El-P - Indie Rapper Reseizes the Brooklyn Moment

New York Times

March 18, 2007

Music

Indie Rapper Reseizes the Brooklyn Moment

By WILL HERMES

WRITERS and musicians often fixate on certain landscapes at certain times. For Thoreau in the 1840s it was Walden Pond. For Madonna in the 1980s it was her body. For the rapper-producer El-P (birth name Jaime Meline) in the ’00s it’s post-9/11 New York.

“I wanted to capture something I felt was unspoken,” he said last month, chopping garlic at his apartment cum home studio in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. “There’s a shroud that’s enveloped this city since 9/11 that everyone is pretending isn’t there, and it’s affecting me. I’m not trying to make heavy-handed political records. I’m just trying to make sense of this. And make something good to listen to.”

An intense, stocky 32-year-old with gray-blue eyes and close-cropped reddish hair, El-P seems consumed with dark thoughts. Making things helps to distract him — like music or, at this moment, an elaborate lunch of tortellini with sausage and pesto. Another result of this impulse is “I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead,” a CD to be released Tuesday, El-P’s first in nearly five years. (He performs Thursday at the Bowery Ballroom.)

The CD arrives at a time when the Brooklyn music scene he predates has exploded, making him a veteran both literally and — in his embrace of funk, noise and electronics — aesthetically. He commands respect in rock as well as rap circles. TV on the Radio and Cat Power, who both made critically acclaimed records last year, have employed him to remix their material. And coincidentally the return of El-P, who is of Irish-Cajun-Lithuanian descent, comes as the “white rapper” is back on the cultural radar, between VH-1’s well-received “Ego Trip’s (White) Rapper Show” and Jason Tanz’s newly published “Other People’s Property: A Shadow History of Hip-Hop in White America” (Bloomsbury USA).

“I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead” feels simultaneously futuristic, anachronistic and of the moment. Rhymes flash back to Sept. 11, flickering amid surreal scenes of city life witnessed by a strung-out narrator who finds himself awake at 5 a.m., sitting on his stoop smoking a Newport and waiting for the bodegas to open, writing breathless rhymes like:

Fell asleep late
Neon buzz
PTS stress
We do drugs
City air strange
Sticky lungs
Mayor Doomburg
Gives no funds
And I’m cryin.

The futuristic tinge comes from frequent science fiction allusions and especially to the music undergirding the words. Unlike many peers El-P doesn’t refashion old soul hits or other familiar songs, although he will sample old records for raw sounds. He adds these to gritty synthesizer tones, distorted voices and machine beats to create data-overload collages. The effect can conjure classic Public Enemy, as if that famed rap group drew inspiration more from Philip K. Dick’s future-dystopian fiction than from “The Autobiography of Malcolm X.”

“I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead” is also a throwback to the indie-underground rap scene of the ’90s, when a certain kind of rap held sway for connoisseurs and critics: music often defined by abstract or bookish rhymes, unconventional music and anti-mainstream attitude, as opposed to radio-friendly bragging and dance-floor fodder. And that’s entirely appropriate, since El-P helped pioneer the indie-rap movement, first with his revered group Company Flow and later with his record label Definitive Jux — “jux” connoting both artful juxtaposition and, per street slang, artful thievery.

He grew up near the Fulton Mall, walking distance from where he lives now. His parents split early on, and he became in his own words “an unbridled capsule of teenaged rage and delinquency.” After being kicked out of two high schools in rapid succession (one being St. Ann’s School in Brooklyn Heights), he got an equivalency degree at 16 and finagled his way into the Center for Media Arts in Manhattan, where he studied audio engineering. “I pretty quickly made the decision that since school wasn’t working, music would have to,” he said.

It did, beginning with Company Flow, a rap group consisting of the D.J. Mr. Len, the rapper Bigg Jus and the rapper-producer El-P (a spinoff of his moniker Lyrical Punisher, or LP, which became El Producto, El-P through rap wordplay). The group self-released the “Funcrusher” EP in 1995, and before long El-P quit his job in the Tower Records mail-order department “because, y’know, I was a rap star.”

