The Rake Magazine

^{Originally published on Realbuzz.com}

In 1999, The Roots came out with a double-disc live album, The Roots Come Alive, with songs culled from performances in Switzerland, New York, and various other locations. Rising Down, the group's tenth album — second since Jay-Z brought them over to Def Jam Records — is in many ways more live than that release. Throughout, we are treated to a number of interludes, speeches, and instrumental shifts reminiscent of a Roots concert. A somewhat grungy tone pervades, as if the band went in, played their instruments, and the tracks made it to the album without too much tinkering (that's what it sounds like, though I doubt it's true...). The result is something somehow personal, as if we are witnessing the album, instead of just listening to it.

The usual cast of cameos makes its appearances — Common, Dice Raw, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, among others. But really, as all Roots fans know, Black Thought emerges as the most impressive. The only other rapper I can think of that has a flow as natural and entertaining as Black Thought's is Ghostface Killah. I'm not sure if it's a function of their having been MCs for so long, or if they've always been able to rap this way, but it really seems as if they're just talking, and what they're saying happens to rhyme. Nowhere is Black Thought more impressive than on "75 Bars (Black's Reconstruction)": "Show me a puppet without a puppeteer/I'm in the fields with a shield and a spear/I'm in your girl with her heels in the air." It's a free-association track on African American identity that rivals Beck for Rorschach-like complexity.

Because The Roots play their own instruments, instead of relying on samples and looped beats, their sound is often much fuller and more organic than most other rap music. It's not without its jarring qualities - sometimes it's strange to hear that rock-style electric guitar cutting through a rhythm. But the band members, led by visionary drummer ?uestlove, by now have developed such chemistry that at times it really seems they can do anything with their respective instruments. (Last time I saw them in concert, they reproduced Mims' "This Is Why I'm Hot.")

Though much of their ouvre is phenomenal, very little of it is actually marketable. Usually, though, The Roots will deign to reserve four minutes of each album for a radio-friendly song. On Phrenology we got "Break You Off"; The Tipping Point gave us "Star" and "Don't Say Nuthin'"; and Game Theory brought the shoulda-been-huge "Don't Feel Right." (And of course, "You Got Me" from Things Fall Apart sort of defined their careers- but that entire album is so classic I prefer not to single out any song as better than the others.) Likewise, on Rising Down, The Roots have given us "Rising Up."

It begins with some soft female vocals:

"Yesterday I saw a B-Girl crying, and I walked up and asked ‘what's wrong?'

She said the radio's been playing the same song all day long.

I told her I got something you been waiting for

I got something you been waiting for!"

Then Black Thought jumps in with his non-stop spit-fire lyrics, delivering exactly what the song promises - something different from anything else out there, but still incredibly exciting. Beneath the vocals, there's an ocean of drums that sounds like the guys in Washington Square Park banging on upside-down paint cans — a sound that, for whatever reason, never fails to elicit adrenaline.

By no means is Rising Down the easiest or prettiest album to listen to. The Roots demand some attention, and even some thought, from their fans. But they have a mission, namely to make music that they want to make, unadulterated by others' interests, and the craftsmanship they put into their tunes is visceral, and worthy of our time.

The Cloud Cult experience can be called many names. It is captivating. It is overwhelming. It is bone-chillingly pure. It is beautiful. And it is raw in a way that exposes many facets of emotion.

It must be the string section.

There is something about a lush cello and violin washing over a room that cuts right to the core. It strips away any posturings and pulls at those feelings hidden deep inside.

Or maybe it's Craig Minowa's painfully delicate tenor.

Hidden in that warble is a heart ache that hurts the whole way through. As it stretches thinly across his tales of losing and getting lost, it breaks through the band and turns itself into a victory chant. It sings a theme song for that moment when you've figured out that everything is going to be all right.

Triumph is Minowa's story. But first there was sadness. The sadness in his song is often about his son, Kaidin, who died mysteriously in his sleep in 2002. Kaidin's memories shock through Cloud Cult's music. The triumph, however, shows in his life — in how Minowa overcame grief and has become a conduit to reflect and heal all the dark patches in listeners' lives. Minowa is a shaman, a medicine man and a troubadour all in one.

