Dudley Perkins, West Coast MC Declaime’s acid-addled alter ego, is the funkiest cat in hip-hop since Humpty Hump emerged in the 1990s selling Digital Underground sex packets.
Perkins is no sideman. Instead, he is a lone psychedelic crooner whose parodies of singing carry more than their fair share of deferred dreams, nostalgia and hope in that stumbling, tongue-in-cheek funk style that’s so cunningly charismatic.
On his second album, Expressions (2012 au) (Kurse Music), Perkins manages to rein his voice in just a little bit, but since he gets to ride Madlib’s visionary soulful samples, he still doesn’t have to bother with lyrics. So what you get is funky Dudley’s pithy lamentations that play out like a futuristic blaxploitation-era soundtrack.
Even atop the funkiest bass synths, Madlib’s drums are light enough to allow Perkins room to tip-toe through our minds. The tracks on the CD are randomly listed and range between one minute and eight. This adds to the album’s plaintive, thinking-out-loud feel — the basis of Perkins’s appeal.
Perkins’s musings traverse the scope of human preoccupations, from a search for human values to a celebration of mankind’s basic instincts. The opener, Funky Dudley, sounds like the landing of the mother ship. You can literally feel the funk seep out the speaker. By the time you get to the spaced-out, floating Coming Home, you get the sense that Perkins has already exited the atmosphere, and is talking about a return to the planet from whence he came rather than some apartment in a Los Angeles block.
The songs are still half-finished, but are a giant leap from the debut A Li’l Light, which tended to veer towards self-indulgence and immaturity. If you’re looking for conventional lyrics and complicated arrangements, Expressions (2012 au) won’t suit your palette. But if you missed out on the whole funk revolution, with its trademark subversive psychobabble, now’s your second chance.
ALSO ON THE SHELF
Nelly Furtado
Loose (Universal)
It seems Nelly Furtado was feeling the need for a little reinvention when she hooked up with beat maestro producer Timbaland, the man often mentioned in conjunction with Missy Elliott, Jay-Z, Aaliyah and a host of others from the hip-hop, pop and R&B stables. Sadly, the result is that Furtado has lost her quirkiness and is dangerously close to losing her identity. Despite her third album potentially being perceived as a sell-out, Loose proves she can pull off the sex-kitten routine and rule the mainstream. Single Maneater topped the charts worldwide with a vengeance and, if the video were a tape, MTV would have stretched it beyond recognition. No qualms, the new album is catchy. It’s just not Nelly. Instead of unmistakable melodies you get electro beat-driven funk and hip-hop interspersed with potentially maudlin, R&B-style ballads. But hey, perhaps Furtado is taking her cue from Madonna’s book of life, specifically the chapter titled Continuously Reinvent and Thou Shalt Thrive. It’s still working for the queen of pop. — Kelly Fletcher
Ice Cube
Laugh Now Cry Later (EMI)
Ice Cube first shot to prominence as the 19-year-old premier lyricist in Los Angeles gangsta rap group NWA. Back then, he was brash and menacing, with a dripping jheri curl to go with his unflinching snarl. But the rap game moved on and after some successful solo albums in the early 1990s, Cube moved on to Hollywood, putting the music on the backburner. Laugh Now, Cry Later, his first solo album in six years, showcases Cube the follower, not the leader. His beats, provided by a range of producers — from the celebrated Scott Storch to unknowns like Gangsta Boogie — are consistently mediocre and succumb to mainstream hip-hop’s middle-of-the-road sensibilities. His lyrics celebrate bling and the struggle in one breath but are no match for Left Coast young guns such as Murs or Gift of Gab, who currently rule the Sunshine State. While Laugh Now, Cry Later is a welcome return to the microphone and is better than the ignorable two-volume War and Peace series, Cube has lost the potency that once saw him as the West’s go-to-guy. — Kwanele Sosibo
Richard Thompson
Front Parlour Ballads (ASP Records)
It has been 24 years since Richard Thompson recorded a solo acoustic album and 37 years since he gained notoriety with his band Fairport Convention. So many will be wondering just what to expect from the new offering of probably the only British singer-songwriter to survive since the Sixties with reputation intact. Truth be told, this album is a hit-and-miss affair. Opener Let It Blow sees Thompson crafting a number of cruel lyrical jabs to paint a tale of failed marriage backed by some inspired acoustic guitar, while My Soul, My Soul is a wonderful little acoustic blues number driven by some interesting percussion that reminded me of Nick Cave. Thompson’s vocal style is an acquired taste and can be disconcerting at times, while his tendency to stray into Anglo-Celtic ballads and sea shanties could be off-putting for the uninitiated. But on the whole this album could be a rewarding investment for the more adventurous listener. — Lloyd Gedye
Various
Sound of Superman (Gallo Records)
What is the thing with superheroes? Am I the only one who doesn’t get it? I suppose that’s why I loved The Incredibles so much last year, a movie that finally put a human face to the world of the superhero, where a little domestic politics is as much a part of the story as saving the world. Anyway, let’s just say I was not enamoured with the concept behind this release to begin with. I assume there has to be a target market, maybe all those blokes who watch Smallville — the ones who wouldn’t be caught dead watching a normal teen drama for fear of ruining their masculine credibility. What is this CD saying? That Clark Kent has seriously crap music taste? When he’s not off saving the world he likes to get his groove on to some unoriginal white American rock? If that’s the case, he doesn’t seem like much of a hero to me, more like another middle-of-the-road guy. — LG