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
The Hard Knockers have a string of singles good enough to transcend the contradictions of their supermacho posturing, to leap over the gap between "thug life" and "keeping it real," roughly as wide as a doorway in the Bronx. While a month ago 41 bullets might have been the basis for a funny skit on one of their CDs, now it leaves them speechless. Cartoon gangstas have no way to respond to a real crime, except, as Redman would say, to "rock the fuck out."
Superfriends Method Man and Redman kicked off the show together, trading manic verses. While Method kept jumping into the crowd, Redman could have climbed up from it, stomping and yapping with an easy humor that cracked his partner's straight-faced facade. After a delirious encore in which they floated above the floor seats on wires, Method landed first, laughed warmly at his flailing friend, and caught him in a bear hug.
DMX was all business, from his shaved head through his coarse jumpsuit to his greasy, black work boots. A hip-hop throat singer, he rattled off syllables without breaking his growl, filling the room with sad, cautionary rants about violence and abandonment that were more weary than glamorizing. "How many been in hard times?" he asked. "How many in hard times now?" He prayed for his wife, but still macked about leaving women "with no dough but plenty of back pain."
After a set that powerful, it was hard to love a playa like Jay-Z. He let the crowd do the work for him, strutting and pouting as cheers gave way to ecstatic sing-alongs. His breakthrough record Vol. 2 . . . Hard Knock Life layers a cheesy confection of sex, cars, and guns over buzzing, jerking grooves, but the cavernous space flattened both the music's depth and Jay's crisp delivery. The audience ate it up nonetheless, joining him in recognition of an undeniable sound. Turn on your radio; it's probably playing right now. Josh Goldfein
Return of the Repressed
Founder of Ann Arbor's Interdimensional Transmissions label, Brendan M. Gillen is a prime mover on the pan-global neo-electro network. Spinning an in-store DJ set at Mondo Kim's on February 26, Gillen showcased his impressive interdisciplinary scholarship in synthesized music history, encompassing Dinosaur L.'s art-disco, Pierre Henry, and the implausibly exciting Visage B-side "Frequency 7." The following night, Gillen played live as Ectomorph, headlining the one-off party Input at Planet 28.
Although a handful went the whole retro-futurist hog (one woman sported a kind of tiara-with-antennae apparatus), most of the audience were dressed-down, nonaligned hipsters looking for the next sonic convulsion. As a candidate, electro's primary appeal is that it's funkier than contemporary techno its syncopated Roland 808 bass lines and intricate percussion twist your torso, make you bump'n'flex. Traditionally shunned by Detroit techno aesthetes, electro's lewd low end is crucial along with its sheer bootyquake impact, the booming 808 reconnects techno and hip hop.
That said, Ectomorph is hardly ghetto music. Unlike Miami bass, there's no rapid-fire rapping about ass'n'titties; the only vocal element takes the form of Gillen and partner Erica hectoring the audience through a cheap Kmart megaphone. And Ectomorph classics like "The Haunting" are as skeletal and severe as today's minimalist techno. Call it "abstract booty" or "intelligent bass": melody is limited to one- finger synth-motifs that needle through the cochlea to tickle the innermost recesses of your brain; the textural palette comprises myriad subtle shades of ice and rubber; dub reverb gives the music a crumbly-round-the-edges organic quality that compares favorably with the clinical dessication of most electro.
Input also featured PAs from two outfits affiliated to the Spelunk label, plus local DJs. Chromatix a duo so fresh-faced it seemed like the music might conceivably be their 12th grade project pumped the bass capably. Antfactor deployed an outmoded synth to weave a set of sleekly sinister robofunk, while DJ John Selway maintained the old skool '80s vibe with Telex/ Yello style Eurodisco, Latin freestyle, and the existentialist hi-NRG of New Order's "Blue Monday," showing that nouveau electro at its best represents the return of techno's repressed: melody, vocals, funk, and fun. Simon Reynolds
The third, and some would say weakest, incarnation of the 30-year-old Allman Brothers Band stepped up to the plate last Thursday for the first of an 18-show residency at the Beacon Theatre. They are survivors, of course (hey, aren't we all?) especially the leaner and less mean Gregg Allman, said to be off mood enhancers two years and cigarettes six days. Gone are the great slide guitarist Warren Haynes and fatback bassist Allen Woody; the two rumored losers of a longtime volume war have been replaced by the jazzier and more lyrically inclined Jack Pearson and Oteil Burbridge, respectively.
"Good times don't go away," sang Dickie Betts in "Good Times," so "don't lock your heart in yesterday." In spite of the founding guitarist's white lie, the blues-heavy, growling-Gregg first set had "yesterday" scrawled all over it. Except for some three-guitar counterpoint during "I'm Not Crying," it was ABB-by-the-numbers, at least until the final tune. Introduced by Betts as the byproduct of '40s bebop, the brand new "JJ's Alley" was bop filtered through a Grateful Dead space jam, and suggested a new mode the rest of the show only hinted at delivering.