Minowa wrote Cloud Cult's first nationally released album, They Live on the Sun, shortly after his son died.

"What came out of that was because it was so personal. A lot of fans came out of the woodwork that had gone through similar losses, and I had felt like the loss of Kaidin could have a positive aspect," he says. "If there was a silver lining at all — that by being open and honest about the grieving process we could perpetuate his legacy in a way — it's something positive to do with the music."

Cloud Cult tours with two artists who slap paint onto huge canvasses while the band plays. One of the two is Minowa's wife, Connie. Kaidin is a theme within her art, as well. Tonight a packed crowd at First Avenue looks on through the course of the set as Connie's image comes to life. It's a family bathed in an earthy green hue. But there is a distance in their eyes. They are looking at the ground, or maybe to the past.

Yet there is so much life in this band. As much as Minowa eyes the past, he is ever focused on the future and works to make it a healthy place for everyone.

Another theme in Minowa's life is roots. He's got roots that wrap around the planet. Minowa is a never tiring campaigner of eco-consciousness.

"We have a responsibility to live like that," he says about his green lifestyle. "You choose to recycle at home. You choose to buy green products for your personal life. It's the same thing [as a band.] The t-shirts are organic cotton. For posters we do 100% post-recycled. Touring is tough to really truly green."

The band tours in a bio-diesel van. But with earth-friendly fuels becoming big business, Minowa says he feels some of the business practices are becoming at odds with the ethics he holds. But he has other plans.

"We're going to put big sails on the van and sail across the street," he jokes.

Tonight he and Connie are ecstatic because they get to spend the night on their farm.

"I miss our front porch where we sit and enjoy the stars at night, and I miss the peace and quiet," Connie says. "The scenery is wonderful, especially in the spring and fall. It's just gorgeous. I miss our garden a lot, too."

Minowa agrees.

"It's getting to be the season to start growing things," he says. "It's really nice to walk out to the garden and make your own food for the day."

Touring, though, has become a barrier to their goal of being self-sustaining.

"Last spring we did our seedlings and those died while we were out on the road," he says. "You can't achieve those sustainability goals if you're not there to take care of the farm."

The future of Cloud Cult will likely be a lot different when the band finishes this tour. Minowa says he wants to focus on the farm and only play in cities near enough that he and Connie can quickly trek back to tend the garden.

Add that one to Minowa's list. A farmer: a man who can make magic beans grow.

^{first published on realbuzz.com}

It's hard to believe that this is the same group that released Overcast a decade ago. Back then they were a minimalist trio, with pared-down beats that, because of their easily discarded rhythms, put emphasis on the lyricism of the their lead MC, Slug. (Quickly thereafter, Spawn, their other MC, left the group.) On When Life Gives You Lemons, You Paint That Shit Gold, Atmosphere's very design seems to have flipped.

Ant, their producer, has come a long, long way from his barebones snare drum tic-tic-boom beats that underscored that first full release. On every ensuing album he's become progressively more complex, and here we find some downright delightful, surprising rhythms. The tracks are varied, from the perhaps-slightly-over-produced "Can't Break," to the guitar-only "Guarantees." But Ant's at his best mid-track, where sometimes he will freshen up a song, for just a measure or two, with a brand new riff seemingly from out of nowhere.

Slug, meanwhile, has gotten much more simple. You won't find any of the lyrical ingenuity like the "Multiples Reprise" on Overcast, where he went through and danced with every letter of the alphabet. It's still rap, and so it still rhymes, but the lyrics are much more naked than anything Slug's put out before. As rappers age, the ones that stay in the game seem to place less emphasis on wordplay, and work harder to come up with narratives. Ghostface Killah and Jay-Z are just a couple artists that come to mind, who have undergone this type of metamorphosis. It's an attempt at candidness, at honesty, it seems. Not to say Slug's ever been gimmicky - or more so than any other rapper - but this is kind of like taking away the smoke and mirrors, and yet there's still a magical quality.

