Yesterday I listened to Blakroc's eponymous album, and was blown away by its accomplished fusion of hip-hop and rock. A few years ago, I remember when such pairings were all the rage. Early examples went as far back as Run-DMC's collaboration with Aerosmith on "Walk This Way." Then, there were terrible other examples that became grouped under the awful heading of "rap/rock." Think Limp Bizkit and Linkin Park, but not for too long. The idea itself, though, should not have been disregarded because early stabs at the mixture of distinctly different genres were abysmal.
Around this time of the year (ie New Year's), we have to endure endless lists that gather the "best of" the previous twelve months. If December 31st happens to signal the end of a whole decade, these months usually become years. In 2009, this happened like, pardon the pun, clockwork. One particularly egregious list came from David Wild, a hack music critic who regularly contributes to Rolling Stone. He reminds me of Wallace Shawn, but more fat and repulsive. I remember seeing an episode of some TV show where he interviewed Lou Reed and I kept waiting for Reed to silence him, but he indulged Wild's inane requests. I think that he was being polite by obliging Wild's annoying clamors for demonstration. He could have leveled the dumb "journalist," but instead spared him. I wish, though, that he had released some of the vitriol I'm sure he felt.
Enough of that--if I think about David Wild for too long, my muscles clench and subsequently receive no release in the form of a swift punch or kick to his teeth. I did read, however, a bunch of year-end lists that didn't piss me off. For instance, Jim DeRogatis, of the Chicago Sun-Times, delighted me as he normally does. He's not a great writer, but his opinions of popular music don't cause me to chortle as much as others do--I'm thinking of Greg Kot of the Tribune, and his dependably annoying quota of world music that he places on his lists. DeRogatis put Ida Maria's Fortress 'Round My Heart at the top of his list. When I saw this, I nodded approvingly, even though it really came out in 2008.
I didn't see one mention of "Blakroc," though. It's an album with tracks controlled by the two members of The Black Keys, with a rotating roster of unappreciated emcees. I myself came to it late, but at least I appreciate how awesome it is. There are at least two distinct types of blues: Delta and Mississippi hill country. The former adheres to the predictable I-IV-V chord structure. The latter also may use only those inimitable three chords, but it chugs along rather than punching the changes emphatically.
This framework, championed by such artists as RL Burnside, Junior Kimbrough, and other artists on the Fat Possum label, works amazingly well with the grooves of hip-hop. I can't believe that a worthwhile collaboration took so long to materialize. The Black Keys stay away from the histrionic, flashy solos that come along with innumerable artists, both good and bad. Sometimes, in the case of The White Stripes, this showboating works, and, like the aforementioned Aerosmith, it can be a disaster. Either way, bands have tended to forget about blues without a reliance on the screaming scales. The Black Keys, though, have not. They have always played blues without the popular crutch of gaudy solos, and perhaps because of this have not enjoyed the success of several of their less original peers.
With Blakroc, it appears that they have finally broken through, and now command the ears of several less-well-known hip-hop acts. This is the culmination of attempts at maturation. It is probably good that it took so long for this merger to take place. Kinks were subsequently avoided, like the grandstanding that's so prevalent in hip-hop. It may have taken long to happen, but several easy missteps were dodged. Eventually, though, it's time to move along.
I don't mean neglect, but bold action. Too often, people are too concerned with their reception, and this fear renders the inevitable inaction, along with all of its dilatory dithering, pathetic and empty. Deadbeat dads, you know what I mean.
R
