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Recorded
Music
Reviews of new releases from Ponga, Ginuwine,
and the Freestylers.
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We
Rock Hard
Freestylers
(Mammoth)
Of related interest: Lionrock, Fatboy Slim |
I'm bored with dance music. Crowd-pleasing, predictable big
beat, in particular, has me yearning for more adventurous
times. While Britain's Freestylers haven't necessarily advanced
the genre, they have restored some jiggle to my tush. Sure,
pure nostalgia is part of it. "Drop the Boom" recalls the
heyday of Afrika Bambaataa and Grandmaster Flash, and the
Freestylers' collaborations with the Definition of Sound crew
resurrect the days when MCs seemed pleased with their skills,
not cursed by them. No DMX-like expressions of angst or Puff
Daddy rants about the burden of success here, just a lot of
good times. The heavy bass, simple scratching and vintage
electronic bleeps of songs like "Breaker Beats Part 1" leave
little doubt as to why Mammoth is pushing the group's U.K.
cachet on these shores. Similarly, the latter-day disco and
vocoder-drenched vox of "Don't Stop" have me yearning to dust
off my roller skates and hit the rink. The band's collaborations
with master toasters Tenor Fly and Navigator bring a ragga
flavor to the raucous thump of "B-Boy Stance" and "Ruffneck."
The combination of old-school street sounds, classic dance-hall
and state-of-the-art techno shows that the Freestylers could
take hook-filled, danceable big beat to a higher plateau if
they had a mind to. We Rock Hard makes me move, and
these days that's enough.
Jamie S. Rich
100% Ginuwine is the type of joint sexaholics want
playing in the background while they get a fix. Ginuwine's
sophomore 550 album is all about the pleasures of the flesh,
tripping from tales of true love to late-night episodes swung
on the down low. The honey-soaked lyrics are well-written,
but it's the production that sets the album apart. Timbaland's
thick-and-creamy-like-Mama's-breakfast-gravy beats make it
easy to slide into the groove and enjoy yourself for 75 minutes.
The hit, roll and stop bassline of "Final Warning" bounces
slowly as Ginuwine and Aaliyah bicker about phone calls from
another girl. On "So Anxious," Ginuwine's syrupy falsetto
drips with the excitement of a booty-call ("Girl I hope you
hurry 'cause I'm so anxious/I'm so anxious so meet me at eleven-thirty/I
love the way you're talking dirty") over gentle piano strokes.
It gradually becomes clear that Ginuwine and Timbaland's carnalized
take on church music tightens the Dirty South's stranglehold
as the ruling sound of the culture. They've blessed the hedonists
with another freaky album. If you use this disc for its intended
purpose, be sure to protect yourself, ah-ight?
H.V. Claytor Jr.
This ain't jazz. It ain't your teenage brother's techno, either.
I'm not sure what to call it, but Ponga is cooler than a January
morning in Juneau. Some gods are smiling down upon us with
this lineup: Wayne Horvitz (Zony Mash, Pigpen), Bobby Previte
(Carbon, John Zorn's Cobra), Skerik (Critters Buggin) and
Dave Palmer (MC 900 Ft. Jesus). Ponga is a killer hybrid of
sax-blowing jazzman, piston-pumping percussionist and two
vicious, laser-zapping keyboardists. Ponga romps through eight
improvisational songs (recorded live with no overdubs), including
the drum 'n' bass throb of "Bookin," the nerve-zinging electro
of "Piss up the Pieces of Saturn" and heavy-breathing cosmic
echoes of "Liberace in Space." Sometimes Ponga sounds like
Plastikman trapped in the body of Sun Ra. Then it morphs into
a Knitting Factory jam session where Painkiller takes shots
at the Grassy Knoll. At the end, the ghost of Coltrane blows
through Goldie like a hurricane. To be sure, Ponga is a bizarre
beast, but it's beautiful as well. The only problem is that
I'm lost as to where to roost the damn thing in my musical
menagerie.
John Graham
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Willamette Week | originally
published May 26, 1999
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