Though clearly speaking with tongue partly in cheek — by rap-star standards El-P lives, now as then, a modest existence — the group was a hit among cognescenti for its fiercely anti-almost-everything wordplay and aggressive, near-industrial sound. (The current issue of Vibe magazine calls “Funcrusher Plus,” the expanded 1997 version of their EP, “the defining document of ’90s hip-hop dissent.”) And before Eminem was a household name — and when the embarrassing one-hit wonder Vanilla Ice was still fresh in people’s minds — El-P was singled out as one of the few respected white rappers.

“I think he’s what a lot of kids struggle to be,” said Sacha Jenkins, co-creator of the cheeky “American Idol”-style “Ego Trip’s (White) Rapper Show,” which has contestants vying for “ghetto credibility,” among other things. Mr. Jenkins recalled meeting the 16-year-old El-P at a Manhattan performance space, “making beats and surrounded by black people.” And while El-P says that his race is no longer a big issue these days, Mr. Jenkins sees him as the prototype of the white rapper. “He’s not trying to be anything he’s not, and I think that’s what hip-hop has always been about.”

When Company Flow disbanded, El-P went solo and started Definitive Jux, which cultivated a stable of progressive hip-hop acts including Mr. Lif and RJD2. El-P’s 2002 debut, “Fantastic Damage,” was widely praised, and “I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead” addresses some similar themes: modern-day paranoia, rappers mistaking thuggery for artistry and the corruption of love. It also gathers prominent friends and fans.

Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails contributes to the grinding “Flyentology,” whose narrator discovers religion on a crashing airplane. And members of the prog-rock group Mars Volta add frenetic guitars and vocals to “Tasmanian Pain Coaster,” about meeting a troubled, bloodied friend on the A train. El-P said the character represents both himself and his traumatized hometown: “I feel like New York needs therapy, man. And I’m one of the people.”

By modern hip-hop standards his rhymes are remarkably self-analytical. The CD’s finale, “Poisenville Kids No Wins,” relates a struggle with what sounds like a fearsome drug problem, while Chan Marshall — who performs as Cat Power and suffered a publicized struggle with alcohol abuse last year — sings the redemptive coda. Is the character autobiographical? “It’s an amalgamation of me and other things,” El-P said. He declined to be more specific but said he had indulged in “self-destructive” behavior.

Marketing his record may also be a fight. Independents like Definitive Jux are feeling the same crunch as media conglomerates amid illegal downloading and falling sales. And their aesthetic, underdog by definition, seems to have lost some cultural traction lately, as critics and taste-making bloggers appear more dazzled by drug-dealing, true-crime narratives of major label acts like Clipse and Ghostface Killah. Even El-P has moderated his anti-mainstream stance. “Just because I run an indie label doesn’t mean I don’t think Jay-Z is nice,” he said.

But he remains optimistic. His label’s Web site, definitivejux.net, offers its own downloads, and he says their “secret weapon” is, simply enough, quality.

“I strongly believe in the art form of the album,” he said, contrasting the concept with the current hegemony of the hit-singles-plus-filler formula that rules commercial hip-hop. “If you have your artists in the right mind-state, it’s possible they’ll make important records, beautiful records, records in the classic sense of what they meant when we fell in love with music as kids.”

New York Times
March 13, 2007

Hip-Hop Is Rock ’n’ Roll, and Hall of Fame Likes It

By JON PARELES

It’s official: Hip-hop is rock ’n’ roll.

Last night at the Waldorf-Astoria, Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, who proved that hip-hop was more than party music with their 1982 hit “The Message,” became the first hip-hop group to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Joseph Saddler, better known as the disc jockey and producer Grandmaster Flash, said backstage, “It opens the gates to our culture.”

Jay-Z, the rapper who is chief executive officer of Def Jam Records, handed the awards to the group. Reading his speech from a personal digital assistant, he said, “The shot heard ’round the world was fired from the South Bronx.”

When Melle Mel, the rapper on “The Message,” stepped up to speak, he urged the music executives in the audience to “make hip-hop the culture that it was, instead the culture of violence it is right now.”

Joining the rappers as new members of the Hall of Fame were the poet-turned- punk-rock-pioneer Patti Smith, the three-member girl group the Ronettes, the hard-rock band Van Halen and the Georgia college-town rockers R.E.M.

It was the hall’s first awards ceremony to be broadcast live, on both the cable channel VH1 Classic and on the Web by America Online. VH1 will broadcast an edited version of the ceremony on Saturday at 9 p.m.

On the stage, strong women’s voices dominated the music. Aretha Franklin swooped through “I Never Loved a Man,” singing in tribute to the hall’s founder, Ahmet Ertegun, who died in December. Ronnie Spector belted “Be My Baby” with the Ronettes, and Ms. Smith brought an idealistic fervor to her songs.

Accepting her award, Ms. Smith recalled a kitchen table argument with her husband, Fred Smith, shortly before he died in 1994. “He said to me, ‘Tricia, one day you’re going to get into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,’ ” Ms. Smith said. “He asked me to accept it like a lady and not say any curse words and to make certain to salute new generations. Because it is the new generations that will redefine the landscape of rock ’n’ roll.”

Still, the epithets arrived when Ms. Smith tossed off her jacket, untucked her shirt and belted a punk anthem about being “outside of society.” She said it was her mother’s favorite song. The night’s closing all-star jam was also one of her songs, “People Have the Power.”

Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam paid tribute to R.E.M., saying he had, by his calculations, listened to their album “Murmur” 1,260 times in the summer of 1984. Referring to R.E.M.’s hard-to-understand singer, Michael Stipe, he said, “One of the reasons I was listening so incessantly was I had to know what he was saying,” Mr. Vedder said. “He can hit an emotion with pinpoint accuracy or he can be completely oblique, and it all resonates.”

R.E.M. performed with its original drummer, Bill Berry, who had retired after suffering a brain aneurysm. Mr. Vedder joined R.E.M. onstage to sing “Man on the Moon,” and Ms. Smith joined them for the Stooges’ “I Wanna Be Your Dog.” It was a reminder that Iggy Pop and the Stooges, whose music was a cornerstone of punk-rock, have not been elected to the Hall of Fame.

Old feuds were not left behind. The Ronettes, whose hits were triumphs of their producer Phil Spector’s “wall of sound,” pointedly didn’t mention him in speeches that thanked a lifetime of other supporters, including Mr. Spector’s songwriting collaborators and the Ronettes’ arranger, Jack Nitzsche.

Introducing the Ronettes, Keith Richards of the Rolling Stones described hearing the group warming up backstage when they shared touring bills in the 1960s. “They could sing all their way right through a wall of sound,” he said. “They didn’t need anything.”

Ms. Spector, who was married to Mr. Spector from 1968 until 1974, recalled the days of “our dresses slit up the side and our beehives up to here,” pointing well over her head. “All my life, all I ever wanted to do was sing rock ’n’ roll.”

The omission of Mr. Spector’s name reflected a 15-year court battle between the producer and the group. The Ronettes were paid less than $15,000 when they signed with Philles Records in 1964, and never saw another payment. In 1987, the Ronettes sued Mr. Spector — who also wrote their songs and owned their label — for royalties. They won an award of $2.6 million in 2000, but it was overturned on appeal.

After the Ronettes performed last night, Paul Shaffer of “Late Night With David Letterman” — who led the stage band — read a brief congratulatory message from Mr. Spector in which he said, “I wish them all the happiness and good fortune the world has to offer.”

Mr. Spector, who was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1989, meanwhile, is about to go on trial for the 2003 killing of an actress, Lana Clarkson, at his Los Angeles mansion; jury selection is to start on Monday.

Van Halen, which planned and then canceled a tour this summer with its original singer, David Lee Roth, couldn’t manage a reunion for the Hall of Fame. Its guitarist, Eddie Van Halen, entered a rehabilitation center last Thursday, according to a statement on the band’s Web site, and negotiations over which songs Mr. Roth might perform broke down. Only Van Halen’s bassist, Michael Anthony, and its second lead singer, Sammy Hagar, attended the ceremony. They performed the 1986 hit “Why Can’t This Be Love” with the stage band.

