By Kat Bein
By Shea Serrano
By S. Pajot
By Terrence McCoy
By Falyn Freyman
By Shea Serrano
By Jacob Katel
By Michael E. Miller
Snoop Doggy Dogg
Dr. Dre Presents ... The Aftermath
The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory
In the wake of Tupac Shakur's death, these three albums have little chance of being heard objectively. Certainly the conventional wisdom about each lacks insight and seems predetermined: Snoop Dogg's album is a disappointment because his music does not reflect enough of a shift from violent content; Tupac's posthumous release under the alias Makaveli is no more than shameless opportunism by Death Row; and Dr. Dre's new multiartist compilation -- an attempt to distance his career from hardcore rap -- is heralded as triumphant proof of gangsta's demise.
While all of these albums are musically unsatisfying, at least Snoop's and Tupac's have great moments, and their problems have little to do with the inadequacy of gangsta. Their troubles have everything to do with the loss of solidarity between three artists who seemed at a creative peak by the time Shakur's All Eyez on Me was released last spring.
Tha Doggfather seems the closest to Eyez, a 21-cut party tape of an album, matching "California Love" with Snoop's vision of a "Doggyland" where "everything is free/And there ain't no HIV/And niggaz don't kill one another." Still, despite capable musical assistance from producers Dat Nigga Daz and DJ Pooh, and great vocals by the Gap Band's Charlie Wilson, Snoop Dogg's disc lacks the ebullience of his previous work with Dr. Dre. Simply put, Dre's sprawling soundscapes lay the perfect foundation for Snoop's open-ended rhyme style. That said, Tha Doggfather finds solid if limited intensity in its minimalist funk grooves and makes an admirable plea for a party that can build unity from the bottom up.
Next to Snoop's lift-as-you-climb vision, the sentiments in Dre's "Been There Done That" seem hollow. His introduction of twelve new talents on Aftermath, along with the reintroduction of King T and a pro unity rap by the bicoastal Group Therapy (which includes Cypress Hill's B-Real, Nas, KRS-1, and RBX), feels like a lethargic, directionless imitation of his previous work on Death Row. No one really stands out here, and as a relatively lame dis of the coastal rivalry, the Group Therapy cut is less unifying than condescending.
Slapped together or not, Tupac's interrupted work in progress says more -- musically, lyrically, and spiritually -- than both of these other releases. Nearly as busy as Tupac's first two albums, the sound is muddier than those, but it still runs a wild gamut from the chimes tolling eerie gangsta solitude on "Hail Mary" to the spaghetti-Western guitar on "Me and My Girlfriend." At the same time, the album is about a spiritual connection between outlaw men and women on the streets and behind bars. Tupac never forgets he is a soldier in a cultural war, a war that is fueling a larger political struggle. Unfortunately, the sense of betrayal that leads him to choose East Coast rapper Nas as the album's central enemy serves as a tangle of brush obscuring the massive scope of vision Tupac always brought to his music.
But then, he wasn't finished. And as frustrating as they are, these releases suggest that Snoop and Dre aren't either.
After Murder Park
(Hut U.S.A./Vernon Yard)
Amid the cacophony of competing voices out there on the bleak popscape -- Tricky's post-rock this, Jon Spencer's deconstructed-blues that -- Auteurs' singer/songwriter/guitarist Luke Haines's just might be the one most attuned to the nihilistic tenor of these on-the-cusp-of-the-millennium times. Over the course of three albums, he has fashioned a body of work that sketches out a gradual human entropy, his mildly astringent songs intimating individual dissolutions rather than delineating precise declines and falls. Those not trudging the road to ruin already, Haines suggests, will get there eventually: "Taking out the garbage at the Columbia Hotel/Nobody got a ticket out of cripple town," he sing-talks in his slight rasp at the outset of the rattling "Tombstone."
Despite the band's cinematically inclined name, their songs here -- creepy, deliberate ballads dusted with strings ("The Child Brides," "Married to a Lazy Lover," "Fear of Flying"); bare-wires, midtempo rockers ("Buddha," "Land Lovers," "Everything You Say Will Destroy You"); and hybrids thereof (notably "New Brat in Town" and the deceptively lilting "Unsolved Child Murder") -- conjure up literary values, all highly allusive rather than imagistic, particularly the woolly "Dead Sea Navigators," the perfect last-call anthem for noble losers everywhere. Those requiring a reference point should think late-Sixties/early-Seventies Kinks, sans Ray Davies's distinct undercoating of romanticism. Not for everyone, not even for most, but possibly the most engaging downer you're likely to hear.
-- Michael Yockel.
She's too young to buy beer, but American violinist Leila Josefowicz has performed with the world's finest orchestras, and with Solo she has made her second recording for a major classical label. Actually, her case is not as extraordinary as it sounds; younger violinists have made an even bigger splash. (Classical consumers, after all, love child prodigies.) At least Philips Classics had the good taste not to market Josefowicz as near-kiddie porn, a temptation that other classical record companies have not resisted with their young performers, both male and female.