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Madvillain, "Madvillainy"
Stones Throw
"The finest of the fine things"... that's what MF Doom promises youabout six minutes into this album, and you'll be forgiven if the firstthing you think of is asshole partiers at some mansion-warming affair,puking on the rug and having sex in the pool. Instead, though, theSupervillain and Madlib throw open the doors to their very own bistro,sweeping the promise of crappy fried finger-food out into the gutterand offering up a satisfying handful of a sandwich instead. That's afair description of what follows, too: at just a hair over 46 minuteslong, Madvillainyisn't dragged down by the twenty-six guest MCs and nine-piece elephantorchestras that clog up your average MTV-flogged double album. There'san economy to the tracks (which average about two minutes apiece) thatI haven't heard since Naked City or Morgan Fisher's Miniaturescompilations, mainly because there aren't any choruses anywhere in, er,sight. Deprived of the chance for easy repetition, Madlib's muffledpianos and sunny-cafe accordions amble into the mix, do their thing,and depart just as quickly as the verses do. And those verses arepriceless: just like Gift of Gab does with his innumerable verbs, Doomstacks absurdity on top of absurdity until he finally has to take abreath... and then he moves on. With ideas coming and going so quickly,the results should sound haphazard or cluttered, but the individualtracks and elements all flow together without a hitch, forming acoherent comic book universe all their own; for once, theordinarily-also-ran addition of a CD-ROM video complements the musicreally well, too, adding an extra hit of Jack Kirby lunacy and rip-offSea Monkeys ads to an album that just about conjures those images onits own. Surrounded by that kind of silliness, the palpable anger of"Strange Ways" sticks out something fierce: it's a clear-headedbackhand at the warmongers of the world, and it connects that muchharder for the contrast. There's not much else going on in thestorytelling department, but the dominant scissor-swinging-potheadcollage atmosphere suits me just fine. Bring Twinkies.
"The finest of the fine things"... that's what MF Doom promises youabout six minutes into this album, and you'll be forgiven if the firstthing you think of is asshole partiers at some mansion-warming affair,puking on the rug and having sex in the pool. Instead, though, theSupervillain and Madlib throw open the doors to their very own bistro,sweeping the promise of crappy fried finger-food out into the gutterand offering up a satisfying handful of a sandwich instead. That's afair description of what follows, too: at just a hair over 46 minuteslong, Madvillainyisn't dragged down by the twenty-six guest MCs and nine-piece elephantorchestras that clog up your average MTV-flogged double album. There'san economy to the tracks (which average about two minutes apiece) thatI haven't heard since Naked City or Morgan Fisher's Miniaturescompilations, mainly because there aren't any choruses anywhere in, er,sight. Deprived of the chance for easy repetition, Madlib's muffledpianos and sunny-cafe accordions amble into the mix, do their thing,and depart just as quickly as the verses do. And those verses arepriceless: just like Gift of Gab does with his innumerable verbs, Doomstacks absurdity on top of absurdity until he finally has to take abreath... and then he moves on. With ideas coming and going so quickly,the results should sound haphazard or cluttered, but the individualtracks and elements all flow together without a hitch, forming acoherent comic book universe all their own; for once, theordinarily-also-ran addition of a CD-ROM video complements the musicreally well, too, adding an extra hit of Jack Kirby lunacy and rip-offSea Monkeys ads to an album that just about conjures those images onits own. Surrounded by that kind of silliness, the palpable anger of"Strange Ways" sticks out something fierce: it's a clear-headedbackhand at the warmongers of the world, and it connects that muchharder for the contrast. There's not much else going on in thestorytelling department, but the dominant scissor-swinging-potheadcollage atmosphere suits me just fine. Bring Twinkies.
