We all have double standards. For instance, the synthetic plaid pants that make your grandfather the butt of snide jokes at family reunions might actually look pretty smart hugging the hips of that cute sales clerk at the record store. Why is that? What makes something tacky in one context and clever in another? What, to use more precise words, distinguishes kitsch from cheese?
Well, self-awareness, first and foremost. Ugly, outmoded clothes somehow become fashionable if we know that whoever's wearing them is in on the joke. The best designers take retro concepts, strip them of their ugliness, and rehash them for the public in relevant, aesthetically enticing ways. That's why brown is making a comeback, and why I'm offering to pay $20 for a Hypercolor t-shirt that still works (if you have one, my email address is on the staff page). It also explains why groups like Les Rhythmes Digitales, the Avalanches and Daft Punk have fared so well in the eyes of critics and fans. These groups exhume socially abandoned or rejected musical trends, reinterpret them with glib modern sensibilities, and hold them up, with a wink and a nod, for the rest of us to see.
But retro-fetishism has its limits. Some trends aren't worth reviving; others have not yet passed far enough from memory to qualify as fair game. Fresh wounds are sensitive, and a fresh faux pas is strictly off limits. Brixton's Basement Jaxx, venerated purveyors of acid-tinged booty house beats, toe the line between kitsch and cheese, and all too often skirt across it.
As so many critics have hastened to note, Felix Burton and Simon Ratcliffe (the Jaxx by their proper names) are two of the weirdest, most innovative and talented house producers on the scene. This much I'll concede-- their music is out-there, stylistically unparalleled by anything I've come across, and marked by immaculate production. Unfortunately, it's often so tacky that it's impossible to stomach. Their music is generally solid, but it's hard to tell if Basement Jaxx are taking the piss with their lyrics. If so, they're joking about things I don't think we're ready to laugh at. And if they're taking themselves seriously (I suspect they are), well, that's even worse.
Rooty's vocals bring back horrorshow memories of Technotronic, latter-day Prince and Lords of Acid-- memories that those of us who have listened to Lords of Acid and survived would rather forget. The shrill, sex-crazed drivel distracts the listener's ear from the underlying instrumentation, which sometimes has a lot to offer.
The album's single, the creepily Janet-esque "Romeo," commences the program on a bitter note. Featured diva Kele Le Roc's mindless lyrics spill over the predictable, shallow melodies, bland beats and clichéd basslines. "Breakaway," however, relieves the tedium with a foray into the darker facets of funk. Treacherous squelches murmur beneath industrial percussion and old-school synths, while quirky bleeps and bloops creep in wherever the music pauses. The song's unintelligent vocals are also unobtrusive enough that they don't ruin the rest of the song.
But only two other songs on this record really deserve ink. The vocals recede to the background in "Crazy Girl," a spaced-out electro joint whose chunky basslines, insistent chimes, skittering beats and washed-out guitar samples frolic over several layers of ambient noise. This track is downright stunning, and only piques my frustration because it suggests that if Ratcliffe and Burton had canned the grating vocals, all of Rooty might have been this good. In fact, the only track that ever benefits from the inclusion of singing is "Broken Dreams," whose Hawaiian and spaghetti western themes hint at Luke Vibert's work with B.J. Cole. Sha's refined, bubbly female vocals are more Stereolab than Salt'N'Pepa, and they nicely accentuate an otherwise pleasant song.
I have the same objections to this disc that I had to Kool Keith's Sex Style-- even though the rhymes were tight, and the production spoke for itself, the tastelessness of Keith's lyrics seemed to overshadow the record's finer points. By the same token, a few fatal flaws eclipse all of Rooty's abundant qualities. Basement Jaxx have taken kitsch a few steps too far. They may be in on the joke, but this shit is no laughing matter.
