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Busdriver, "Fear of a Black Tangent"
Imagine if Afrocentrist poet and playwright Amiri Baraka was born abouta half century late and instead of a pen he carried a mic.Mush/Dirty Loop
The resultwould be something quite like quirky and eccentric MC Busdriver, parthip hop bohemian ("I used to be on the list of top five/ Fresh hip hopguys/ now I thaw out chicken pot pies"), angry unappreciatedBaraka-esque intellectual ("No one wants to hear me retrace my ancestryfrom a transatlantic boat cruise/ they want to hear my frantic energydiffused through pro tools") part anti-scene demagogue ("Rappers saythe darndest things you'll ever hear/ like I'm edgy and risque and Isay better luck next year") and two parts pure lyrical ability ("Idumbfound in the coffee shop/ looking like Jean Michel-Basquiat"). Fewmicrophone musicians can spit as quickly and as intelligently - theaforementioned couplets are delivered rapid fire, almost too quicklyfor the brain to process before the next obscure name-drop or poeticreference. Such has been Busdriver's claim to fame - or to the cynical,the gimmick that sustains an otherwise tired act. Either way, it's keptcoming at a steady pace: a prolific artist, Fear of a Black Tangentis Busdriver's third full-length in a little under two years. Theproduction duties are carried out admirably by several "big" (byunderground standards, anyway) names - Danger Mouse and Dadaelus amongthem, and their varied efforts — some glitchy, some jazzy- all seemwell-suited to match Busdriver's manic pace and frame of mind. But fora former battle rapper who has had significant critical acclaim andmodest (for an underground rapper, moving 20,000 units is a solidrelease) financial success, Busdriver spends far too much time bitchingand moaning. He decries the state of the industry ("Entertainmentindustries and bureaucrats/ Selling the ultimate brain freeze/ Thisyear I'm Sambo/ On the Clear Channel"), his lifestyle ("I hate my pad/I don't want to visit/ I need new brake pads on my Honda Civic") andhimself ("What kind of name is Busdriver?/ It suggests a wack allegory/that can't be justified by any background story/ I hear he sucks live/Only appeals to hipsters who dress like Russian spies"). Busdriver canrhyme all night, and no one can question his ability to do so, but bythe disc's fourth track the materialÕs run thin. How much endlessself-deprecation can a listening audience (who is supposedly beingentertained by it) be expected to withstand? Of course, the same can besaid of rock songs about love. Where Busdriver the songwriter may beserviced by moving on, Busdriver the rapper should be commended. It ishis microphone magic that keeps otherwise ancient subject matter freshand interesting, though a little diversity would have been nice,especially on a record called Fear of a Black Tangent.
The resultwould be something quite like quirky and eccentric MC Busdriver, parthip hop bohemian ("I used to be on the list of top five/ Fresh hip hopguys/ now I thaw out chicken pot pies"), angry unappreciatedBaraka-esque intellectual ("No one wants to hear me retrace my ancestryfrom a transatlantic boat cruise/ they want to hear my frantic energydiffused through pro tools") part anti-scene demagogue ("Rappers saythe darndest things you'll ever hear/ like I'm edgy and risque and Isay better luck next year") and two parts pure lyrical ability ("Idumbfound in the coffee shop/ looking like Jean Michel-Basquiat"). Fewmicrophone musicians can spit as quickly and as intelligently - theaforementioned couplets are delivered rapid fire, almost too quicklyfor the brain to process before the next obscure name-drop or poeticreference. Such has been Busdriver's claim to fame - or to the cynical,the gimmick that sustains an otherwise tired act. Either way, it's keptcoming at a steady pace: a prolific artist, Fear of a Black Tangentis Busdriver's third full-length in a little under two years. Theproduction duties are carried out admirably by several "big" (byunderground standards, anyway) names - Danger Mouse and Dadaelus amongthem, and their varied efforts — some glitchy, some jazzy- all seemwell-suited to match Busdriver's manic pace and frame of mind. But fora former battle rapper who has had significant critical acclaim andmodest (for an underground rapper, moving 20,000 units is a solidrelease) financial success, Busdriver spends far too much time bitchingand moaning. He decries the state of the industry ("Entertainmentindustries and bureaucrats/ Selling the ultimate brain freeze/ Thisyear I'm Sambo/ On the Clear Channel"), his lifestyle ("I hate my pad/I don't want to visit/ I need new brake pads on my Honda Civic") andhimself ("What kind of name is Busdriver?/ It suggests a wack allegory/that can't be justified by any background story/ I hear he sucks live/Only appeals to hipsters who dress like Russian spies"). Busdriver canrhyme all night, and no one can question his ability to do so, but bythe disc's fourth track the materialÕs run thin. How much endlessself-deprecation can a listening audience (who is supposedly beingentertained by it) be expected to withstand? Of course, the same can besaid of rock songs about love. Where Busdriver the songwriter may beserviced by moving on, Busdriver the rapper should be commended. It ishis microphone magic that keeps otherwise ancient subject matter freshand interesting, though a little diversity would have been nice,especially on a record called Fear of a Black Tangent.samples:
