By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Catching up with 1994's Dare Iz a Darkside and 1996's Muddy Waters both gold, both prized by the hardcore I don't feel like I missed much. Over utilitarian beats à la his discoverer and Def Squad co-member Erick Sermon, Redman's brand of weed-fueled raunch-ruckus is rarely as wild or ecstatic as Busta Rhymes's or Ol' Dirty Bastard's; too often its distinctive grit manifests as crass bitch-slap and beat-ass BS. But Doc's Da Name has a more humane mood: the comic high spirits that previously bubbled closer to the surface in Busta and ODB fuse with the grit into ground-level, politically incorrect satire full of loud farts, stinkin' asses, and no-account thugs making monkey noises. Set in "The Bricks," the "ghetto as hell" Newark hometown where Redman né Reggie Noble will reside until such time as he can afford the "nice house" he wants for his infant son, it makes something like a protagonist of Noble's alternate alter ego Funk Doctor Spot, the kind of hapless monkey who perpetrates mayhem on all of Redman's records. Not every song is funny, but, miraculously, all five skits are. On "Million Chicken March" a babymama militant named Liquidacia demands 40 cans of Enfamil a month and refuses to report babydaddies to welfare: "We must stick together in order to survive in a world of bourgie hos." "Pain in Da Ass Stewardess" enacts a skyjacking stickup: " . . . motherfuckin' shoes, sneakers, socks, I want the credit cards, the welfare cards, I even want your fuckin' frequent- flier miles." Presumably the speaker isn't our antihero, who ends up shooting a hole in the side of the plane, blasting himself and everyone else to perdition.
Unless Coolio and Biz Markie are larger than they look these days, it's safe to generalize that hip hop antiheroes have trouble holding on to what respect they get; the big exception is ODB, who's really selling insanity and has an entire Clan watching his back. With most rappers who claim hardcore, vulnerability only deepens heroic dimension Scarface's life after death, Jay-Z's detailed fantasies of betrayal and reconciliation and humor means killer disses, fancy wordplay, and the kind of street- hardened irony Biggie Smalls owned. But whether hip hop's dauntless self-promotion is exemplary or escapist, Doc's Da Name downplays it. Redman comes on humble. There's no flaunting of distance, skill, or command even in relatively generic sex boasts like "Well All Rite Cha" and "Da Goodness," much less "Let Da Monkey Out" ("I tell lies under oath if it please the court," but also "I got zits on your face that can't wait to bump") or "Jersey Yo!" 's infectious tales of fucking up on weed ("What's up, bitch? Oh, hi mama"). Everybody fucks up here, and although the rapper is a big man of sorts, he's still living in The Bricks, right? "Fuck all you radio that wanna play clean singles/I cleaned mine for years and still ain't hit a million," he grouses resignedly. The result? "I'm a everyday nigga like a Toyota/The A&R hope we don't drop the same coda."
In a genre where nobody wants to be a role model and everybody is, Redman cuts fresh cheese. People have jobs on this record "whether it's fast food, or transportation, sneaker store, doin' hair, or straight-up strippin', we gotta get the cash" and that includes its "round-the-clock lyricist," who says he sleeps in his work boots. And though Redman never moralizes, he gives the impression that his developed craft and increasingly down-to-earth ghetto realism come with the long haul of a career that's maintained but never blown up, with an assist from fatherhood. Afroed Oaklander Boots Riley, the surviving rapper in the Coup, who after valiant attempts to promote post-gangsta militance on Wild Pitch in '93 and '94 resurfaced late last year on Dogday (4432 Telegraph Avenue, Box 72, Oakland, California 94609, www.dogdayrecords.com), reaches a similar artistic maturity by a less promising route: ideology, activism, study. Even in the wake of records entitled Kill Your Landlord, Genocide and Juice, and now Steal This Album, it's shock enough to hear anyone working in a pop form come out and say flatly: "See, I'm a communist." For the lyrics to bite and excite and amuse and the music to carry them along seems too much to expect. Maybe the revolution already happened and nobody noticed. (Just kidding.)