2 posts tagged “love”
But I digress. Aside from these shining examples of what hip-hop used to and should be (to me, at least), there really hasn't been anything out there that has grabbed a hold of my ears and screamed, "Jam this as loud as possible immediately, good sir!" And then I picked this up.
Without going into too much detail about this album, let me be as clear as possible when I say that in my opinion, this is their best album since the Grammy award-winning Things Fall Apart. This is one of those cover-to-cover albums. The type where you just pop it in your CD player and just let it go. The album as a whole flows nicely from song to song, yet each individual track leaves its own unique impression on the listener. From solid guest spots by artists ranging from well-known to not-so-well-known, to the refined musicality The Legendary Roots Crew has nearly trademarked, Rising Down deserves all the critical praise it's received since it's April 29th release.
But if you're lazy, uncivilized, and don't want to burden yourself with experiencing this aural masterpiece, then I humbly submit this for your approval. After you hear this song once, you just can't not want to immediately replay it. What is in this song that makes it ok to love hip-hop again? Is it Chrisette Michele's sultry chorus? Perhaps. Is it Black Thought's commanding flow? Could be. Maybe it's Wale's penchant for riding such a jive beat. Getting closer. How about the symbiotic mix of guitar, bass, drums, and other instruments? Warmer. Is it that damn cowbell? Bingo. That cowbell and the simple, repetitive beat it cycles throughout the song is the single reason it's ok to love hip-hop again. In an almost reflexive action, your shoulders begin to shake and your head begins to nod when cowbell is on the track. Just listen to the opening of "Rapper's Delight". How can you listen to that and not want to shake your posterior? The same rings true for this first single off of Rising Down. By deftly making use of the cowbell, The Roots have succeeded in making hip-hop fun again. You should thank them by buying their album. Notice I went this entire post without once referencing this. Oh wait, I just did. Dammit.
For some people, the first time they fell in love was the very first moment they locked lips with their significant other at some random kegger. For others, love kicked them in the balls when they saw the object of their affection bend down to pick up a purposely-dropped pencil, thus unveiling the most sincere glimpse of her thong. And from there, those two things are indelibly connected: love and a drunken smooch, or love and a thong. For me, however, the first time I fell in love, I smelled spam and corned beef hash.
Growing up, the fact that I was (and still am) Filipino and not at all well-off meant that bacon was a breakfast luxury to whose echelon, my family was not privy. Luncheon meat was the smell I grew accustomed to: The smell of not-quite-bacon or not-quite-beef frying in its own preservatives is deeply sinful in its own right. And it was this smell that would lead me to a 20-year long love affair with music.
Rather than bang on our bedroom door and flick the lights on and off, my parents used loud music to bring my sisters and me out of our slumber. And in our house, the only music that was worthy of accompanying spam was Simon and Garfunkel. Sure, my parents loved The Beatles. Who didn't? They were the fucking Beatles. But for some reason, my parents' Simon and Garfunkel compilation always found its way into the player whenever breakfast was on the stove. Mrs. Robinson was getting 'coo coo ca-chooed' while the scrambled eggs were sizzling. The boxer was running scared through the railway station as the slices of spam were flipped. And by the time the rice cooker had finished a fresh batch of long, white jasmine, you knew whether or not you were going to Scarborough Fair.
On those rare occasions when I managed to wake up on my own accord, I saw my parents in a completely different light than the rest of the week. There were no annoying kids, or bills, or job stresses. It was just a simple meal, prepared by a simple couple, singing along to simple songs about not-so-simple topics, in an anything-but-simple key. It was textbook marriage. It was textbook joy. It was textbook love. I remember silently slinking back to my room, not wanting to intrude. I think it was those quietly loud moments where they weren't really saying anything except the lyrics that kept them close to one another. Anyone who's ever sang in public knows what an excruciatingly soul-baring ordeal it can be. And for two people in love to share that moment is nothing short of amazing.
Maybe that's why people like myself have such an insane love for music. Maybe music is so closely tied to our most intimate memories, that we listen to music, we write music, we create music in hopes that the notes, the lyrics, the poetry will lead us back to that most private time where we were invisible while our parents cooked spam and eggs while singing "Feelin' Groovy" at the top of their lungs and swaying to the beat.