Their talents converge on "Yesterday," a meditation on Slug's deceased father. Musically, it's a deconstruction of M.O.P.'s "World Famous." Ant has hit those piano chords with a baseball bat, turning them into arpeggios that happily glide up and down the track. Probably it's one of the most up-tempo songs on the album; probably it's one of the most up-tempo songs Slug has ever rhymed over. Lyrically, it's a welcome entry to the book of father-son relationships, as Slug laments the rocky past he and his father shared, and yet wishes his dad was still around. "But who am I joking with/There's no way you and I will ever re-open it." It's a call for reparations, though the son knows it's too late. Not overly intricate or psychological, to be sure, but it's honest.

And again and again on this album, honesty plays well. Songs like "Me," "The Waitress," and "Like the Rest of Us," all have a genuine quality about them, because they feel lived, and therefore they feel true.

But I'm not sure his meditations on society are so convincing. There's a fair amount of bemoaning the unfortunate state of the union, with licks about blue-collar workers and single parents. It's ambitious, to be sure. It's almost as if Slug is taking a Norman Rockwell approach to his work, making it his mission to analyze his city. But songs like "Guarantees" and "Dreamer" just don't come as naturally to Atmosphere's aesthetic.

For the most part, though, Slug sticks to his trademarked brand of introspection. Even though they release something every one or two years, it seems like every album Atmosphere has put out lately is a comeback album. Maybe because of the sped-up cycles induced by the internet. But there always seems to be a lot of backlash against Atmosphere about two months after their CDs drop. When Life Gives You Lemons is simply another affirmation that Slug and Ant are still on top of their games, and even getting better.

Four kids are sauntering toward Jeff Allen. Their arms are crossed and they look a little scared.

"Hey guys," Allen says, affecting a cool older brother tone. "When do you go on?"

"Eight minutes," says one of the boys.

This is why they're scared.

Exactly eight minutes later, the quartet of three 16-year-olds and a 14-year-old drummer take the stage. The band's name is Shoe Shiners. Expect to hear it a lot in the next few years.

In a lot of ways, the upstarts remind Allen, The Plastic Constellations singer, of himself at that age, except that they're better.

"The Shoe Shiners are a special case because they are so talented for their age," Allen says. "They are so good that it almost makes me retroactively jealous that I wasn't that good when I was that age. When we were 14 we played really shitty pop songs, and these kids are light years ahead."

When the Shoe Shiners were 14 they released their first album.

Still, the Shoe Shiners have yet to grow into their talent. On stage they look nervous. This could be because their parents are in the audience snapping up photos. That and they are opening for their idols in the biggest rock club in Minneapolis. Musically, they are spot on. They play grunge infused with a hefty dose of pop. And, yes, they are way too good for their age.

Two bands later when The Plastic Constellations go on, the Shoe Shiners are standing front and center studying them. This is a special night—not just because their favorite band is playing but because this could also be their last show. This is simultaneously a CD release party for The Plastic Constellations and a farewell concert. The band recently announced its "indefinite hiatus."

"We had a great time [touring] with the last record, but all of us are in long-term relationships or married. The idea of doing it again sounded like something we didn't want to do," Allen explains. "So we decided if we're not going to do that, are we comfortable being a local band that just plays every once in a while? Not really. We want to leave when we're in our prime. If we play again, great. We're not breaking up officially yet, but we might not play again, either."

The Plastic Constellations do sound in their prime. They play the kind of music that is perfect for the last day of high school. Only, it feels like tonight the band is officially graduating into adulthood. The music playfully flirts with punk. It's too happy to be emo. It's not contrived enough to be truly indie rock. So it's just rock—happy, wonderful rock with lots of "la-las" and the errant "wooh." It is, however, rock that focuses on the subjects of wizards and dragons.

The highlight of the show comes during a song about a fire-breathing serpent. The band tosses close to a hundred cardboard swords into the crowd and suggests the audience do what they want with them. This, of course, means a lot of hitting and throwing and whacking them about. The mood is too fun to be sad, even if it may be the band's last concert.

And at the end of the night, The Plastic Constellations invite half of the Shoe Shiners on stage with them.

