The title of Stefon Alexander's fourth LP as P.O.S. conveys a self-deprecation and sense of displacement that reminds me of the last time I saw him perform live. Unfortunately, due to recent health complications, it could be the last time I see him live for a while. He was added to the 2010 Coachella lineup only days before the festival took place and he was quite literally the first person to perform that weekend, arriving to a sparsely-filled tent of curious foreigners and confused onlookers who almost certainly assumed they were supposed to see P.O.D. He acknowledged the obstacles, embraced the opportunity, and absolutely rocked that show-- he undoubtedly earned some fans in that half hour. Making the best out of a shitty situation is likewise a prevalent theme in P.O.S.' latest record of clenched-fist, politicized, and proudly Midwestern hip-hop. The problem is that the strangely smug We Don't Even Live Here feels more like P.O.S. preaching to the converted than attempting to make a believer out of anyone, lacking any palpable resistance necessary to justify the constant underdog pose.
To his credit, P.O.S. ensures We Don’t Even Live Here at least sounds celebratory. It features production from the likes of both Lazerbeak and Boys Noize that goes heavy on squelchy electro-funk, you get a Justin Vernon cameo on "Where We Land", while "Wanted/Wasted" and "They Can't Come" are near disco-sample rap, at least not that far off from something that could appear on a 97 Bad Boy record. For the most part, the aggro-punk abrasion of 2009's Never Better is jettisoned, but most of it is either overtly rock (the 5 Hour Energy-pounding opener "Bumper") or implicitly rock, the drums always knocking and often taking the tone of real snares and kicks. It could just as easily please a Rock The Bells purist as it could a Warped Tour onlooker. #47 debut on Billboard aside, no one would consider it pop-rap, yet there are catchy hooks throughout, even if their clunky verbiage make them difficult to actually sing along with.
But it's not really a crossover of any sort since the appeal of We Don't Even Live Here essentially comes down to whether or not you're already marching with P.O.S. The vast majority of the record is rendered from the perspective of "we" or "they," where "we" constitutes the Doomtree collective and anyone who has even some semblance of anger about the state of hip-hop or the economy. "They" are classic strawmen-- commercial rappers who are liars by definition, shady politicians, and anyone who has doubted Doomtree. So while We Don't Even Live Here is cerebral, not much of it stands up to intelligent debate, often vague and heavy-handed at the same time. The biggest problem manifests in a track like "Fuck Your Stuff", where a group chant promises that they'll be "scuffin' up your Nikes, spittin' on your whip." It's a weirdly dated image that's the first of many signs that P.O.S. has some kind of awareness of the mainstream. But other than brief mentions of OWS and terribly forced namedrops of Anonymous and Christopher Hitchens, you're left wondering about the last time he meaningfully engaged with it. Subliminals are thrown at the likes of "All I Do Is Win", "Stunt 101", "Diamonds from Sierra Leone", "Run This Town", and for fuck's sake, J-Kwon.
As a response, do you mention Jay-Z's involvement in the 2012 election, or Kanye's benefit concerts, or Diddy's "Vote or Die" campaign, or that Young Jeezy made the definitive Barack Obama track? It hardly seems worth it, since P.O.S.'s reaction on "Wanted/Wasted" is the following: "black president, hooray for history/ but that shit's still totally pretend." What's "that shit," and how is it "totally pretend"? He leaves it at that, and "Fuck Your Stuff" is simply more food for thought filled with empty calories: "fuck dumbin' it down/ spit ice, skip jewelry/ Molotov cocktails on me like accessories." "Accessory" being a key term since P.O.S.' platform of revolution is so depersonalized-- "they on some nonsense/ we on some non-stop," "kickin' out your DJ," "this world's got a whole lot of locked doors/ we decided not to live here anymore"-- the homemade explosives and other instruments of mayhem mentioned throughout are rendered as much of a bauble and signifier as one of "their" luxury cars. Hell, the title of "Lock-Picks, Knives, Bricks, and Bats" might as well be "Beamer, Benz, or Bentley".
There can always stand to be more socially engaged musicians in any genre, but hip-hop has proven to be bountiful if imperfect on that end in 2012. You could hear the lived-in experience on Killer Mike's R.A.P. Music, a record which balances blanket statements with tough questions. El-P's Cancer for Cure conflated sci-fi with poli-sci. The Coup filtered absurdist humor through itchy new wave. Death Grips might not be saying a whole lot that's intelligible, but it sure as hell makes you want to smash something. Even the abhorrently violent hip-hop coming from Chicago can trigger real discussion as a necessary reflection of its environment. Ironically, We Don't Even Live Here creates a world where P.O.S. is all too welcome. You'll never go broke playing yourself up as the solution or alternative to the perceived mindlessness of pop radio, but it doesn't matter if you're going to the club to get drunk or simply reading post-election commentary that confirms whatever beliefs you held beforehand: They're both forms of escapism, and We Don't Even Live Here just doesn't seem aware of how content it really is.