Velvet Revolver, which includes members of Guns N’ Roses and Stone Temple Pilots, handed the members of Van Halen their awards and performed two additional Van Halen songs.

Mr. Hagar, accepting his award, said, “I couldn’t tell you how much I wish everyone was here tonight. It’s out of our control.” He also thanked the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for including him as a Hall of Fame member, although he did not join Van Halen until 1985, after Mr. Roth left.

“They didn’t have to do that,” Mr. Hagar said. He added that while he regretted the full band wasn’t at the ceremony, “You couldn’t get me from here with a shotgun.”

Is Hip-Hop Really Dead? - DaveyD, San Jose Mercury News

Is Hip-Hop Really Dead?

By DaveyD , San Jose Mercury News
Posted on March 3, 2007, Printed on March 4, 2007
http://www.alternet.org/story/48693/

Hip-hop icon Nas made the provocative statement, "Hip-hop is dead,'' in September and set off a firestorm of controversy. It was intensified by the January release of his album bearing the same title.

Many questioned why Nas would say hip-hop -- a worldwide phenomenon that has generated billions of dollars -- could be "dead.'' After all, more hip-hop albums are being released then ever before, and the music's influence extends to movies, corporate marketing and theater. That it's dead seems absurd -- until you realize Nas was looking beneath the surface.

He was speaking of the corporate side of the music and the mentality of executives more interested in turning a quick buck than nurturing rap culture. Nas realized sex, violence and bling, as themes for the music, had pretty much run their course. Album sales had plummeted, and ratings at hip-hop radio stations in New York, Los Angeles and elsewhere had hit all-time lows.

A number of people, including this writer, also had spoken out about mediocre product coming from some of the genre's biggest stars. Yet such talk was rebuffed by so-called industry experts, who blamed digital downloading and satellite radio.

We critics, however, were vindicated by a study published earlier this year by the University of Chicago. Data from the "Black Youth Project'' indicated that while 58 percent of blacks between ages 15 and 25 listen to hip-hop daily, most are dissatisfied with it. They find the subject matter is too violent, and women too often portrayed in offensive ways.

Such feelings hint at a dirty little secret of the music business: Blacks are used largely to validate musical themes being marketed to the white mainstream. In other words, while 90 percent of commercial rap artists on TV and radio are black, the target audience lies outside the black community.

Paul Porter, a longtime industry veteran and former music programmer at BET and Radio One, is now with the watchdog organization Industryears.com. He says the University of Chicago findings offer proof positive that commercial hip-hop has become the ultimate minstrel show, and rap artists are pushed by the industry to remain perpetual adolescents.

As a result, we watch Diddy, Cam'ron, DMX and others brag about wealth and throw bills at a camera while bikini-clad women gyrate in the background. Should these artists attempt to break out of the mold, they'd risk having their work questioned by record and radio executives.

In our conversation, Porter also pointed to something more sinister: payola. He claimed hip-hop is dead only because payola is rampant at labels intent on investing in songs with sexual and violent themes.

During a separate conversation, Questlove of the Roots supported Porter's allegation with his own story about the process behind the group's Grammy-winning hit with Erykah Badu, "You Got Me.'' He said the Roots had to pony up close to "a million dollars'' to a middle man who "worked his magic'' at radio stations.

Initially, the overtly positive song had been rejected, he explained, so palms were greased with the promise that key stations countrywide would get hot "summer jam'' concert acts in exchange for airplay. According to Questlove, more than $1 million in cash and resources were eventually laid out for the success of that single song.

In the documentary "Hip Hop: Beyond Beats and Rhymes,'' shown recently on the PBS series "Independent Lens,'' filmmaker Byron Hurt confronts Stephen Hill, BET's senior vice president for programming, to ask why the cable network plays so many videos with misogynist and otherwise degrading themes. The fortysomething Hill walks away without answering. This is the same executive who refused to broadcast videos by the group Little Brother, because he considered their material "too intelligent'' for the BET audience.

With thinking like that, no wonder commercial hip-hop appears dead. It's the ideas of the gatekeepers that are dead.