"It's coming full circle," Allen says. "Here we are, 11 years later playing 1^st Ave. at our sort of final show with a young band."

Consider the torch passed.

^{first published on realbuzz.com}

The crowd did not want to sit. I think it's safe to say that, for the most part, these were the Converse-and-thick-glasses-wearing underground hip-hop fans more accustomed to the open floor space of First Avenue than to the rigidly rowed seating chart of the Fitzgerald Theater. So when Brother Ali came out to play his first set — "Truth Is" and "Uncle Sam Goddamn" (the latter dedicated to Reverend Wright) — grooving torsos mashed awkwardly against seat backs. Pretty soon everyone stood up.

Intricate and articulate, Brother Ali performed his typically political songs to a sympathetic (that is, democratic) crowd. What's nice about the Fitzgerald is its acoustics are much better than most other venues, and Ali's lyrics tonight were especially fluent and clear. Several times, BK-One, his dj, would stop the beat and just let Ali go a capella, with no loss of musical richness.

Then came Chuck D. (Of seminal rap group Public Enemy, for those who don't know.) The crowd sat down quickly, just so they could give him a standing ovation. Which he quickly patted away, and then sat on the black leather couch on stage discuss, with a local radio dj, his life and career and car (a vintage '95 that his daughter hates).

As this is a review, I suppose I should to some extent critique Chuck D's performance. If he'd been rapping, I would say that he ‘rocked the crowd.' But as his portion of the night was limited to discourse, all I can really say is that he was incredibly engaging, and enthusiastic. ("This is better than anything on TV," he kept saying, as much observer as participant.)

"What I always tried to do on tour," he said "was learn something about the places I was playing. And not just before the show — it didn't stop there. I mean really talking with the people. So many rappers get bummed out when they have to go places. They'll say something like, ‘Aw man, I have to play this show in Topeka, Kansas.' And that's the wrong attitude. You can't act like you're better than your fans. People in Topeka know damn well they're in Topeka. And they don't care you're from New York, they just want you to put on a damn good show."

Living up to his credo, Mr. D made the evening incredibly personal, seasoning his speech with Minnesota sports references. (On the current NBA playoffs: "You guys should have no sympathy for the LA Lakers. They left you a long-ass time ago." [They were originally the Minneapolis Lakers, way back when.]) There were no notecards, or even any stuttering; meaning, there was no feeling that Chuck D. was trying to pander. His tone the entire night was genuine. At intermission he got off the couch, and sat with his legs hanging off the lip of the stage, signing autographs and posing for pictures.

After the break, Slug, of Atmosphere, came onstage and played an acoustic set from his new album, If Life Gives You Lemons, Paint That Shit Gold, which comes out this week. (For the uninitiated, Slug basically has hero status in Minneapolis.) His performance was basically ‘Slug Unplugged.' I've seen him concert probably ten or so times, maybe more, and this is the first time I've ever heard him sing. His choruses consisted of melodic scat, and Slug, a bit surprisingly, nailed them.

It was also the first time I've seen him with a little bit of stage fright. A notorious egomaniac (sorry, sir), there was a catch in his voice to whole night, as when a 7^th grade boy calls the girl he has a crush on for the first time, and ends up having to talk to her parents. In fact, Brother Ali was the same way. It seems the presence of a pioneer like Chuck D injected a bit of humility into the rappers who brag so often of sleeping with your girlfriend.

And maybe because of this timidity, Slug's performance suffered a little. His posture was slouched (he was sitting down, which is unusual), his hand gestures were nervous. Strange, but he sounded best when he was humming-or-whatever the choruses, as opposed to rapping, which on any other night would be his strength. (Maybe it had nothing to do with Chuck D. Maybe it's because this was on the first night of the Jewish holiday Passover, which asks, "Why is this night different from all other nights?" The answer this evening being, ego gave way to introspection.)

Another discussion session with Chuck D and Slug ensued, equally entertaining as the first. What may sum it up best is to say that Chuck D, front man of Public Enemy, political activist, dour Knicks fan, at several moments of the show, leaned back and giggled.

5 stars*****