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
Here are the things you want to know about Basement Jaxx's new album, Rooty: Yes, it's as good as the last one, maybe better. Yes, there's a single to accompany your behind, "Romeo," their deepest epiphany yet. No, it's not the 2step album people said it would be, not if I hear 2step correctly, though it's certainly high-spirited and of the moment. Let's do one of those Euro (yes to the sandals guy this time) magazine micro-blurbs that summarize mini-reviews: "Underground house kings revive Prince for the disco-tech queens!" Young guns of Brixton Felix Buxton and Simon Ratcliffe stake their claim to newness by curating a slide show of the past they think is missing from the nowEarth, Wind and Fire; Chic; the Selecter; castanets; Gary Numan; Dominatrix; Mr. Prince Rogers Nelsonall without violating Talmudic BPM rules.
Begin as they begin, with "Romeo," one of those songs that you hear once and like, and then you fall over flat (in a good way) the second time. "Romeo" is to dance music what "Teen Spirit" was to a certain rock formalismall the good bits strung together and exaggerated by the knowledge that they are actually the good bits and hey, why didn't we do this before? You will be a house apostate if you actually enjoy "Sexy Feline Machine," not because of the conceptual Prince nod and the P-Funk ya-ya-ya background vocals, but because it's not strictly in 4/4 time. Big whoop, but that's the kind of thing that earned Basement Jaxx (and Daft Punk, woo ha) an early "punk disco" tag. Disco being the big fat yes of pleasure, and punk being the multi-colored no of bloody-mindedness, it never made much sense to me, so I reckon it's just some schoolyard shit: B-Jaxx are punks because they're different. It indicates how uptight house is that Jaxx got called (or called themselves) punks simply for using what their neighbors wouldn't: sounds borrowed from U.S. pop and rock, juicier chord changes than the economy demands, lyrics that go beyond football chants, and anonymous singers who sound like they might not stay that way forever. Which list makes the Basement Jaxx sound like pop, but their promo sticker is running out of room. (Tiny CD real estate, damn you!)
But in "Freakalude," they advertise themselves like this: "What is freaky? Freaky is a whole lot of magic holed up into one little space that just needs to escape. But u know what? I don't call it freaky. I call it funky." U know what? That's the moment when I started thinking of my high school dance tapes. Tape Two, side B goes, partially, like this: the Jam, Disco 3, the Fresh 3, Malcolm McLaren, Siouxsie's version of "Supernatural Thing," then Killing Joke, then Grace Jones. You get the idea. It's variety, or the collision of not obviously compatible magic, that links Rooty and these tapes. But after 90 minutes, the difference is obvious. Back in 1984, the Fun Boy Three didn't know from Masterdon Committee nor did they know about Killing Joke. There is pleasure in the friction of the old, local ways poking though the new world playlist, and vulnerability in the baby steps of an all-for-one culture. As with Remain in Light and Sign 'o' the Times (nostalgia overload!), the old is visible right next to a new that never came. Or forget culture and go formal; it's the difference between a mix and a melt, a group of distinct ingredients or a new mash.
There's very little pop now that hasn't been melted under the heat lamps of either disco/house or hip-hop, the two beat structures that took over the world. In the U.S., hip-hop turned on the lamps, and in Europe it was disco. If you had told me 17 years ago I'd be envious of a Eurodisco state of mind, I would have asked you to get off my premises. But things turned out a bit different than when I was imagining the Treacherous Three taking over the world. Though I'd be thrilled to reach the Emerald City with OutKast, or stay here and bitch in dystopia with Cannibal Ox, hip-hop's takeover has displaced many of the things that made the New York state of mind so sweet: dancing to songs, verse-to-chorus bridges, clave rhythms, straight guys who dance well, gay record store clerks, chord changes, string sections, harmony, assertive female pleasure, dancing dogs, harmonic dogs, dogs of the world unite.
Ah, but disco had room at the inn, and this is where Basement Jaxx (and Daft Punk, holler on me!) laid their robot heads as children. And when they awoke with visions of Cerrone dancing in their heads, they were smart enough to know hip-hop and Timbaland had raised the bar on sonics but sensitive enough to notice global hop had left a lot of other things behind. So they both jacked up the pleasure (see the disco yes) and, within bounds, brought in some feel-good exiles. (Most Americans will be more comfortable with B-Jaxx's canon of missing heroes than Daft Punk's, as the former does not include either metal solos from country songs or Michael McDonald.)