Buck 65 apparently doesn't have to be good-- he's that original. So original, in fact, that his fans overlook his flaws, namely that he's an average emcee and his lyrics can be terrible. For over a decade the Nova Scotia native (née Richard Terfry) has been storytelling in verse over twanged-out beats. This stylistic donnybrook-- one of hip-hop's most distinctive-- has been met with equal parts approbation and bafflement. To some, he's the Johnny Cash of hip-hop; to others, a kitsch novelty act. (He's neither.) Early Buck albums had all the professionalism of a late-night weed experiment, but Terfry is growin' up and it shows. On career retrospective/archaeological dig This Right Here Is Buck 65, released in January, lyrics were revised and songs re-recorded. Charmers like "my cock is so big and the end of it glistens" (from "The Centaur") became "my clock is so clean and the hour-hand is missing."
Does vocal repentance make Buck's stuff more palatable? Not really, but it does enable us to take the emcee (slightly) more seriously. Secret House Against the World, Buck's first album of entirely new material since 2003's Talkin' Honky Blues, switch hits: The beats now belie the seriousness of the lyrics, if anything. Sometimes moods meet up and the result is moving: Pedal steel (always sad), marimba, and a narcotically lugubrious acoustic guitar underpin Buck's gruff lamentations on "The Suffering Machine". But on balance he seems out to prove his sadness runs deeper than even music can convey. And damn, his music can be some sad-sack shit.
The droopiest numbers are thankfully spaced out, in addition to being somewhat spaced-out. "Corrugated Tin Facade" opines, "nothing's more beautiful than a woman's tears," over a burbling synth spread that might get Jóhann Jóhannsson to rap. Like "Surrender to Strangeness", which pits elder statesman cello against an electronic beat, the song would be more beautiful without Buck's lyrics, but not necessarily better.
It's refreshing to hear Buck deliver over a non-dirgeful backdrop. The sadder beats amplify his flaws and push his style over the top, making his funereal drawl seem farcical. On "Blood of a Young Wolf" he's unpleasantly robotic, evoking black-on-the-inside mallcore frontmen more than any American folk icon. It's possible dude's voice has dropped a couple semitones since recording his first EP in 1992, but c'mon. I don't think even Beck's gravelly monotone has ever sounded as silly as his consonant peer's on "Kennedy Killed the Hat". The less overtly downtrodden backings offer more proper sympathy. "Le 65isme", which features a stripped-down beat of live drum kit, martial bass and a few snappy guitar notes, fares much better. The mood is dark (of course) but hardly sentimental. Buck gives the refrain ("sex... cinema... politique") a blunt, Shatner-esque reading.
In the past Buck seemed unsure of how to spit over his most country-flavored beats; here he's completely at ease. "The Suffering Machine" sounds suspiciously like "Phil"-- one of three new cuts on This Right Here-- but this time Buck lets the words come slowly, making room for the scruffily beautiful music. Similarly poised is "Drunk Without Driving", which presents a techier variant on more straight-strutting twang jobs like opener "Roughhouse Blues".
In underground hip-hop, whose artists and fans bitch incessantly about authenticity, it's awesome that one of the artists with the most cred is a white guy from Nova Scotia who wears a trucker hat (check the website photos). Seven albums into his career, Richard Terfry has stayed as distinctive, and consistent, as anyone. Now he finally seems to be making a home of his hodgepodge.
