving, but the Juggalos strike me as one of the few youth adjacent music based movements which isn't full of shit, which has never pretended to be anything it wasn't, and which truly looks after its own. The cool kids never liked Juggalos, but then once you get past the award-winning haircuts, the cool kids are nearly always arseholes.

ABK ticks a few of the familiar Juggalo boxes, notably the slapstick horrorcore and ghetto testimony, but on his own terms with his own unique voice and take with the added perspective of his Native American heritage; and if there's a cartoon element, as with many Psychopathic releases, it takes a back seat - or is at least riding shotgun, I suppose. The music, mostly produced by Mike P, is  flawless, banging hard and funky with one foot in Parliament, one in the boom-bap New York sound, and with a third mutant foot (possibly where a hand should be) tippy-tapping across genres ranging from the obvious rap-metal to Native chants without ever quite being just one thing; so it all sounds like it should be familiar except it kind of isn't. ABK tells stories, cracks jokes, and delivers an emotionally powerful account of life as was in 2003 with all the obligatory references to mucho screwing and smoking oneself into a coma, yet without turning it into one of those stoner rap deals drawing from Bill and Ted's Unwatchable Adventure more than anything which ever attached a turntable to a light pole in the park; and whatever you may think of his testimony, it feels real and from the heart; and regarding ABK's credentials here, it's telling that no lesser authority than Paris drops a blistering verse on Ghetto Neighbor. The album is loosely pinned together with references to Walter Hill's Warriors of 1979, which has become a common fixation in hip-hop, but it's done exceptionally well here, fitting dialogue to tracks with what feels like a certain logic even if it's not always obvious what that is, then ending with a faithfully anthemic rendition of Joe Walsh's In the City as closing credits - which could have gone so wrong but is a triumph on all counts.

Whine all you like, clutch those Quest albums until they snap in two, but this was a rap milestone even if you were too important to listen. It's an album that does you good, like a full meal on an empty stomach. Whoop fuckin' whoop!

Northstar (2004)

 

As usual, I'm late to the show and since recording this debut album, one of them is dead while the other lives on despite having chopped off his own penis during a failed suicide attempt, so I think I'll pretend it's still 2004 for the next couple of paragraphs if that's okay with the rest of you.

Northstar were one of a couple of west-coast acts incorporated in the Wu-Tang's extended family alongside Royal Fam, Shyheim, Killarmy and all of those guys. I first noticed them stood heads above the rest on the Ghost Dog soundtrack, then making similarly outstanding showings on other Wu-related compilations. Suddenly, a mere quarter of a century later, I rushed out and bagged me their debut album and here we are.

More than anything, Northstar have always stood out thanks to Christ Bearer, one of those MCs you could never mistake for anyone else. There's a unique skip or twang to his delivery meaning he sounds like no-one else and you can't help but listen and be drawn in. It's the same deal as you get with Paris. Although rhythms and subjects may differ, it feels similarly urgent, even important. As a bicoastal fusion, this may seem like a bit of a novelty deal, but the blend works beautifully. Where the RZA produces, his beats are cleaner than usual, less cluttered, working well alongside other material, notably the magnificently cinematic Luv Allah from Armand van Helden. We have the sort of lyricism you'd expect from Wu-affiliates over a westerly version of the beats you'd anticipate, so maybe closer to the Alkaholiks than Westside Connection - not much gunplay but no backpacking either, and certainly no filler. It doesn't jump out of the player as an obvious classic album during the first couple of plays but after a week or so I'd rate this one as at least in the same ballpark as Tical or Supreme Clientele. Christ Bearer really seemed to be a unique voice, but Northstar would hold your attention even without his involvement. They should have been huge.

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.

Paris - Safe Space Invader (2020)

I somehow missed the memo about Paris and have spent the last three decades looking in the other direction, which I guess is what happens when you don't listen to music radio, read music papers - or whatever they have now instead of music papers - or go to clubs. My first encounter was therefore his guest verse on ABK's Ghetto Neighbor - for which I should probably apologise but won't - and I was immediately gripped by his unique delivery, a sort of funky machine gun deal which worms its way into your subconscious even before you've noticed the uncompromising power of his testimony.

Anyway, I'm catching up now, and Safe Space Invaders is the one which has thus far made the biggest impact, which is nice because it's only a couple of years old suggesting this is a man whose powers have grown over time, contrary to the usual trajectory. If he started off with the influence of Chuck D fairly easy to spot, Paris quickly developed his own style - arguably more militant than Public Enemy, significantly more lyrical, and thus more personal, more nuanced - like it's a human being delivering the goods rather than a series of slogans, and someone with too much to say to waste time on taking contemporaries to task - as the backpackers tend to do; and the great volume of that which he has to say is possibly due to the fact that he never gave a shit about whether or not any of it makes you feel uncomfortable - as it honestly should if you're talking civil rights and the black power movement. Paris makes no concessions to being radio friendly or sparing anyone's feelings, and none of this shit is made up - no sidetracks into conspiracy theory here - which is why he's been ignored by many of those who should have helped elevate his work. Above all though, he's entertaining as fuck, because the expansion of knowledge with righteous truths should be entertaining. Baby Man Hands, in which our boy expresses his reservations regarding the Trump presidency, in particular manages to be both terrifying and funny.

Musically, Paris continues to cut his own furrow just as he does with the lyrical side of things - bringing p-funk into the twenty-first century in combination with old school touches, new school, even an African influence on Return of the Vanguard, and - again - without really sounding like anyone else.

I have a lot of catching up to do.